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JOHNSON'S WORKS.


THE RAMBLER.

VOL. II.




THE

WORKS

OF

SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D,

IN NINE VOLUMES.



VOLUME THE THIRD.

[Illustration]


MDCCCXXV.


CONTENTS

OF

THE SECOND VOLUME.


NUMB.

106. The vanity of an author's expectations.--Reasons why good authors
     are sometimes neglected
107. Properantia's hopes of a year of confusion. The misery of
     prostitutes
108. Life sufficient to all purposes if well employed
109. The education of a fop
110. Repentance stated and explained. Retirement and abstinence useful
     to repentance
111. Youth made unfortunate by its haste and eagerness
112. Too much nicety not to be indulged. The character of Eriphile
113. The history of Hymenæus's courtship
114. The necessity of proportioning punishments to crimes
115. The sequel of Hymenæus's courtship
116. The young trader's attempt at politeness
117. The advantages of living in a garret
118. The narrowness of fame
119. Tranquilla's account of her lovers, opposed to Hymenæus
120. The history of Almamoulin the son of Nouradin
121. The dangers of imitation. The impropriety of imitating Spenser
122. A criticism on the English historians
123. The young trader turned gentleman
124. The lady's misery in a summer retirement
125. The difficulty of defining comedy. Tragick and comick sentiments
     confounded
126. The universality of cowardice. The impropriety of extorting praise.
     The impertinence of an astronomer
127. Diligence too soon relaxed. Necessity of perseverance
128. Anxiety universal. The unhappiness of a wit and a fine lady
129. The folly of cowardice and inactivity
130. The history of a beauty
131. Desire of gain the general passion
132. The difficulty of educating a young nobleman
133. The miseries of a beauty defaced
134. Idleness an anxious and miserable state
135. The folly of annual retreats into the country
136. The meanness and mischief of indiscriminate dedication
137. The necessity of literary courage
138. Original characters to be found in the country. The character of
     Mrs. Busy
139. A critical examination of Samson Agonistes
140. The criticism continued
141. The danger of attempting wit in conversation. The character of
     Papilius
142. An account of squire Bluster
143. The criterions of plagiarism
144. The difficulty of raising reputation. The various species of
     detractors
145. Petty writers not to be despised
146. An account of an author travelling in quest of his own character.
     The uncertainty of fame
147. The courtier's esteem of assurance
148. The cruelty of parental tyranny
149. Benefits not always entitled to gratitude
150. Adversity useful to the acquisition of knowledge
151. The climactericks of the mind
152. Criticism on epistolary writings
153. The treatment incurred by loss of fortune
154. The inefficacy of genius without learning
155. The usefulness of advice. The danger of habits. The necessity of
     reviewing life
156. The laws of writing not always indisputable. Reflections on
     tragi-comedy
157. The scholar's complaint of his own bashfulness
158. Rules of writing drawn from examples. Those examples often mistaken
159. The nature and remedies of bashfulness
160. Rules for the choice of associates
161. The revolutions of a garret
162. Old men in danger of falling into pupilage. The conduct of
     Thrasybulus
163. The mischiefs of following a patron
164. Praise universally desired. The failings of eminent men often
     imitated
165. The impotence of wealth. The visit of Scrotinus to the place of his
     nativity
166. Favour not easily gained by the poor
167. The marriage of Hymenæus and Tranquilla
168. Poetry debased by mean expressions. An example from Shakespeare
169. Labour necessary to excellence
170. The history of Misella debauched by her relation
171. Misella's description of the life of a prostitute
172. The effect of sudden riches upon the manners
173. Unreasonable fears of pedantry
174. The mischiefs of unbounded raillery. History of Dicaculus
175. The majority are wicked
176. Directions to authors attacked by criticks. The various degrees of
     critical perspicacity
177. An account of a club of antiquaries
178. Many advantages not to be enjoyed together
179. The awkward merriment of a student
180. The study of life not to be neglected for the sake of books
181. The history of an adventurer in lotteries
182. The history of Leviculus, the fortune-hunter
183. The influence of envy and interest compared
184. The subject of essays often suggested by chance. Chance equally
     prevalent in other affairs
185. The prohibition of revenge justifiable by reason. The meanness of
     regulating our conduct by the opinions of men
186. Anningait and Ajut; a Greenland history
187. The history of Anningait and Ajut concluded
188. Favour often gained with little assistance from understanding
189. The mischiefs of falsehood. The character of Turpicula
190. The history of Abouzaid, the son of Morad
191. The busy life of a young lady
192. Love unsuccessful without riches
193. The author's art of praising himself
194. A young nobleman's progress in politeness
195. A young nobleman's introduction to the knowledge of the town
196. Human opinions mutable. The hopes of youth fallacious
197. The history of a legacy-hunter
198. The legacy-hunter's history concluded
199. The virtues of Rabbi Abraham's magnet
200. Asper's complaint of the insolence of Prospero. Unpoliteness not
     always the effect of pride
201. The importance of punctuality
202. The different acceptations of poverty. Cynicks and Monks not
     poor
203. The pleasures of life to be sought in prospects of futurity. Future
     fame uncertain
204. The history of ten days of Seged, emperour of Ethiopia
205. The history of Seged concluded
206. The art of living at the cost of others
207. The folly of continuing too long upon the stage
208. The Rambler's reception. His design




THE

RAMBLER.



No. 106. SATURDAY, MARCH 23, 1751.

  _Opinionum commenta delet dies, naturæ judicia Confirmat_.
  CICERO, vi. Att. 1.

  Time obliterates the fictions of opinion, and confirms the decisions
  of nature.

It is necessary to the success of flattery, that it be accommodated to
particular circumstances or characters, and enter the heart on that side
where the passions stand ready to receive it. A lady seldom listens with
attention to any praise but that of her beauty; a merchant always
expects to hear of his influence at the bank, his importance on the
exchange, the height of his credit, and the extent of his traffick: and
the author will scarcely be pleased without lamentations of the neglect
of learning, the conspiracies against genius, and the slow progress of
merit, or some praises of the magnanimity of those who encounter poverty
and contempt in the cause of knowledge, and trust for the reward of
their labours to the judgment and gratitude of posterity.

An assurance of unfading laurels, and immortal reputation, is the
settled reciprocation of civility between amicable writers. To raise
_monuments more durable than brass, and more conspicuous than
pyramids_, has been long the common boast of literature; but, among
the innumerable architects that erect columns to themselves, far the
greater part, either for want of durable materials, or of art to dispose
them, see their edifices perish as they are towering to completion, and
those few that for a while attract the eye of mankind, are generally
weak in the foundation, and soon sink by the saps of time.

No place affords a more striking conviction of the vanity of human
hopes, than a publick library; for who can see the wall crowded on every
side by mighty volumes, the works of laborious meditation, and accurate
inquiry, now scarcely known but by the catalogue, and preserved only to
increase the pomp of learning, without considering how many hours have
been wasted in vain endeavours, how often imagination has anticipated
the praises of futurity, how many statues have risen to the eye of
vanity, how many ideal converts have elevated zeal, how often wit has
exulted in the eternal infamy of his antagonists, and dogmatism has
delighted in the gradual advances of his authority, the immutability of
his decrees, and the perpetuity of his power?

  _--Non unquam dedit
  Documenta fors majora, quam frugili loco
  Starent superbi_.

  Insulting chance ne'er call'd with louder voice,
  On swelling mortals to be proud no more.

Of the innumerable authors whose performances are thus treasured up in
magnificent obscurity, most are forgotten, because they never deserved
to be remembered, and owed the honours which they once obtained, not to
judgment or to genius, to labour or to art, but to the prejudice of
faction, the stratagem of intrigue, or the servility of adulation.

Nothing is more common than to find men whose works are now totally
neglected, mentioned with praises by their contemporaries, as the
oracles of their age, and the legislators of science. Curiosity is
naturally excited, their volumes after long inquiry are found, but
seldom reward the labour of the search. Every period of time has
produced these bubbles of artificial fame, which are kept up a while by
the breath of fashion, and then break at once, and are annihilated. The
learned often bewail the loss of ancient writers whose characters have
survived their works; but, perhaps, if we could now retrieve them, we
should find them only the Granvilles, Montagues, Stepneys, and
Sheffields of their time, and wonder by what infatuation or caprice they
could be raised to notice.

It cannot, however, be denied, that many have sunk into oblivion, whom
it were unjust to number with this despicable class. Various kinds of
literary fame seem destined to various measures of duration. Some spread
into exuberance with a very speedy growth, but soon wither and decay;
some rise more slowly, but last long. Parnassus has its flowers of
transient fragrance, as well as its oaks of towering height, and its
laurels of eternal verdure.

Among those whose reputation is exhausted in a short time by its own
luxuriance, are the writers who take advantage of present incidents or
characters which strongly interest the passions, and engage universal
attention. It is not difficult to obtain readers, when we discuss a
question which every one is desirous to understand, which is debated in
every assembly, and has divided the nation into parties; or when we
display the faults or virtues of him whose publick conduct has made
almost every man his enemy or his friend. To the quick circulation of
such productions all the motives of interest and vanity concur; the
disputant enlarges his knowledge, the zealot animates his passion, and
every man is desirous to inform himself concerning affairs so vehemently
agitated and variously represented.

It is scarcely to be imagined, through how many subordinations of
interest the ardour of party is diffused; and what multitudes fancy
themselves affected by every satire or panegyrick on a man of eminence.
Whoever has, at any time, taken occasion to mention him with praise or
blame, whoever happens to love or hate any of his adherents, as he
wishes to confirm his opinion, and to strengthen his party, will
diligently peruse every paper from which he can hope for sentiments like
his own. An object, however small in itself, if placed near to the eye,
will engross all the rays of light; and a transaction, however trivial,
swells into importance when it presses immediately on our attention. He
that shall peruse the political pamphlets of any past reign, will wonder
why they were so eagerly read, or so loudly praised. Many of the
performances which had power to inflame factions, and fill a kingdom
with confusion, have now very little effect upon a frigid critick; and
the time is coming, when the compositions of later hirelings shall lie
equally despised. In proportion as those who write on temporary
subjects, are exalted above their merit at first, they are afterwards
depressed below it; nor can the brightest elegance of diction, or most
artful subtilty of reasoning, hope for so much esteem from those whose
regard is no longer quickened by curiosity or pride.

It is, indeed, the fate of controvertists, even when they contend for
philosophical or theological truth, to be soon laid aside and slighted.
Either the question is decided, and there is no more place for doubt and
opposition; or mankind despair of understanding it, and grow weary of
disturbance, content themselves with quiet ignorance, and refuse to be
harassed with labours which they have no hopes of recompensing with
knowledge.

The authors of new discoveries may surely expect to be reckoned among
those whose writings are secure of veneration: yet it often happens that
the general reception of a doctrine obscures the books in which it was
delivered. When any tenet is generally received and adopted as an
incontrovertible principle, we seldom look back to the arguments upon
which it was first established, or can bear that tediousness of
deduction, and multiplicity of evidence, by which its author was forced
to reconcile it to prejudice, and fortify it in the weakness of novelty
against obstinacy and envy.

It is well known how much of our philosophy is derived from Boyle's
discovery of the qualities of the air; yet of those who now adopt or
enlarge his theory, very few have read the detail of his experiments.
His name is, indeed, reverenced; but his works are neglected; we are
contented to know, that he conquered his opponents, without inquiring
what cavils were produced against him, or by what proofs they were
confuted.

Some writers apply themselves to studies boundless and inexhaustible, as
experiments in natural philosophy. These are always lost in successive
compilations, as new advances are made, and former observations become
more familiar. Others spend their lives in remarks on language, or
explanations of antiquities, and only afford materials for
lexicographers and commentators, who are themselves overwhelmed by
subsequent collectors, that equally destroy the memory of their
predecessors by amplification, transposition, or contraction. Every new
system of nature gives birth to a swarm of expositors, whose business is
to explain and illustrate it, and who can hope to exist no longer than
the founder of their sect preserves his reputation.

There are, indeed, few kinds of composition from which an author,
however learned or ingenious, can hope a long continuance of fame. He
who has carefully studied human nature, and can well describe it, may
with most reason flatter his ambition. Bacon, among all his pretensions
to the regard of posterity, seems to have pleased himself chiefly with
his Essays, _which come home to men's business and bosoms_, and of
which, therefore, he declares his expectation, that they _will live as
long as books last_. It may, however, satisfy an honest and benevolent
mind to have been useful, though less conspicuous; nor will he that
extends his hope to higher rewards, be so much anxious to obtain praise,
as to discharge the duty which Providence assigns him.



No. 107. TUESDAY, MARCH 26, 1751.

  _Alternis igitur contendere versibns ambo
  Coepere: alternos Musoe meminisse volebant_. VIRG. Ec. vii. 18

  On themes alternate now the swains recite;
  The muses in alternate themes delight. ELPHINSTON.

Among the various censures, which the unavoidable comparison of my
performances with those of my predecessors has produced, there is none
more general than that of uniformity. Many of my readers remark the want
of those changes of colours, which formerly fed the attention with
unexhausted novelty, and of that intermixture of subjects, or
alternation of manner, by which other writers relieved weariness, and
awakened expectation.

I have, indeed, hitherto avoided the practice of uniting gay and solemn
subjects in the same paper, because it seems absurd for an author to
counteract himself, to press at once with equal force upon both parts of
the intellectual balance, or give medicines, which, like the double
poison of Dryden, destroy the force of one another. I have endeavoured
sometimes to divert, and sometimes to elevate; but have imagined it an
useless attempt to disturb merriment by solemnity, or interrupt
seriousness by drollery. Yet I shall this day publish two letters of
very different tendency, which I hope, like tragi-comedy, may chance to
please even when they are not critically approved.

TO THE RAMBLER.

DEAR SIR,

Though, as my mamma tells me, I am too young to talk at the table, I
have great pleasure in listening to the conversation of learned men,
especially when they discourse of things which I do not understand; and
have, therefore, been of late particularly delighted with many disputes
about the _alteration of the stile_, which, they say, is to be made by
act of parliament.

One day when my mamma was gone out of the room, I asked a very great
scholar what the style was. He told me he was afraid I should hardly
understand him when he informed me, that it was the stated and
established method of computing time. It was not, indeed, likely that I
should understand him; for I never yet knew time computed in my life,
nor can imagine why we should be at so much trouble to count what we
cannot keep. He did not tell me whether we are to count the time past,
or the time to come; but I have considered them both by myself, and
think it as foolish to count time that is gone, as money that is spent;
and as for the time which is to come, it only seems further off by
counting; and therefore, when any pleasure is promised me, I always
think of the time as little as I can.

I have since listened very attentively to every one that talked upon
this subject, of whom the greater part seem not to understand it better
than myself; for though they often hint how much the nation has been
mistaken, and rejoice that we are at last growing wiser than our
ancestors, I have never been able to discover from them, that any body
has died sooner, or been married later, for counting time wrong; and,
therefore, I began to fancy that there was a great bustle with little
consequence.

At last, two friends of my papa, Mr. Cycle, and Mr. Starlight, being, it
seems, both of high learning, and able to make an almanack, began to
talk about the new style. Sweet Mr. Starlight--I am sure I shall love
his name as long as I live; for he told Cycle roundly, with a fierce
look, that we should never be right without a _year of confusion_. Dear
Mr. Rambler, did you ever hear any thing so charming? a whole year of
confusion! When there has been a rout at mamma's, I have thought one
night of confusion worth a thousand nights of rest; and if I can but see
a year of confusion, a whole year, of cards in one room, and dancings in
another, here a feast, and there a masquerade, and plays, and coaches,
and hurries, and messages, and milliners, and raps at the door, and
visits, and frolicks, and new fashions, I shall not care what they do
with the rest of the time, nor whether they count it by the old style or
the new; for I am resolved to break loose from the nursery in the
tumult, and play my part among the rest; and it will be strange if I
cannot get a husband and a chariot in the year of confusion.

Cycle, who is neither so young nor so handsome as Starlight, very
gravely maintained, that all the perplexity may he avoided by leaping
over eleven days in the reckoning; and, indeed, if it should come only
to this, I think the new style is a delightful thing; for my mamma says
I shall go to court when I am sixteen, and if they can but contrive
often to leap over eleven days together, the months of restraint will
soon be at an end. It is strange, that with all the plots that have been
laid against time, they could never kill it by act of parliament before.
Dear sir, if you have any vote or interest, get them but for once to
destroy eleven months, and then I shall be as old as some married
ladies. But this is desired only if you think they will not comply with
Mr. Starlight's scheme; for nothing surely could please me like a year
of confusion, when I shall no longer be fixed this hour to my pen, and
the next to my needle, or wait at home for the dancing-master one day,
and the next for the musick-master; but run from ball to ball, and from
drum to drum; and spend all my time without tasks, and without account,
and go out without telling whither, and come home without regard to
prescribed hours, or family rules.

I am, sir,

Your humble servant,

PROPERANTIA.

MR. RAMBLER,

I was seized this morning with an unusual pensiveness, and, finding that
books only served to heighten it, took a ramble into the fields, in
hopes of relief and invigoration from the keenness of the air and
brightness of the sun.

As I wandered wrapped up in thought, my eyes were struck with the
hospital for the reception of deserted infants, which I surveyed with
pleasure, till, by a natural train of sentiment, I began to reflect on
the fate of the mothers. For to what shelter can they fly? Only to the
arms of their betrayer, which, perhaps, are now no longer open to
receive them; and then how quick must be the transition from deluded
virtue to shameless guilt, and from shameless guilt to hopeless
wretchedness?

The anguish that I felt, left me no rest till I had, by your means,
addressed myself to the publick on behalf of those forlorn creatures,
the women of the town; whose misery here might satisfy the most rigorous
censor, and whose participation of our common nature might surely induce
us to endeavour, at least, their preservation from eternal punishment.

These were all once, if not virtuous, at least innocent; and might still
have continued blameless and easy, but for the arts and insinuations of
those whose rank, fortune, or education, furnished them with means to
corrupt or to delude them. Let the libertine reflect a moment on the
situation of that woman, who, being forsaken by her betrayer, is reduced
to the necessity of turning prostitute for bread, and judge of the
enormity of his guilt by the evils which it produces.

It cannot be doubted but that numbers follow this dreadful course of
life, with shame, horrour, and regret; but where can they hope for
refuge: "_The world is not their friend, nor the world's law_." Their
sighs, and tears, and groans, are criminal in the eye of their tyrants,
the bully and the bawd, who fatten on their misery, and threaten them
with want or a gaol, if they show the least design of escaping from
their bondage.

"To wipe all tears from off all faces," is a task too hard for mortals;
but to alleviate misfortunes is often within the most limited power: yet
the opportunities which every day affords of relieving the most wretched
of human beings are overlooked and neglected, with equal disregard of
policy and goodness.

There are places, indeed, set apart, to which these unhappy creatures
may resort, when the diseases of incontinence seize upon them; but if
they obtain a cure, to what are they reduced? Either to return with the
small remains of beauty to their former guilt, or perish in the streets
with nakedness and hunger.

How frequently have the gay and thoughtless, in their evening frolicks,
seen a band of those miserable females, covered with rags, shivering
with cold, and pining with hunger; and, without either pitying their
calamities, or reflecting upon the cruelty of those who, perhaps, first
seduced them by caresses of fondness, or magnificence of promises, go on
to reduce others to the same wretchedness by the same means!

To stop the increase of this deplorable multitude, is undoubtedly the
first and most pressing consideration. To prevent evil is the great end
of government, the end for which vigilance and severity are properly
employed. But surely those whom passion or interest has already
depraved, have some claim to compassion, from beings equally frail and
fallible with themselves. Nor will they long groan in their present
afflictions, if none were to refuse them relief, but those that owe
their exemption from the same distress only to their wisdom and their
virtue.

I am, &c.

AMICUS[a].

[Footnote a: The letter from Amicus was from an unknown correspondent.
It breathes a tenderness of spirit worthy of Johnson himself. But he
practised the lesson which it inculcates;--a harder task! Sterne could
_write_ sentiment.]



No. 108. SATURDAY, MARCH 30, 1751.

  _--Sapere aude:
  Incipe. Vivendi recte qui prorogat horam,
  Rusticus expectat dum defluat amnis; at ille
  Labitur et labetur in omne volubilis aevum_. HOR. Lib. i. Ep. ii. 39.

  Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise;
  He who defers this work from day to day,
  Does on a river's bank expecting stay,
  Till the whole stream, which stopp'd him, should be gone,
  That runs, and as it runs, for ever will run on. COWLEY.

An ancient poet, unreasonably discontented at the present state of
things, which his system of opinions obliged him to represent in its
worst form, has observed of the earth, "that its greater part is covered
by the uninhabitable ocean; that of the rest some is encumbered with
naked mountains, and some lost under barren sands; some scorched with
unintermitted heat, and some petrified with perpetual frost; so that
only a few regions remain for the production of fruits, the pasture of
cattle, and the accommodation of man."

The same observation may be transferred to the time allotted us in our
present state. When we have deducted all that is absorbed in sleep, all
that is inevitably appropriated to the demands of nature, or
irresistibly engrossed by the tyranny of custom; all that passes in
regulating the superficial decorations of life, or is given up in the
reciprocations of civility to the disposal of others; all that is torn
from us by the violence of disease, or stolen imperceptibly away by
lassitude and languor; we shall find that part of our duration very
small of which we can truly call ourselves masters, or which we can
spend wholly at our own choice. Many of our hours are lost in a rotation
of petty cares, in a constant recurrence of the same employments; many
of our provisions for ease or happiness are always exhausted by the
present day; and a great part of our existence serves no other purpose,
than that of enabling us to enjoy the rest.

Of the few moments which are left in our disposal, it may reasonably be
expected, that we should be so frugal, as to let none of them slip from
us without some equivalent; and perhaps it might be found, that as the
earth, however straitened by rocks and waters, is capable of producing
more than all its inhabitants are able to consume, our lives, though
much contracted by incidental distraction, would yet afford us a large
space vacant to the exercise of reason and virtue; that we want not
time, but diligence, for great performances; and that we squander much
of our allowance, even while we think it sparing and insufficient.

This natural and necessary comminution of our lives, perhaps, often
makes us insensible of the negligence with which we suffer them to slide
away. We never consider ourselves as possessed at once of time
sufficient for any great design, and therefore indulge ourselves, in
fortuitous amusements. We think it unnecessary to take an account of a
few supernumerary moments, which, however employed, could have produced
little advantage, and which were exposed to a thousand chances of
disturbance and interruption.

It is observable, that, either by nature or by habit, our faculties are
fitted to images of a certain extent, to which we adjust great things by
division, and little things by accumulation. Of extensive surfaces we
can only take a survey, as the parts succeed one another; and atoms we
cannot perceive till they are united into masses. Thus we break the vast
periods of time into centuries and years; and thus, if we would know the
amount of moments, we must agglomerate them into days and weeks.

The proverbial oracles of our parsimonious ancestors have informed us,
that the fatal waste of fortune is by small expenses, by the profusion
of sums too little singly to alarm our caution, and which we never
suffer ourselves to consider together. Of the same kind is the
prodigality of life; he that hopes to look back hereafter with
satisfaction upon past years, must learn to know the present value of
single minutes, and endeavour to let no particle of time fall useless to
the ground.

It is usual for those who are advised to the attainment of any new
qualification, to look upon themselves as required to change the general
course of their conduct, to dismiss business, and exclude pleasure, and
to devote their days and nights to a particular attention. But all
common degrees of excellence are attainable at a lower price; he that
should steadily and resolutely assign to any science or language those
interstitial vacancies which intervene in the most crowded variety of
diversion or employment, would find every day new irradiations of
knowledge, and discover how much more is to be hoped from frequency and
perseverance, than from violent efforts and sudden desires; efforts
which are soon remitted when they encounter difficulty, and desires,
which, if they are indulged too often, will shake off the authority of
reason, and range capriciously from one object to another.

The disposition to defer every important design to a time of leisure,
and a state of settled uniformity, proceeds generally from a false
estimate of the human powers. If we except those gigantic and stupendous
intelligences who are said to grasp a system by intuition, and bound
forward from one series of conclusions to another, without regular steps
through intermediate propositions, the most successful students make
their advances in knowledge by short flights, between each of which the
mind may lie at rest. For every single act of progression a short time
is sufficient; and it is only necessary, that whenever that time is
afforded, it be well employed.

Few minds will be long confined to severe and laborious meditation; and
when a successful attack on knowledge has been made, the student
recreates himself with the contemplation of his conquest, and forbears
another incursion, till the new-acquired truth has become familiar, and
his curiosity calls upon him for fresh gratifications. Whether the time
of intermission is spent in company, or in solitude, in necessary
business, or in voluntary levities, the understanding is equally
abstracted from the object of inquiry; but, perhaps, if it be detained
by occupations less pleasing, it returns again to study with greater
alacrity than when it is glutted with ideal pleasures, and surfeited
with intemperance of application. He that will not suffer himself to be
discouraged by fancied impossibilities, may sometimes find his abilities
invigorated by the necessity of exerting them in short intervals, as the
force of a current is increased by the contraction of its channel.

From some cause like this, it has probably proceeded, that, among those
who have contributed to the advancement of learning, many have risen to
eminence in opposition to all the obstacles which external circumstances
could place in their way, amidst the tumult of business, the distresses
of poverty, or the dissipations of a wandering and unsettled state. A
great part of the life of Erasmus was one continual peregrination; ill
supplied with the gifts of fortune, and led from city to city, and from
kingdom to kingdom, by the hopes of patrons and preferment, hopes which
always flattered and always deceived him; he yet found means, by
unshaken constancy, and a vigilant improvement of those hours, which, in
the midst of the most restless activity, will remain unengaged, to write
more than another in the same condition would have hoped to read.
Compelled by want to attendance and solicitation, and so much versed in
common life, that he has transmitted to us the most perfect delineation
of the manners of his age, he joined to his knowledge of the world such
application to books, that he will stand for ever in the first rank of
literary heroes. How this proficiency was obtained he sufficiently
discovers, by informing us, that the "Praise of Folly," one of his most
celebrated performances, was composed by him on the road to Italy; _ne
totum illud tempus quo equo fuit insidendum, illiteratis fabulis
terreretur_: "lest the hours which he was obliged to spend on horseback
should be tattled away without regard to literature."

An Italian philosopher expressed in his motto, that _time was his
estate_; an estate, indeed, which will produce nothing without
cultivation, but will always abundantly repay the labours of industry,
and satisfy the most extensive desires, if no part of it be suffered to
lie waste by negligence, to be over-run with noxious plants, or laid out
for shew, rather than for use.



No. 109. TUESDAY, APRIL 2, 1751.

  _Gratum est, quod patriæ civem populoque dedisti,
  Si facis, ut patriæ sit idoneus, utilis agris,
  Utilis et bellorum et pacis rebus agendis.
  Plurimum enim intererit, quibus artibus, et quibus hunc tu
  Moribus instituas_ Juv. SAT, xiv. 70.

  Grateful the gift! a member to the state,
  If you that member useful shall create;
  Train'd both to war, and, when the war shall cease,
  As fond, as fit t'improve the arts of peace.
  For much it boots which way you train your boy,
  The hopeful object of your future joy. ELPHINSTON.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Though you seem to have taken a view sufficiently extensive of the
miseries of life, and have employed much of your speculation on mournful
subjects, you have not yet exhausted the whole stock of human
infelicity. There is still a species of wretchedness which escapes your
observation, though it might supply you with many sage remarks, and
salutary cautions.

I cannot but imagine the start of attention awakened by this welcome
hint; and at this instant see the Rambler snuffing his candle, rubbing
his spectacles, stirring his fire, locking out interruption, and
settling himself in his easy chair, that he may enjoy a new calamity
without disturbance. For, whether it be that continued sickness or
misfortune has acquainted you only with the bitterness of being; or that
you imagine none but yourself able to discover what I suppose has been
seen and felt by all the inhabitants of the world; whether you intend
your writings as antidotal to the levity and merriment with which your
rivals endeavour to attract the favour of the publick; or fancy that you
have some particular powers of dolorous declamation, and _warble out
your groans_ with uncommon elegance or energy; it is certain, that
whatever be your subject, melancholy for the most part bursts in upon
your speculation, your gaiety is quickly overcast, and though your
readers may be flattered with hopes of pleasantry, they are seldom
dismissed but with heavy hearts.

That I may therefore gratify you with an imitation of your own syllables
of sadness, I will inform you that I was condemned by some disastrous
influence to be an only son, born to the apparent prospect of a large
fortune, and allotted to my parents at that time of life when satiety of
common diversions allows the mind to indulge parental affection with
greater intenseness. My birth was celebrated by the tenants with feasts,
and dances, and bag-pipes: congratulations were sent from every family
within ten miles round; and my parents discovered in my first cries such
tokens of future virtue and understanding, that they declared themselves
determined to devote the remaining part of life to my happiness and the
increase of their estate.

The abilities of my father and mother were not perceptibly unequal, and
education had given neither much advantage over the other. They had both
kept good company, rattled in chariots, glittered in playhouses, and
danced at court, and were both expert in the games that were in their
time called in as auxiliaries against the intrusion of thought.

When there is such a parity between two persons associated for life, the
dejection which the husband, if he be not completely stupid, must always
suffer for want of superiority, sinks him to submissiveness. My mamma
therefore governed the family without controul; and except that my
father still retained some authority in the stables, and, now and then,
after a supernumerary bottle, broke a looking-glass or china dish to
prove his sovereignty, the whole course of the year was regulated by her
direction, the servants received from her all their orders, and the
tenants were continued or dismissed at her discretion.

She, therefore, thought herself entitled to the superintendence of her
son's education; and when my father, at the instigation of the parson,
faintly proposed that I should be sent to school, very positively told
him, that she should not suffer so fine a child to be ruined; that she
never knew any boys at a grammar-school that could come into a room
without blushing, or sit at table without some awkward uneasiness; that
they were always putting themselves into danger by boisterous plays, or
vitiating their behaviour with mean company, and that, for her part, she
would rather follow me to the grave, than see me tear my clothes, and
hang down my head, and sneak about with dirty shoes, and blotted
fingers, my hair unpowdered, and my hat uncocked.

My father, who had no other end in his proposal than to appear wise and
manly, soon acquiesced, since I was not to live by my learning; for,
indeed, he had known very few students that had not some stiffness in
their manner. They, therefore, agreed, that a domestick tutor should be
procured, and hired an honest gentleman of mean conversation and narrow
sentiments, but whom, having passed the common forms of literary
education, they implicitly concluded qualified to teach all that was to
be learned from a scholar. He thought himself sufficiently exalted by
being placed at the same table with his pupil, and had no other view
than to perpetuate his felicity by the utmost flexibility of submission
to all my mother's opinions and caprices. He frequently took away my
book, lest I should mope with too much application, charged me never to
write without turning up my ruffles, and generally brushed my coat
before he dismissed me into the parlour. He had no occasion to complain
of too burdensome an employment: for my mother very judiciously
considered, that I was not likely to grow politer in his company, and
suffered me not to pass any more time in his apartment than my lesson
required. When I was summoned to my task, she enjoined me not to get any
of my tutor's ways, who was seldom mentioned before me but for practices
to be avoided. I was every moment admonished not to lean on my chair,
cross my legs, or swing my hands like my tutor; and once my mother very
seriously deliberated upon his total dismission, because I began, she
said, to learn his manner of sticking on my hat, and had his bend in my
shoulders, and his totter in my gait.

Such, however, was her care, that I escaped all these depravities; and
when I was only twelve years old, had rid myself of every appearance of
childish diffidence. I was celebrated round the country for the
petulance of my remarks, and the quickness of my replies; and many a
scholar, five years older than myself, have I dashed into confusion by
the steadiness of my countenance, silenced by my readiness of repartee,
and tortured with envy by the address with which I picked up a fan,
presented a snuff-box, or received an empty tea-cup.

At fourteen I was completely skilled in all the niceties of dress, and I
could not only enumerate all the variety of silks, and distinguish the
product of a French loom, but dart my eye through a numerous company,
and observe every deviation from the reigning mode. I was universally
skilful in all the changes of expensive finery; but as every one, they
say, has something to which he is particularly born, was eminently
knowing in Brussels' lace.

The next year saw me advanced to the trust and power of adjusting the
ceremonial of an assembly. All received their partners from my hand, and
to me every stranger applied for introduction. My heart now disdained
the instructions of a tutor, who was rewarded with a small annuity for
life, and left me qualified, in my own opinion, to govern myself.

In a short time I came to London, and as my father was well known among
the higher classes of life, soon obtained admission to the most splendid
assemblies and most crowded card-tables. Here I found myself universally
caressed and applauded; the ladies praised the fancy of my clothes, the
beauty of my form, and the softness of my voice; endeavoured in every
place to force themselves to my notice; and invited, by a thousand
oblique solicitations, my attendance to the playhouse, and my
salutations in the park. I was now happy to the utmost extent of my
conception; I passed every morning in dress, every afternoon in visits,
and every night in some select assemblies, where neither care nor
knowledge were suffered to molest us.

After a few years, however, these delights became familiar, and I had
leisure to look round me with more attention. I then found that my
flatterers had very little power to relieve the languor of satiety, or
recreate weariness, by varied amusement; and therefore endeavoured to
enlarge the sphere of my pleasures, and to try what satisfaction might
be found in the society of men. I will not deny the mortification with
which I perceived, that every man whose name I had heard mentioned with
respect, received me with a kind of tenderness, nearly bordering on
compassion; and that those whose reputation was not well established,
thought it necessary to justify their understandings, by treating me
with contempt. One of these witlings elevated his crest, by asking me in
a full coffee-house the price of patches; and another whispered that he
wondered why Miss Frisk did not keep me that afternoon to watch her
squirrel.

When I found myself thus hunted from all masculine conversation by those
who were themselves barely admitted, I returned to the ladies, and
resolved to dedicate my life to their service and their pleasure. But I
find that I have now lost my charms. Of those with whom I entered the
gay world, some are married, some have retired, and some have so much
changed their opinion, that they scarcely pay any regard to my
civilities, if there is any other man in the place. The new flight of
beauties to whom I have made my addresses, suffer me to pay the treat,
and then titter with boys. So that I now find myself welcome only to a
few grave ladies, who, unacquainted with all that gives either use or
dignity to life, are content to pass their hours between their bed and
their cards, without esteem from the old, or reverence from the young.

I cannot but think, Mr. Rambler, that I have reason to complain; for
surely the females ought to pay some regard to the age of him whose
youth was passed in endeavours to please them. They that encourage folly
in the boy, have no right to punish it in the man. Yet I find that,
though they lavish their first fondness upon pertness and gaiety, they
soon transfer their regard to other qualities, and ungratefully abandon
their adorers to dream out their last years in stupidity and contempt.

I am, &c.

FLORENTULUS.



No. 110. SATURDAY, APRIL 6, 1751

  At nobis vitæ dominum quærentibus unum
  Lux iter est, et clara dies, et gratia simplex.
  Spem sequimur, gradimurque fide, fruimurque futuris,
  Ad quæ non veniunt præsentis gaudia vitæ,
  Nec currunt pariter capta, et capienda voluptus.
  PRUDENTIUS, Cont. Sym. ii. 904.

  We through this maze of life one Lord obey;
  Whose light and grace unerring lead the way.
  By hope and faith secure of future bliss,
  Gladly the joys of present life we miss:
  For baffled mortals still attempt in vain,
  Present and future bliss at once to gain. F. LEWIS.

That to please the Lord and Father of the universe, is the supreme
interest of created and dependent beings, as it is easily proved, has
been universally confessed; and since all rational agents are conscious
of having neglected or violated the duties prescribed to them, the fear
of being rejected, or punished by God, has always burdened the human
mind. The expiation of crimes, and renovation of the forfeited hopes of
divine favour, therefore constitute a large part of every religion.

The various methods of propitiation and atonement which fear and folly
have dictated, or artifice and interest tolerated in the different parts
of the world, however they may sometimes reproach or degrade humanity,
at least shew the general consent of all ages and nations in their
opinion of the placability of the divine nature. That God will forgive,
may, indeed, be established as the first and fundamental truth of
religion; for, though the knowledge of his existence is the origin of
philosophy, yet, without the belief of his mercy, it would have little
influence upon our moral conduct. There could be no prospect of enjoying
the protection or regard of him, whom the least deviation from rectitude
made inexorable for ever; and every man would naturally withdraw his
thoughts from the contemplation of a Creator, whom he must consider as a
governor too pure to be pleased, and too severe to be pacified; as an
enemy infinitely wise, and infinitely powerful, whom he could neither
deceive, escape, nor resist.

Where there is no hope, there can be no endeavour. A constant and
unfailing obedience is above the reach of terrestrial diligence; and
therefore the progress of life could only have been the natural descent
of negligent despair from crime to crime, had not the universal
persuasion of forgiveness, to be obtained by proper means of
reconciliation, recalled those to the paths of virtue, whom their
passions had solicited aside; and animated to new attempts, and firmer
perseverance, those whom difficulty had discouraged, or negligence
surprised.

In times and regions so disjoined from each other, that there can
scarcely be imagined any communication of sentiments either by commerce
or tradition, has prevailed a general and uniform expectation of
propitiating God by corporal austerities, of anticipating his vengeance
by voluntary inflictions, and appeasing his justice by a speedy and
cheerful submission to a less penalty, when a greater is incurred.

Incorporated minds will always feel some inclination towards exterior
acts and ritual observances. Ideas not represented by sensible objects
are fleeting, variable, and evanescent. We are not able to judge of the
degree of conviction which operated at any particular time upon our own
thoughts, but as it is recorded by some certain and definite effect. He
that reviews his life in order to determine the probability of his
acceptance with God, if he could once establish the necessary proportion
between crimes and sufferings, might securely rest upon his performance
of the expiation; but while safety remains the reward only of mental
purity, he is always afraid lest he should decide too soon in his own
favour; lest he should not have felt the pangs of true contrition; lest
he should mistake satiety for detestation, or imagine that his passions
are subdued when they are only sleeping.

From this natural and reasonable diffidence arose, in humble and
timorous piety, a disposition to confound penance with repentance, to
repose on human determinations, and to receive from some judicial
sentence the stated and regular assignment of reconciliatory pain. We
are never willing to be without resource: we seek in the knowledge of
others a succour for our own ignorance, and are ready to trust any that
will undertake to direct us when we have no confidence in ourselves.

This desire to ascertain by some outward marks the state of the soul,
and this willingness to calm the conscience by some settled method, have
produced, as they are diversified in their effects by various tempers
and principles, most of the disquisitions and rules, the doubts and
solutions, that have embarrassed the doctrine of repentance, and
perplexed tender and flexible minds with innumerable scruples concerning
the necessary measures of sorrow, and adequate degrees of
self-abhorrence; and these rules, corrupted by fraud, or debased by
credulity, have, by the common resiliency of the mind from one extreme
to another, incited others to an open contempt of all subsidiary
ordinances, all prudential caution, and the whole discipline of
regulated piety.

Repentance, however difficult to be practised, is, if it be explained
without superstition, easily understood. _Repentance is the
relinquishment of any practice, from the conviction that it has offended
God_. Sorrow, and fear, and anxiety, are properly not parts, but
adjuncts of repentance; yet they are too closely connected with it to be
easily separated; for they not only mark its sincerity, but promote its
efficacy.

No man commits any act of negligence or obstinacy, by which his safety
or happiness in this world is endangered, without feeling the pungency
of remorse. He who is fully convinced, that he suffers by his own
failure, can never forbear to trace back his miscarriage to its first
cause, to image to himself a contrary behaviour, and to form involuntary
resolutions against the like fault, even when he knows that he shall
never again have the power of committing it. Danger, considered as
imminent, naturally produces such trepidations of impatience as leave
all human means of safety behind them; he that has once caught an alarm
of terrour, is every moment seized with useless anxieties, adding one
security to another, trembling with sudden doubts, and distracted by the
perpetual occurrence of new expedients. If, therefore, he whose crimes
have deprived him of the favour of God, can reflect upon his conduct
without disturbance, or can at will banish the reflection; if he who
considers himself as suspended over the abyss of eternal perdition only
by the thread of life, which must soon part by its own weakness, and
which the wing of every minute may divide, can cast his eyes round him
without shuddering with horrour, or panting with security; what can he
judge of himself, but that he is not yet awakened to sufficient
conviction, since every loss is more lamented than the loss of the
divine favour, and every danger more dreadful than the danger of final
condemnation?

Retirement from the cares and pleasures of the world has been often
recommended as useful to repentance. This at least is evident, that
every one retires, whenever ratiocination and recollection are required
on other occasions; and surely the retrospect of life, the
disentanglement of actions complicated with innumerable circumstances,
and diffused in various relations, the discovery of the primary
movements of the heart, and the extirpation of lusts and appetites
deeply rooted and widely spread, may be allowed to demand some secession
from sport and noise, business and folly. Some suspension of common
affairs, some pause of temporal pain and pleasure, is doubtless
necessary to him that deliberates for eternity, who is forming the only
plan in which miscarriage cannot be repaired, and examining the only
question in which mistake cannot be rectified.

Austerities and mortifications are means by which the mind is
invigorated and roused, by which the attractions of pleasure are
interrupted, and the chains of sensuality are broken. It is observed by
one of the fathers, that _he who restrains himself in the use of things
lawful, will never encroach upon things forbidden_. Abstinence, if
nothing more, is, at least, a cautious retreat from the utmost verge of
permission, and confers that security which cannot be reasonably hoped
by him that dares always to hover over the precipice of destruction, or
delights to approach the pleasures which he knows it fatal to partake.
Austerity is the proper antidote to indulgence; the diseases of mind as
well as body are cured by contraries, and to contraries we should
readily have recourse, if we dreaded guilt as we dread pain.

The completion and sum of repentance is a change of life. That sorrow
which dictates no caution, that fear which does not quicken our escape,
that austerity which fails to rectify our affections, are vain and
unavailing. But sorrow and terrour must naturally precede reformation;
for what other cause can produce it? He, therefore, that feels himself
alarmed by his conscience, anxious for the attainment of a better state,
and afflicted by the memory of his past faults, may justly conclude,
that the great work of repentance is begun, and hope by retirement and
prayer, the natural and religious means of strengthening his conviction,
to impress upon his mind such a sense of the divine presence, as may
overpower the blandishments of secular delights, and enable him to
advance from one degree of holiness to another, till death shall set him
free from doubt and contest, misery and temptation[b].

  What better can we do than prostrate fall
  Before him reverent; and there confess
  Humbly our faults, and pardon beg; with tears
  Wat'ring the ground, and with our sighs the air
  Frequenting, sent from hearts contrite, in sign
  Of sorrow unfeign'd, and humiliation meek?     Par. Lost. B. x. 1087.



No. 111. TUESDAY, APRIL 9, 1751.

  [Greek: phronein gar hoi tacheis, ouk asphaleis.] SOPHOC.

  Disaster always waits on early wit.

It has been observed, by long experience, that late springs produce the
greatest plenty. The delay of blooms and fragrance, of verdure and
breezes, is for the most part liberally recompensed by the exuberance
and fecundity of the ensuing seasons; the blossoms which lie concealed
till the year is advanced, and the sun is high, escape those chilling
blasts, and nocturnal frosts, which are often fatal to early luxuriance,
prey upon the first smiles of vernal beauty, destroy the feeble
principles of vegetable life, intercept the fruit in the gem, and beat
down the flowers unopened to the ground.

I am afraid there is little hope of persuading the young and sprightly
part of my readers, upon whom the spring naturally forces my attention,
to learn, from the great process of nature, the difference between
diligence and hurry, between speed and precipitation; to prosecute their
designs with calmness, to watch the concurrence of opportunity, and
endeavour to find the lucky moment which they cannot make. Youth is the
time of enterprize and hope: having yet no occasion of comparing our
force with any opposing power, we naturally form presumptions in our own
favour, and imagine that obstruction and impediment will give way before
us. The first repulses rather inflame vehemence than teach prudence; a
brave and generous mind is long before it suspects its own weakness, or
submits to sap the difficulties which it expected to subdue by storm.
Before disappointments have enforced the dictates of philosophy, we
believe it in our power to shorten the interval between the first cause
and the last effect; we laugh at the timorous delays of plodding
industry, and fancy that, by increasing the fire, we can at pleasure
accelerate the projection.

At our entrance into the world, when health and vigour give us fair
promises of time sufficient for the regular maturation of our schemes,
and a long enjoyment of our acquisitions, we are eager to seize the
present moment; we pluck every gratification within our reach, without
suffering it to ripen into perfection, and crowd all the varieties of
delight into a narrow compass; but age seldom fails to change our
conduct; we grow negligent of time in proportion as we have less
remaining, and suffer the last part of life to steal from us in languid
preparations for future undertakings, or slow approaches to remote
advantages, in weak hopes of some fortuitous occurrence, or drowsy
equilibrations of undetermined counsel: whether it be that the aged,
having tasted the pleasures of man's condition, and found them delusive,
become less anxious for their attainment; or that frequent miscarriages
have depressed them to despair, and frozen them to inactivity; or that
death shocks them more as it advances upon them, and they are afraid to
remind themselves of their decay, or to discover to their own hearts
that the time of trifling is past. A perpetual conflict with natural
desires seems to be the lot of our present state. In youth we require
something of the tardiness and frigidity of age; and in age we must
labour to recal the fire and impetuosity of youth; in youth we must
learn to expect, and in age to enjoy.

The torment of expectation is, indeed, not easily to be borne at a time
when every idea of gratification fires the blood, and flashes on the
fancy; when the heart is vacant to every fresh form of delight, and has
no rival engagements to withdraw it from the importunities of a new
desire. Yet, since the fear of missing what we seek must always be
proportionable to the happiness expected from possessing it, the
passions, even in this tempestuous state, might be somewhat moderated by
frequent inculcation of the mischief of temerity, and the hazard of
losing that which we endeavour to seize before our time.

He that too early aspires to honours, must resolve to encounter not only
the opposition of interest, but the malignity of envy. He that is too
eager to be rich, generally endangers his fortune in wild adventures,
and uncertain projects; and he that hastens too speedily to reputation,
often raises his character by artifices and fallacies, decks himself in
colours which quickly fade, or in plumes which accident may shake off,
or competition pluck away.

The danger of early eminence has been extended by some, even to the
gifts of nature; and an opinion has been long conceived, that quickness
of invention, accuracy of judgment, or extent of knowledge, appearing
before the usual time, presage a short life. Even those who are less
inclined to form general conclusions, from instances which by their own
nature must be rare, have yet been inclined to prognosticate no suitable
progress from the first sallies of rapid wits; but have observed, that
after a short effort they either loiter or faint, and suffer themselves
to be surpassed by the even and regular perseverance of slower
understandings.

It frequently happens, that applause abates diligence. Whoever finds
himself to have performed more than was demanded, will be contented to
spare the labour of unnecessary performances, and sit down to enjoy at
ease his superfluities of honour. He whom success has made confident of
his abilities, quickly claims the privilege of negligence, and looks
contemptuously on the gradual advances of a rival, whom he imagines
himself able to leave behind whenever he shall again summon his force to
the contest. But long intervals of pleasure dissipate attention, and
weaken constancy; nor is it easy for him that has sunk from diligence
into sloth, to rouse out of his lethargy, to recollect his notions,
rekindle his curiosity, and engage with his former ardour in the toils
of study.

Even that friendship which intends the reward of genius, too often tends
to obstruct it. The pleasure of being caressed, distinguished, and
admired, easily seduces the student from literary solitude. He is ready
to follow the call which summons him to hear his own praise, and which,
perhaps, at once flatters his appetite with certainty of pleasures, and
his ambition with hopes of patronage; pleasures which he conceives
inexhaustible, and hopes which he has not yet learned to distrust.

These evils, indeed, are by no means to be imputed to nature, or
considered as inseparable from an early display of uncommon abilities.
They may be certainly escaped by prudence and resolution, and must
therefore be recounted rather as consolations to those who are less
liberally endowed, than as discouragements to such as are born with
uncommon qualities. Beauty is well known to draw after it the
persecutions of impertinence, to incite the artifices of envy, and to
raise the flames of unlawful love; yet, among the ladies whom prudence
or modesty have made most eminent, who has ever complained of the
inconveniences of an amiable form? or would have purchased safety by the
loss of charms?

Neither grace of person, nor vigour of understanding, are to be regarded
otherwise than as blessings, as means of happiness indulged by the
Supreme Benefactor; but the advantages of either may be lost by too much
eagerness to obtain them. A thousand beauties in their first blossom, by
an imprudent exposure to the open world, have suddenly withered at the
blast of infamy; and men who might have subjected new regions to the
empire of learning, have been lured by the praise of their first
productions from academical retirement, and wasted their days in vice
and dependance. The virgin who too soon aspires to celebrity and
conquest, perishes by childish vanity, ignorant credulity, or guiltless
indiscretion. The genius who catches at laurels and preferment before
his time, mocks the hopes that he had excited, and loses those years
which might have been most usefully employed, the years of youth, of
spirit, and vivacity.

It is one of the innumerable absurdities of pride, that we are never
more impatient of direction, than in that part of life when we need it
most; we are in haste to meet enemies whom we have not strength to
overcome, and to undertake tasks which we cannot perform: and as he that
once miscarries does not easily persuade mankind to favour another
attempt, an ineffectual struggle for fame is often followed by perpetual
obscurity.

[Footnote b: The perusal of these profound remarks on penance and
repentance had so powerful an effect on one of the English Benedictine
monks (The Rev. James Compton) at Paris, as to lead him from the errours
of Popery! For an account of Dr. Johnson's true benevolence through the
whole of this interesting occasion, see Malone's note to Boswell's Life
of Johnson, vol. iv. p. 210--edit. 1822.]



No. 112. SATURDAY, APRIL 13, 1751.

  _In mea vesanas habui dispendia vires,
    Et valui pænam fortis in ipse meain_. OVID, Am. Lib. i. vii. 25.

  Of strength pernicious to myself I boast;
  The pow'rs I have were given me to my cost. F. LEWIS.

We are taught by Celsus, that health is best preserved by avoiding
settled habits of life, and deviating sometimes into slight aberrations
from the laws of medicine; by varying the proportions of food and
exercise, interrupting the successions of rest and labour, and mingling
hardships with indulgence. The body, long accustomed to stated
quantities and uniform periods, is disordered by the smallest
irregularity; and since we cannot adjust every day by the balance or
barometer, it is fit sometimes to depart from rigid accuracy, that we
may be able to comply with necessary affairs, or strong inclinations. He
that too long observes nice punctualities, condemns himself to voluntary
imbecility, and will not long escape the miseries of disease.

The same laxity of regimen is equally necessary to intellectual health,
and to a perpetual susceptibility of occasional pleasure. Long
confinement to the same company which perhaps similitude of taste
brought first together, quickly contracts the faculties, and makes a
thousand things offensive that are in themselves indifferent; a man
accustomed to hear only the echo of his own sentiments, soon bars all
the common avenues of delight, and has no part in the general
gratifications of mankind.

In things which are not immediately subject to religious or moral
consideration, it is dangerous to be too rigidly in the right.
Sensibility may, by an incessant attention to elegance and propriety, be
quickened to a tenderness inconsistent with the condition of humanity,
irritable by the smallest asperity, and vulnerable by the gentlest
touch. He that pleases himself too much with minute exactness, and
submits to endure nothing in accommodations, attendance, or address,
below the point of perfection, will, whenever he enters the crowd of
life, be harassed with innumerable distresses, from which those who have
not in the same manner increased their sensations find no disturbance.
His exotick softness will shrink at the coarseness of vulgar felicity,
like a plant transplanted to northern nurseries, from the dews and
sunshine of the tropical regions.

There will always be a wide interval between practical and ideal
excellence; and, therefore, if we allow not ourselves to be satisfied
while we can perceive any errour or defect, we must refer our hopes of
ease to some other period of existence. It is well known, that, exposed
to a microscope, the smoothest polish of the most solid bodies discovers
cavities and prominences; and that the softest bloom of roseate
virginity repels the eye with excrescences and discolorations. The
perceptions as well as the senses may be improved to our own disquiet,
and we may, by diligent cultivation of the powers of dislike, raise in
time an artificial fastidiousness, which shall fill the imagination with
phantoms of turpitude, shew us the naked skeleton of every delight, and
present us only with the pains of pleasure, and the deformities of
beauty.

Peevishness, indeed, would perhaps very little disturb the peace of
mankind, were it always the consequence of superfluous delicacy; for it
is the privilege only of deep reflection, or lively fancy, to destroy
happiness by art and refinement. But by continual indulgence of a
particular humour, or by long enjoyment of undisputed superiority, the
dull and thoughtless may likewise acquire the power of tormenting
themselves and others, and become sufficiently ridiculous or hateful to
those who are within sight of their conduct, or reach of their
influence.

They that have grown old in a single state are generally found to be
morose, fretful, and captious; tenacious of their own practices and
maxims; soon offended by contradiction or negligence; and impatient of
any association, but with those that will watch their nod, and submit
themselves to unlimited authority. Such is the effect of having lived
without the necessity of consulting any inclination but their own.

The irascibility of this class of tyrants is generally exerted upon
petty provocations, such as are incident to understandings not far
extended beyond the instincts of animal life; but, unhappily, he that
fixes his attention on things always before him, will never have long
cessations of anger. There are many veterans of luxury upon whom every
noon brings a paroxysm of violence, fury, and execration; they never sit
down to their dinner without finding the meat so injudiciously bought,
or so unskilfully dressed, such blunders in the seasoning, or such
improprieties in the sauce, as can scarcely be expiated without blood;
and, in the transports of resentment, make very little distinction
between guilt and innocence, but let fly their menaces, or growl out
their discontent, upon all whom fortune exposes to the storm.

It is not easy to imagine a more unhappy condition than that of
dependance on a peevish man. In every other state of inferiority the
certainty of pleasing is perpetually increased by a fuller knowledge of
our duty; and kindness and confidence are strengthened by every new act
of trust, and proof of fidelity. But peevishness sacrifices to a
momentory offence the obsequiousness or usefulness of half a life, and,
as more is performed, increases her exactions.

Chrysalus gained a fortune by trade, and retired into the country; and,
having a brother burthened by the number of his children, adopted one of
his sons. The boy was dismissed with many prudent admonitions; informed
of his father's inability to maintain him in his native rank; cautioned
against all opposition to the opinions or precepts of his uncle; and
animated to perseverance by the hopes of supporting the honour of the
family, and overtopping his elder brother. He had a natural ductility of
mind, without much warmth of affection, or elevation of sentiment; and
therefore readily complied with every variety of caprice; patiently
endured contradictory reproofs; heard false accusations without pain,
and opprobrious reproaches without reply; laughed obstreperously at the
ninetieth repetition of a joke; asked questions about the universal
decay of trade; admired the strength of those heads by which the price
of stocks is changed and adjusted; and behaved with such prudence and
circumspection, that after six years the will was made, and Juvenculus
was declared heir. But unhappily, a month afterwards, retiring at night
from his uncle's chamber, he left the door open behind him: the old man
tore his will, and being then perceptibly declining, for want of time to
deliberate, left his money to a trading company.

When female minds are embittered by age or solitude, their malignity is
generally exerted in a rigorous and spiteful superintendance of domestic
trifles. Eriphile has employed her eloquence for twenty years upon the
degeneracy of servants, the nastiness of her house, the ruin of her
furniture, the difficulty of preserving tapestry from the moths, and the
carelessness of the sluts whom she employs in brushing it. It is her
business every morning to visit all the rooms, in hopes of finding a
chair without its cover, a window shut or open contrary to her orders, a
spot on the hearth, or a feather on the floor, that the rest of the day
may be justifiably spent in taunts of contempt, and vociferations of
anger. She lives for no other purpose but to preserve the neatness of a
house and gardens, and feels neither inclination to pleasure, nor
aspiration after virtue, while she is engrossed by the great employment
of keeping gravel from grass, and wainscot from dust. Of three amiable
nieces she has declared herself an irreconcileable enemy; to one,
because she broke off a tulip with her hoop; to another, because she
spilt her coffee on a Turkey carpet; and to the third, because she let a
wet dog run into the parlour. She has broken off her intercourse of
visits, because company makes a house dirty; and resolves to confine
herself more to her own affairs, and to live no longer in mire by
foolish lenity.

Peevishness is generally the vice of narrow minds, and, except when it
is the effect of anguish and disease, by which the resolution is broken,
and the mind made too feeble to bear the lightest addition to its
miseries, proceeds from an unreasonable persuasion of the importance of
trifles. The proper remedy against it is, to consider the dignity of
human nature, and the folly of suffering perturbation and uneasiness
from causes unworthy of our notice.

He that resigns his peace to little casualties, and suffers the course
of his life to be interrupted by fortuitous inadvertencies, or offences,
delivers up himself to the direction of the wind, and loses all that
constancy and equanimity which constitute the chief praise of a wise
man.

The province of prudence lies between the greatest things and the least;
some surpass our power by their magnitude, and some escape our notice by
their number and their frequency. But the indispensable business of life
will afford sufficient exercise to every understanding; and such is the
limitation of the human powers, that by attention to trifles we must let
things of importance pass unobserved: when we examine a mite with a
glass, we see nothing but a mite.

That it is every man's interest to be pleased, will need little proof:
that it is his interest to please others, experience will inform him. It
is therefore not less necessary to happiness than to virtue, that he rid
his mind of passions which make him uneasy to himself, and hateful to
the world, which enchain his intellects, and obstruct his improvement.



No. 113. TUESDAY, APRIL 16, 1751.

  --_Uxorem, Postume, ducis?
  Die, qua Tisiphone, quibus exagitere colubris?_ JUV. Sat. vi. 28.

  A sober man like thee to change his life!
  What fury would possess thee with a wife? DRYDEN.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

I know not whether it is always a proof of innocence to treat censure
with contempt. We owe so much reverence to the wisdom of mankind, as
justly to wish, that our own opinion of our merit may be ratified by the
concurrence of other suffrages; and since guilt and infamy must have the
same effect upon intelligences unable to pierce beyond external
appearance, and influenced often rather by example than precept, we are
obliged to refute a false charge, lest we should countenance the crime
which we have never committed. To turn away from an accusation with
supercilious silence, is equally in the power of him that is hardened by
villany, and inspirited by innocence. The wall of brass which Horace
erects upon a clear conscience, may be sometimes raised by impudence or
power; and we should always wish to preserve the dignity of virtue by
adorning her with graces which wickedness cannot assume.

For this reason I have determined no longer to endure, with either
patient or sullen resignation, a reproach, which is, at least in my
opinion, unjust; but will lay my case honestly before you, that you or
your readers may at length decide it.

Whether you will be able to preserve your boasted impartiality, when you
hear that I am considered as an adversary by half the female world, you
may surely pardon me for doubting, notwithstanding the veneration to
which you may imagine yourself entitled by your age, your learning, your
abstraction, or your virtue. Beauty, Mr. Rambler, has often overpowered
the resolutions of the firm, and the reasonings of the wise, roused the
old to sensibility, and subdued the rigorous to softness.

I am one of those unhappy beings, who have been marked out as husbands
for many different women, and deliberated a hundred times on the brink
of matrimony. I have discussed all the nuptial preliminaries so often,
that I can repeat the forms in which jointures are settled, pin-money
secured, and provisions for younger children ascertained; but am at last
doomed by general consent to everlasting solitude, and excluded by an
irreversible decree from all hopes of connubial felicity. I am pointed
out by every mother, as a man whose visits cannot be admitted without
reproach; who raises hopes only to embitter disappointment, and makes
offers only to seduce girls into a waste of that part of life, in which
they might gain advantageous matches, and become mistresses and mothers.

I hope you will think, that some part of this penal severity may justly
be remitted, when I inform you, that I never yet professed love to a
woman without sincere intentions of marriage; that I have never
continued an appearance of intimacy from the hour that my inclination
changed, but to preserve her whom I was leaving from the shock of
abruptness, or the ignominy of contempt; that I always endeavoured to
give the ladies an opportunity of seeming to discard me; and that I
never forsook a mistress for larger fortune, or brighter beauty, but
because I discovered some irregularity in her conduct, or some depravity
in her mind; not because I was charmed by another, but because I was
offended by herself.

I was very early tired of that succession of amusements by which the
thoughts of most young men are dissipated, and had not long glittered in
the splendour of an ample patrimomy [Transcriber's note: sic] before I
wished for the calm of domestick happiness. Youth is naturally delighted
with sprightliness and ardour, and therefore I breathed out the sighs of
my first affection at the feet of the gay, the sparkling, the vivacious
Ferocula. I fancied to myself a perpetual source of happiness in wit
never exhausted, and spirit never depressed; looked with veneration on
her readiness of expedients, contempt of difficulty, assurance of
address, and promptitude of reply; considered her as exempt by some
prerogative of nature from the weakness and timidity of female minds;
and congratulated myself upon a companion superior to all common
troubles and embarrassments. I was, indeed, somewhat disturbed by the
unshaken perseverance with which she enforced her demands of an
unreasonable settlement; yet I should have consented to pass my life in
union with her, had not my curiosity led me to a crowd gathered in the
street, where I found Ferocula, in the presence of hundreds, disputing
for six-pence with a chairman. I saw her in so little need of
assistance, that it was no breach of the laws of chivalry to forbear
interposition, and I spared myself the shame of owning her acquaintance.
I forgot some point of ceremony at our next interview, and soon provoked
her to forbid me her presence.

My next attempt was upon a lady of great eminence for learning and
philosophy. I had frequently observed the barrenness and uniformity of
connubial conversation, and therefore thought highly of my own prudence
and discernment, when I selected from a multitude of wealthy beauties,
the deep-read Misothea, who declared herself the inexorable enemy of
ignorant pertness, and puerile levity; and scarcely condescended to make
tea, but for the linguist, the geometrician, the astronomer, or the
poet. The queen of the Amazons was only to be gained by the hero who
could conquer her in single combat; and Misothea's heart was only to
bless the scholar who could overpower her by disputation. Amidst the
fondest transports of courtship she could call for a definition of
terms, and treated every argument with contempt that could not be
reduced to regular syllogism. You may easily imagine, that I wished this
courtship at an end; but when I desired her to shorten my torments, and
fix the day of my felicity, we were led into a long conversation, in
which Misothea endeavoured to demonstrate the folly of attributing
choice and self-direction to any human being. It was not difficult to
discover the danger of committing myself for ever to the arms of one who
might at any time mistake the dictates of passion, or the calls of
appetite, for the decree of fate; or consider cuckoldom as necessary to
the general system, as a link in the everlasting chain of successive
causes. I therefore told her, that destiny had ordained us to part, and
that nothing should have torn me from her but the talons of necessity.

I then solicited the regard of the calm, the prudent, the economical
Sophronia, a lady who considered wit as dangerous, and learning as
superfluous, and thought that the woman who kept her house clean, and
her accounts exact, took receipts for every payment, and could find them
at a sudden call, inquired nicely after the condition of the tenants,
read the price of stocks once a-week, and purchased every thing at the
best market, could want no accomplishments necessary to the happiness of
a wise man. She discoursed with great solemnity on the care and
vigilance which the superintendance of a family demands; observed how
many were ruined by confidence in servants; and told me, that she never
expected honesty but from a strong chest, and that the best storekeeper
was the mistress's eye. Many such oracles of generosity she uttered, and
made every day new improvements in her schemes for the regulations of
her servants, and the distribution of her time. I was convinced that,
whatever I might suffer from Sophronia, I should escape poverty; and we
therefore proceeded to adjust the settlements according to her own rule,
fair and softly. But one morning her maid came to me in tears to intreat
my interest for a reconciliation with her mistress, who had turned her
out at night for breaking six teeth in a tortoise-shell comb; she had
attended her lady from a distant province, and having not lived long
enough to save much money, was destitute among strangers, and, though of
a good family, in danger of perishing in the streets, or of being
compelled by hunger to prostitution. I made no scruple of promising to
restore her; but upon my first application to Sophronia, was answered
with an air which called for approbation, that if she neglected her own
affairs, I might suspect her of neglecting mine; that the comb stood her
in three half crowns; that no servant should wrong her twice; and that
indeed she took the first opportunity of parting with Phillida, because,
though she was honest, her constitution was bad, and she thought her
very likely to fall sick. Of our conferrence I need not tell you the
effect; it surely may be forgiven me, if on this occasion I forgot the
decency of common forms.

From two more ladies I was disengaged by finding, that they entertained
my rivals at the same time, and determined their choice by the
liberality of our settlements. Another, I thought myself justified in
forsaking, because she gave my attorney a bribe to favour her in the
bargain; another because I could never soften her to tenderness, till
she heard that most of my family had died young; and another, because,
to increase her fortune by expectations, she represented her sister as
languishing and consumptive.

I shall in another letter give the remaining part of my history of
courtship. I presume that I should hitherto have injured the majesty of
female virtue, had I not hoped to transfer my affection to higher merit.

I am, &c.

HYMENAEUS.



No. 114. SATURDAY, APRIL 20, 1751.

  --_Audi,
  Nulla umquum de morte hominis cunctatio longa est._ JUV. Sat. vi. 220.

  --When man's life is in debate,
  The judge can ne'er too long deliberate. DRYDEN.

Power and superiority are so flattering and delightful, that, fraught
with temptation, and exposed to danger, as they are, scarcely any virtue
is so cautious, or any prudence so timorous, as to decline them. Even
those that have most reverence for the laws of right, are pleased with
shewing that not fear, but choice, regulates their behaviour; and would
be thought to comply, rather than obey. We love to overlook the
boundaries which we do not wish to pass; and, as the Roman satirist
remarks, he that has no design to take the life of another, is yet glad
to have it in his hands.

From the same principle, tending yet more to degeneracy and corruption,
proceeds the desire of investing lawful authority with terrour, and
governing by force rather than persuasion. Pride is unwilling to believe
the necessity of assigning any other reason than her own will; and would
rather maintain the most equitable claims by violence and penalties,
than descend from the dignity of command to dispute and expostulation.

It may, I think, be suspected, that this political arrogance has
sometimes found its way into legislative assemblies, and mingled with
deliberations upon property and life. A slight perusal of the laws by
which the measures of vindictive and coercive justice are established,
will discover so many disproportions between crimes and punishments,
such capricious distinctions of guilt, and such confusion of remissness
and severity, as can scarcely be believed to have been produced by
publick wisdom, sincerely and calmly studious of publick happiness.

The learned, the judicious, the pious Boerhaave relates, that he never
saw a criminal dragged to execution without asking himself, "Who knows
whether this man is not less culpable than me?" On the days when the
prisons of this city are emptied into the grave, let every spectator of
the dreadful procession put the same question to his own heart. Few
among those that crowd in thousands to the legal massacre, and look with
carelessness, perhaps with triumph, on the utmost exacerbations of human
misery, would then be able to return without horrour and dejection. For,
who can congratulate himself upon a life passed without some act more
mischievous to the peace or prosperity of others, than the theft of a
piece of money?

It has been always the practice, when any particular species of robbery
becomes prevalent and common, to endeavour its suppression by capital
denunciations. Thus one generation of malefactors is commonly cut off,
and their successors are frighted into new expedients; the art of
thievery is augmented with greater variety of fraud, and subtilized to
higher degrees of dexterity, and more occult methods of conveyance. The
law then renews the pursuit in the heat of anger, and overtakes the
offender again with death. By this practice capital inflictions are
multiplied, and crimes, very different in their degrees of enormity, are
equally subjected to the severest punishment that man has the power of
exercising upon man.

The lawgiver is undoubtedly allowed to estimate the malignity of an
offence, not merely by the loss or pain which single acts may produce,
but by the general alarm and anxiety arising from the fear of mischief,
and insecurity of possession: he therefore exercises the right which
societies are supposed to have over the lives of those that compose
them, not simply to punish a transgression, but to maintain order, and
preserve quiet; he enforces those laws with severity, that are most in
danger of violation, as the commander of a garrison doubles the guard on
that side which is threatened by the enemy.

This method has been long tried, but tried with so little success, that
rapine and violence are hourly increasing, yet few seem willing to
despair of its efficacy; and of those who employ their speculations upon
the present corruption of the people, some propose the introduction of
more horrid, lingering, and terrifick punishments; some are inclined to
accelerate the executions; some to discourage pardons; and all seem to
think that lenity has given confidence to wickedness, and that we can
only be rescued from the talons of robbery by inflexible rigour, and
sanguinary justice.

Yet, since the right of setting an uncertain and arbitrary value upon
life has been disputed, and since experience of past times gives us
little reason to hope that any reformation will be effected by a
periodical havock of our fellow-beings, perhaps it will not be useless
to consider what consequences might arise from relaxations of the law,
and a more rational and equitable adaptation of penalties to offences.

Death is, as one of the ancients observes, [Greek: to ton phoberon
phoberotaton], _of dreadful things the most dreadful_: an evil, beyond
which nothing can be threatened by sublunary power, or feared from human
enmity or vengeance. This terrour should, therefore, be reserved as the
last resort of authority, as the strongest and most operative of
prohibitory sanctions, and placed before the treasure of life, to guard
from invasion what cannot be restored. To equal robbery with murder is
to reduce murder to robbery; to confound in common minds the gradations
of iniquity, and incite the commission of a greater crime to prevent the
detection of a less. If only murder were punished with death, very few
robbers would stain their hands in blood; but when, by the last act of
cruelty, no new danger is incurred, and greater security may be
obtained, upon what principle shall we bid them forbear?

It may be urged, that the sentence is often mitigated to simple robbery;
but surely this is to confess that our laws are unreasonable in our own
opinion; and, indeed, it may be observed, that all but murderers have,
at their last hour, the common sensations of mankind pleading in their
favour.

From this conviction of the inequality of the punishment to the offence,
proceeds the frequent solicitation of pardons. They who would rejoice at
the correction of a thief, are yet shocked at the thought of destroying
him. His crime shrinks to nothing, compared with his misery; and
severity defeats itself by exciting pity.

The gibbet, indeed, certainly disables those who die upon it from
infesting the community; but their death seems not to contribute more to
the reformation of their associates, than any other method of
separation. A thief seldom passes much of his time in recollection or
anticipation, but from robbery hastens to riot, and from riot to
robbery; nor, when the grave closes on his companion, has any other care
than to find another.

The frequency of capital punishments, therefore, rarely hinders the
commission of a crime, but naturally and commonly prevents its
detection, and is, if we proceed only upon prudential principles,
chiefly for that reason to be avoided. Whatever may be urged by casuists
or politicians, the greater part of mankind, as they can never think
that to pick the pocket and to pierce the heart is equally criminal,
will scarcely believe that two malefactors so different in guilt can be
justly doomed to the same punishment: nor is the necessity of submitting
the conscience to human laws so plainly evinced, so clearly stated, or
so generally allowed, but that the pious, the tender, and the just, will
always scruple to concur with the community in an act which their
private judgment cannot approve.

He who knows not how often rigorous laws produce total impunity, and how
many crimes are concealed and forgotten for fear of hurrying the
offender to that state in which there is no repentance, has conversed
very little with mankind. And whatever epithets of reproach or contempt
this compassion may incur from those who confound cruelty with firmness,
I know not whether any wise man would wish it less powerful, or less
extensive.

If those whom the wisdom of our laws has condemned to die, had been
detected in their rudiments of robbery, they might, by proper discipline
and useful labour, have been disentangled from their habits, they might
have escaped all the temptation to subsequent crimes, and passed their
days in reparation and penitence; and detected they might all have been,
had the prosecutors been certain that their lives would have been
spared. I believe, every thief will confess, that he has been more than
once seized and dismissed; and that he has sometimes ventured upon
capital crimes, because he knew, that those whom he injured would rather
connive at his escape, than cloud their minds with the horrours of his
death.

All laws against wickedness are ineffectual, unless some will inform,
and some will prosecute; but till we mitigate the penalties for mere
violations of property, information will always be hated, and
prosecution dreaded. The heart of a good man cannot but recoil at the
thought of punishing a slight injury with death; especially when he
remembers that the thief might have procured safety by another crime,
from which he was restrained only by his remaining virtue.

The obligations to assist the exercise of publick justice are indeed
strong; but they will certainly be overpowered by tenderness for life.
What is punished with severity contrary to our ideas of adequate
retribution, will be seldom discovered; and multitudes will be suffered
to advance from crime to crime, till they deserve death, because, if
they had been sooner prosecuted, they would have suffered death before
they deserved it.

This scheme of invigorating the laws by relaxation, and extirpating
wickedness by lenity, is so remote from common practice, that I might
reasonably fear to expose it to the publick, could it be supported only
by my own observations: I shall, therefore, by ascribing it to its
author, Sir Thomas More, endeavour to procure it that attention, which I
wish always paid to prudence, to justice, and to mercy.[c]



No. 115. TUESDAY, APRIL 23, 1751.

  _Quaedam parvu quidem; sed non toleranda maritis_. JUV. Sat vi. 184.

  Some faults, though small, intolerable grow.    DRYDEN.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

I sit down, in pursuance of my late engagement, to recount the remaining
part of the adventures that befel me in my long quest of conjugal
felicity, which, though I have not yet been so happy as to obtain it, I
have at least endeavoured to deserve by unwearied diligence, without
suffering from repeated disappointments any abatement of my hope, or
repression of my activity.

You must have observed in the world a species of mortals who employ
themselves in promoting matrimony, and without any visible motive of
interest or vanity, without any discoverable impulse of malice or
benevolence, without any reason, but that they want objects of attention
and topicks of conversation, are incessantly busy in procuring wives and
husbands. They fill the ears of every single man and woman with some
convenient match; and when they are informed of your age and fortune,
offer a partner for life with the same readiness, and the same
indifference, as a salesman, when he has taken measure by his eye, fits
his customer with a coat.

It might be expected that they should soon be discouraged from this
officious interposition by resentment or contempt; and that every man
should determine the choice on which so much of his happiness must
depend, by his own judgment and observation: yet it happens, that as
these proposals are generally made with a shew of kindness, they seldom
provoke anger, but are at worst heard with patience, and forgotten. They
influence weak minds to approbation; for many are sure to find in a new
acquaintance, whatever qualities report has taught them to expect; and
in more powerful and active understandings they excite curiosity, and
sometimes, by a lucky chance, bring persons of similar tempers within
the attraction of each other.

I was known to possess a fortune, and to want a wife; and therefore was
frequently attended by these hymeneal solicitors, with whose importunity
I was sometimes diverted, and sometimes perplexed; for they contended
for me as vultures for a carcase; each employing all his eloquence, and
all his artifices, to enforce and promote his own scheme, from the
success of which he was to receive no other advantage than the pleasure
of defeating others equally eager, and equally industrious.

An invitation to sup with one of those busy friends, made me, by a
concerted chance, acquainted with Camilla, by whom it was expected that
I should be suddenly and irresistibly enslaved. The lady, whom the same
kindness had brought without her own concurrence into the lists of love,
seemed to think me at least worthy of the honour of captivity; and
exerted the power, both of her eyes and wit, with so much art and
spirit, that though I had been too often deceived by appearances to
devote myself irrevocably at the first interview, yet I could not
suppress some raptures of admiration, and flutters of desire. I was
easily persuaded to make nearer approaches; but soon discovered, that an
union with Camilla was not much to be wished. Camilla professed a
boundless contempt for the folly, levity, ignorance, and impertinence of
her own sex; and very frequently expressed her wonder that men of
learning or experience could submit to trifle away life with beings
incapable of solid thought. In mixed companies, she always associated
with the men, and declared her satisfaction when the ladies retired. If
any short excursion into the country was proposed, she commonly insisted
upon the exclusion of women from the party; because, where they were
admitted, the time was wasted in frothy compliments, weak indulgences,
and idle ceremonies. To shew the greatness of her mind, she avoided all
compliance with the fashion; and to boast the profundity of her
knowledge, mistook the various textures of silk, confounded tabbies with
damasks, and sent for ribands by wrong names. She despised the commerce
of stated visits, a farce of empty form without instruction; and
congratulated herself, that she never learned to write message cards.
She often applauded the noble sentiment of Plato, who rejoiced that he
was born a man rather than a woman; proclaimed her approbation of
Swift's opinion, that women are only a higher species of monkeys; and
confessed, that when she considered the behaviour, or heard the
conversation, of her sex, she could not but forgive the Turks for
suspecting them to want souls.

It was the joy and pride of Camilla to have provoked, by this insolence,
all the rage of hatred, and all the persecutions of calumny; nor was she
ever more elevated with her own superiority, than when she talked of
female anger, and female cunning. Well, says she, has nature provided
that such virulence should be disabled by folly, and such cruelty be
restrained by impotence.

Camilla doubtless expected, that what she lost on one side, she should
gain on the other; and imagined that every male heart would be open to a
lady, who made such generous advances to the borders of virility. But
man, ungrateful man, instead of springing forward to meet her, shrunk
back at her approach. She was persecuted by the ladies as a deserter,
and at best received by the men only as a fugitive. I, for my part,
amused myself awhile with her fopperies, but novelty soon gave way to
detestation, for nothing out of the common order of nature can be long
borne. I had no inclination to a wife who had the ruggedness of a man
without his force, and the ignorance of a woman without her softness;
nor could I think my quiet and honour to be entrusted to such audacious
virtue as was hourly courting danger, and soliciting assault.

My next mistress was Nitella, a lady of gentle mien, and soft voice,
always speaking to approve, and ready to receive direction from those
with whom chance had brought her into company. In Nitella I promised
myself an easy friend, with whom I might loiter away the day without
disturbance or altercation. I therefore soon resolved to address her,
but was discouraged from prosecuting my courtship, by observing, that
her apartments were superstitiously regular; and that, unless she had
notice of my visit, she was never to be seen. There is a kind of anxious
cleanliness which I have always noted as the characteristick of a
slattern; it is the superfluous scrupulosity of guilt, dreading
discovery, and shunning suspicion: it is the violence of an effort
against habit, which, being impelled by external motives, cannot stop at
the middle point.

Nitella was always tricked out rather with nicety than elegance; and
seldom could forbear to discover, by her uneasiness and constraint, that
her attention was burdened, and her imagination engrossed: I therefore
concluded, that being only occasionally and ambitiously dressed, she was
not familiarized to her own ornaments. There are so many competitors for
the fame of cleanliness, that it is not hard to gain information of
those that fail, from those that desire to excel: I quickly found that
Nitella passed her time between finery and dirt; and was always in a
wrapper, night-cap, and slippers, when she was not decorated for
immediate show.

I was then led by my evil destiny to Charybdis, who never neglected an
opportunity of seizing a new prey when it came within her reach. I
thought myself quickly made happy by permission to attend her to publick
places; and pleased my own vanity with imagining the envy which I should
raise in a thousand hearts, by appearing as the acknowledged favourite
of Charybdis. She soon after hinted her intention to take a ramble for a
fortnight, into a part of the kingdom which she had never seen. I
solicited the happiness of accompanying her, which, after a short
reluctance, was indulged me. She had no other curiosity on her journey,
than after all possible means of expense; and was every moment taking
occasion to mention some delicacy, which I knew it my duty upon such
notices to procure.

After our return, being now more familiar, she told me, whenever we met,
of some new diversion; at night she had notice of a charming company
that would breakfast in the gardens; and in the morning had been
informed of some new song in the opera, some new dress at the playhouse,
or some performer at a concert whom she longed to hear. Her intelligence
was such, that there never was a show, to which she did not summon me on
the second day; and as she hated a crowd, and could not go alone, I was
obliged to attend at some intermediate hour, and pay the price of a
whole company. When we passed the streets, she was often charmed with
some trinket in the toy-shops; and from moderate desires of seals and
snuff-boxes, rose, by degrees, to gold and diamonds. I now began to find
the smile of Charybdis too costly for a private purse, and added one
more to six and forty lovers, whose fortune and patience her rapacity
had exhausted.

Imperia then took possession of my affections; but kept them only for a
short time. She had newly inherited a large fortune, and having spent
the early part of her life in the perusal of romances, brought with her
into the gay world all the pride of Cleopatra; expected nothing less
than vows, altars, and sacrifices; and thought her charms dishonoured,
and her power infringed, by the softest opposition to her sentiments, or
the smallest transgression of her commands. Time might indeed cure this
species of pride in a mind not naturally undiscerning, and vitiated only
by false representations; but the operations of time are slow; and I
therefore left her to grow wise at leisure, or to continue in errour at
her own expense.

Thus I have hitherto, in spite of myself, passed my life in frozen
celibacy. My friends, indeed, often tell me, that I flatter my
imagination with higher hopes than human nature can gratify; that I
dress up an ideal charmer in all the radiance of perfection, and then
enter the world to look for the same excellence in corporeal beauty. But
surely, Mr. Rambler, it is not madness to hope for some terrestrial lady
unstained by the spots which I have been describing; at least I am
resolved to pursue my search; for I am so far from thinking meanly of
marriage, that I believe it able to afford the highest happiness decreed
to our present state; and if, after all these miscarriages, I find a
woman that fills up my expectation, you shall hear once more from,

Yours, &c.

HYMENAEUS.

[Footnote c: The arguments of the revered Sir Samuel Romilly on Criminal
Law, have almost been anticipated in this luminous paper, which would
have gained praise even for a legislator. On the correction of our
English Criminal Code, see Mr. Buxton's speech in the House of Commons,
1820. It is a fund of practical information, and, apart from its own
merits, will repay perusal by the valuable collection of opinions which
it contains on this momentous and interesting subject. ED.]



No. 116. SATURDAY, APRIL 27, 1751.

  _Optat ephippia bos piger: optat arare caballus_.
  HOR. Lib. i. Ep. xiv. 43.

  Thus the slow ox would gaudy trappings claim;
  The sprightly horse would plough.--FRANCIS.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

I was the second son of a country gentleman by the daughter of a wealthy
citizen of London. My father having by his marriage freed the estate
from a heavy mortgage, and paid his sisters their portions, thought
himself discharged from all obligation to further thought, and entitled
to spend the rest of his life in rural pleasures. He therefore spared
nothing that might contribute to the completion of his felicity; he
procured the best guns and horses that the kingdom could supply, paid
large salaries to his groom and huntsman, and became the envy of the
country for the discipline of his hounds. But, above all his other
attainments, he was eminent for a breed of pointers and setting-dogs,
which by long and vigilant cultivation he had so much improved, that not
a partridge or heathcock could rest in security, and game of whatever
species that dared to light upon his manor, was beaten down by his shot,
or covered with his nets.

My elder brother was very early initiated in the chace, and, at an age
when other boys are _creeping like snails unwillingly to school_, he
could wind the horn, beat the bushes, bound over hedges, and swim
rivers. When the huntsman one day broke his leg, he supplied his place
with equal abilities, and came home with the scut in his hat, amidst the
acclamations of the whole village. I being either delicate or timorous,
less desirous of honour, or less capable of sylvan heroism, was always
the favourite of my mother; because I kept my coat clean, and my
complexion free from freckles, and did not come home, like my brother,
mired and tanned, nor carry corn in my hat to the horse, nor bring dirty
curs into the parlour.

My mother had not been taught to amuse herself with books, and being
much inclined to despise the ignorance and barbarity of the country
ladies, disdained to learn their sentiments or conversation, and had
made no addition to the notions which she had brought from the precincts
of Cornhill. She was, therefore, always recounting the glories of the
city; enumerating the succession of mayors; celebrating the magnificence
of the banquets at Guildhall; and relating the civilities paid her at
the companies' feasts by men of whom some are now made aldermen, some
have fined for sheriffs, and none are worth less than forty thousand
pounds. She frequently displayed her father's greatness; told of the
large bills which he had paid at sight; of the sums for which his word
would pass upon the Exchange; the heaps of gold which he used on
Saturday night to toss about with a shovel; the extent of his warehouse,
and the strength of his doors; and when she relaxed her imagination with
lower subjects, described the furniture of their country-house, or
repeated the wit of the clerks and porters.

By these narratives I was fired with the splendour and dignity of
London, and of trade. I therefore devoted myself to a shop, and warmed
my imagination from year to year with inquiries about the privileges of
a freeman, the power of the common council, the dignity of a wholesale
dealer, and the grandeur of mayoralty, to which my mother assured me
that many had arrived who began the world with less than myself.

I was very impatient to enter into a path, which led to such honour and
felicity; but was forced for a time to endure some repression of my
eagerness, for it was my grandfather's maxim, that a _young man seldom
makes much money, who is out of his time before two-and-twenty_. They
thought it necessary, therefore, to keep me at home till the proper age,
without any other employment than that of learning merchants' accounts,
and the art of regulating books; but at length the tedious days elapsed,
I was transplanted to town, and, with great satisfaction to myself,
bound to a haberdasher.

My master, who had no conception of any virtue, merit, or dignity, but
that of being rich, had all the good qualities which naturally arise
from a close and unwearied attention to the main chance; his desire to
gain wealth was so well tempered by the vanity of shewing it, that
without any other principle of action, he lived in the esteem of the
whole commercial world; and was always treated with respect by the only
men whose good opinion he valued or solicited, those who were
universally allowed to be richer than himself.

By his instructions I learned in a few weeks to handle a yard with great
dexterity, to wind tape neatly upon the ends of my fingers, and to make
up parcels with exact frugality of paper and packthread; and soon caught
from my fellow-apprentices the true grace of a counter-bow, the careless
air with which a small pair of scales is to be held between the fingers,
and the vigour and sprightliness with which the box, after the riband
has been cut, is returned into its place. Having no desire of any higher
employment, and therefore applying all my powers to the knowledge of my
trade, I was quickly master of all that could be known, became a critick
in small wares, contrived new variations of figures, and new mixtures of
colours, and was sometimes consulted by the weavers when they projected
fashions for the ensuing spring.

With all these accomplishments, in the fourth year of my apprenticeship,
I paid a visit to my friends in the country, where I expected to be
received as a new ornament of the family, and consulted by the
neighbouring gentlemen as a master of pecuniary knowledge, and by the
ladies as an oracle of the mode. But, unhappily, at the first publick
table to which I was invited, appeared a student of the Temple, and an
officer of the guards, who looked upon me with a smile of contempt,
which destroyed at once all my hopes of distinction, so that I durst
hardly raise my eyes for fear of encountering their superiority of mien.
Nor was my courage revived by any opportunities of displaying my
knowledge; for the templar entertained the company for part of the day
with historical narratives and political observations; and the colonel
afterwards detailed the adventures of a birth-night, told the claims and
expectations of the courtiers, and gave an account of assemblies,
gardens, and diversions. I, indeed, essayed to fill up a pause in a
parliamentary debate with a faint mention of trade and Spaniards; and
once attempted, with some warmth, to correct a gross mistake about a
silver breast-knot; but neither of my antagonists seemed to think a
reply necessary; they resumed their discourse without emotion, and again
engrossed the attention of the company; nor did one of the ladies appear
desirous to know my opinion of her dress, or to hear how long the
carnation shot with white, that was then new amongst them, had been
antiquated in town.

As I knew that neither of these gentlemen had more money than myself, I
could not discover what had depressed me in their presence; nor why they
were considered by others as more worthy of attention and respect; and
therefore resolved, when we met again, to rouse my spirit, and force
myself into notice. I went very early to the next weekly meeting, and
was entertaining a small circle very successfully with a minute
representation of my lord mayor's show, when the colonel entered
careless and gay, sat down with a kind of unceremonious civility, and
without appearing to intend any interruption, drew my audience away to
the other part of the room, to which I had not the courage to follow
them. Soon after came in the lawyer, not indeed with the same attraction
of mien, but with greater powers of language: and by one or other the
company was so happily amused, that I was neither heard nor seen, nor
was able to give any other proof of my existence than that I put round
the glass, and was in my turn permitted to name the toast.

My mother, indeed, endeavoured to comfort me in my vexation, by telling
me, that perhaps these showy talkers were hardly able to pay every one
his own; that he who has money in his pocket need not care what any man
says of him; that, if I minded my trade, the time will come when lawyers
and soldiers would be glad to borrow out of my purse; and that it is
fine, when a man can set his hands to his sides, and say he is worth
forty thousand pounds every day of the year. These and many more such
consolations and encouragements, I received from my good mother, which,
however, did not much allay my uneasiness; for having by some accident
heard, that the country ladies despised her as a cit, I had therefore no
longer much reverence for her opinions, but considered her as one whose
ignorance and prejudice had hurried me, though without ill intentions,
into a state of meanness and ignominy, from which I could not find any
possibility of rising to the rank which my ancestors had always held.

I returned, however, to my master, and busied myself among thread, and
silks, and laces, but without my former cheerfulness and alacrity. I had
now no longer any felicity in contemplating the exact disposition of my
powdered curls, the equal plaits of my ruffles, or the glossy blackness
of my shoes; nor heard with my former elevation those compliments which
ladies sometimes condescended to pay me upon my readiness in twisting a
paper, or counting out the change. The term of Young Man, with which I
was sometimes honoured, as I carried a parcel to the door of a coach,
tortured my imagination; I grew negligent of my person, and sullen in my
temper; often mistook the demands of the customers, treated their
caprices and objections with contempt, and received and dismissed them
with surly silence.

My master was afraid lest the shop should suffer by this change of my
behaviour; and, therefore, after some expostulations, posted me in the
warehouse, and preserved me from the danger and reproach of desertion,
to which my discontent would certainly have urged me, had I continued
any longer behind the counter.

In the sixth year of my servitude my brother died of drunken joy, for
having run down a fox that had baffled all the packs in the province. I
was now heir, and with the hearty consent of my master commenced
gentleman. The adventures in which my new character engaged me shall be
communicated in another letter, by, Sir,

Yours, &c.

MISOCAPELUS.



No. 117. TUESDAY, APRIL 30, 1751.

  [Greek: Hossan ep Oulumpo memasan Themen autar ep Ossae
  Paelion einosiphullon, in ouranos ambatos eiae.] HOMER, Od.
  [Greek: L] 314.

  The gods they challenge, and affect the skies:
  Heav'd on Olympus tott'ring Ossa stood;
  On Ossa, Pelion nods with all his wood. POPE.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Nothing has more retarded the advancement of learning than the
disposition of vulgar minds to ridicule and vilify what they cannot
comprehend. All industry must be excited by hope; and as the student
often proposes no other reward to himself than praise, he is easily
discouraged by contempt and insult. He who brings with him into a
clamorous multitude the timidity of recluse speculation, and has never
hardened his front in publick life, or accustomed his passions to the
vicissitudes and accidents, the triumphs and defeats of mixed
conversation, will blush at the stare of petulant incredulity, and
suffer himself to be driven by a burst of laughter, from the fortresses
of demonstration. The mechanist will be afraid to assert before hardy
contradiction, the possibility of tearing down bulwarks with a
silk-worm's thread; and the astronomer of relating the rapidity of
light, the distance of the fixed stars, and the height of the lunar
mountains.

If I could by any efforts have shaken off this cowardice, I had not
sheltered myself under a borrowed name, nor applied to you for the means
of communicating to the publick the theory of a garret; a subject which,
except some slight and transient strictures, has been hitherto neglected
by those who were best qualified to adorn it, either for want of leisure
to prosecute the various researches in which a nice discussion must
engage them, or because it requires such diversity of knowledge, and
such extent of curiosity, as is scarcely to be found in any single
intellect: or perhaps others foresaw the tumults which would be raised
against them, and confined their knowledge to their own breasts, and
abandoned prejudice and folly to the direction of chance.

That the professors of literature generally reside in the highest
stories, has been immemorially observed. The wisdom of the ancients was
well acquainted with the intellectual advantages of an elevated
situation: why else were the Muses stationed on Olympus or Parnassus, by
those who could with equal right have raised them bowers in the vale of
Tempe, or erected their altars among the flexures of Meander? Why was
Jove himself nursed upon a mountain? or why did the goddesses, when the
prize of beauty was contested, try the cause upon the top of Ida? Such
were the fictions by which the great masters of the earlier ages
endeavoured to inculcate to posterity the importance of a garret, which,
though they had been long obscured by the negligence and ignorance of
succeeding times, were well enforced by the celebrated symbol of
Pythagoras, [Greek: anemon pneonton taen aecho proskunei]; "when the
wind blows, worship its echo." This could not but be understood by his
disciples as an inviolable injunction to live in a garret, which I have
found frequently visited by the echo and the wind. Nor was the tradition
wholly obliterated in the age of Augustus, for Tibullus evidently
congratulates himself upon his garret, not without some allusion to the
Pythagorean precept:

  _Quam juvat immites ventos audire cubantem--
  Aut, gelidas hibernus aquas quum fuderit Auster,
  Securum somnos imbre juvante sequi_!    Lib. i. El. i. 45.

  How sweet in sleep to pass the careless hours,
  Lull'd by the beating winds and dashing show'rs!

And it is impossible not to discover the fondness of Lucretius, an
earlier writer, for a garret, in his description of the lofty towers of
serene learning, and of the pleasure with which a wise man looks down
upon the confused and erratick state of the world moving below him:

  _Sed nil dulcius est, bene quam munita tenere
  Edita doctrina Sapientum templa serena;
  Despicere unde queas alios, passimque videre
  Errare, atque viam palanteis quaerere vitae_.    Lib. ii. 7.

  --'Tis sweet thy lab'ring steps to guide
  To virtue's heights, with wisdom well supplied,
  And all the magazines of learning fortified:
  From thence to look below on human kind,
  Bewilder'd in the maze of life, and blind.    DRYDEN.

The institution has, indeed, continued to our own time; the garret is
still the usual receptacle of the philosopher and poet; but this, like
many ancient customs, is perpetuated only by an accidental imitation,
without knowledge of the original reason for which it was established.

  _Causa latet; res est notissima_.

  The cause is secret, but th' effect is known.    ADDISON.

Conjectures have, indeed, been advanced concerning these habitations of
literature, but without much satisfaction to the judicious inquirer.
Some have imagined, that the garret is generally chosen by the wits as
most easily rented; and concluded that no man rejoices in his aerial
abode, but on the days of payment. Others suspect, that a garret is
chiefly convenient, as it is remoter than any other part of the house
from the outer door, which is often observed to be infested by
visitants, who talk incessantly of beer, or linen, or a coat, and repeat
the same sounds every morning, and sometimes again in the afternoon,
without any variation, except that they grow daily more importunate and
clamorous, and raise their voices in time from mournful murmurs to
raging vociferations. This eternal monotony is always detestable to a
man whose chief pleasure is to enlarge his knowledge, and vary his
ideas. Others talk of freedom from noise, and abstraction from common
business or amusements; and some, yet more visionary, tell us, that the
faculties are enlarged by open prospects, and that the fancy is at more
liberty, when the eye ranges without confinement.

These conveniences may perhaps all be found in a well-chosen garret; but
surely they cannot be supposed sufficiently important to have operated
unvariably upon different climates, distant ages, and separate nations.
Of an universal practice, there must still be presumed an universal
cause, which, however recondite and abstruse, may be perhaps reserved to
make me illustrious by its discovery, and you by its promulgation.

It is universally known that the faculties of the mind are invigorated
or weakened by the state of the body, and that the body is in a great
measure regulated by the various compressions of the ambient element.
The effects of the air in the production or cure of corporeal maladies
have been acknowledged from the time of Hippocrates; but no man has yet
sufficiently considered how far it may influence the operations of the
genius, though every day affords instances of local understanding, of
wits and reasoners, whose faculties are adapted to some single spot, and
who, when they are removed to any other place, sink at once into silence
and stupidity. I have discovered, by a long series of observations, that
invention and elocution suffer great impediments from dense and impure
vapours, and that the tenuity of a defecated air at a proper distance
from the surface of the earth, accelerates the fancy, and sets at
liberty those intellectual powers which were before shackled by too
strong attraction, and unable to expand themselves under the pressure of
a gross atmosphere. I have found dulness to quicken into sentiment in a
thin ether, as water, though not very hot, boils in a receiver partly
exhausted; and heads, in appearance empty, have teemed with notions upon
rising ground, as the flaccid sides of a football would have swelled out
into stiffness and extension.

For this reason I never think myself qualified to judge decisively of
any man's faculties, whom I have only known in one degree of elevation;
but take some opportunity of attending him from the cellar to the
garret, and try upon him all the various degrees of rarefaction and
condensation, tension and laxity. If he is neither vivacious aloft, nor
serious below, I then consider him as hopeless; but as it seldom
happens, that I do not find the temper to which the texture of his brain
is fitted, I accommodate him in time with a tube of mercury, first
marking the points most favourable to his intellects, according to rules
which I have long studied, and which I may, perhaps, reveal to mankind
in a complete treatise of barometrical pneumatology.

Another cause of the gaiety and sprightliness of the dwellers in garrets
is probably the increase of that vertiginous motion, with which we are
carried round by the diurnal revolution of the earth. The power of
agitation upon the spirits is well known; every man has felt his heart
lightened in a rapid vehicle, or on a galloping horse; and nothing is
plainer, than that he who towers to the fifth story, is whirled through
more space by every circumrotation, than another that grovels upon the
ground-floor. The nations between the topicks are known to be fiery,
inconstant, inventive, and fanciful; because, living at the utmost
length of the earth's diameter, they are carried about with more
swiftness than those whom nature has placed nearer to the poles; and
therefore, as it becomes a wise man to struggle with the inconveniencies
of his country, whenever celerity and acuteness are requisite, we must
actuate our languor by taking a few turns round the centre in a garret.

If you imagine that I ascribe to air and motion effects which they
cannot produce, I desire you to consult your own memory, and consider
whether you have never known a man acquire reputation in his garret,
which, when fortune or a patron had placed him upon the first floor, he
was unable to maintain; and who never recovered his former vigour of
understanding, till he was restored to his original situation. That a
garret will make every man a wit, I am very far from supposing; I know
there are some who would continue blockheads even on the summit of the
Andes, or on the peak of Teneriffe. But let not any man be considered as
unimprovable till this potent remedy has been tried; for perhaps he was
formed to be great only in a garret, as the joiner of Aretaeus was
rational in no other place but his own shop.

I think a frequent removal to various distances from the centre, so
necessary to a just estimate of intellectual abilities, and consequently
of so great use in education, that if I hoped that the publick could be
persuaded to so expensive an experiment, I would propose, that there
should be a cavern dug, and a tower erected, like those which Bacon
describes in Solomon's house, for the expansion and concentration of
understanding, according to the exigence of different employments, or
constitutions. Perhaps some that fume away in meditations upon time and
space in the tower, might compose tables of interest at a certain depth;
and he that upon level ground stagnates in silence, or creeps in
narrative, might at the height of half a mile, ferment into merriment,
sparkle with repartee, and froth with declamation.

Addison observes, that we may find the heat of Virgil's climate, in some
lines of his Georgick: so, when I read a composition, I immediately
determine the height of the author's habitation. As an elaborate
performance is commonly said to smell of the lamp, my commendation of a
noble thought, a sprightly sally, or a bold figure, is to pronounce it
fresh from the garret; an expression which would break from me upon the
perusal of most of your papers, did I not believe, that you sometimes
quit the garret, and ascend into the cock-loft.

HYPERTATUS.



No. 118. SATURDAY, MAY 4, 1751.

  --Omnes illacrymabiles
  Urgentur, ignotique longâ
    Nocte. Hon. Lib. iv. Ode ix. 26.

  In endless night they sleep, unwept, unknown. FRANCIS.

Cicero has, with his usual elegance and magnificence of language,
attempted, in his relation of the dream of Scipio, to depreciate those
honours for which he himself appears to have panted with restless
solicitude, by shewing within what narrow limits all that fame and
celebrity which man can hope for from men is circumscribed.

"You see," says Africanus, pointing at the earth, from the celestial
regions, "that the globe assigned to the residence and habitation of
human beings is of small dimensions: how then can you obtain from the
praise of men, any glory worthy of a wish? Of this little world the
inhabited parts are neither numerous nor wide; even the spots where men
are to be found are broken by intervening deserts, and the nations are
so separated as that nothing can be transmitted from one to another.
With the people of the south, by whom the opposite part of the earth is
possessed, you have no intercourse; and by how small a tract do you
communicate with the countries of the north? The territory which you
inhabit is no more than a scanty island, inclosed by a small body of
water, to which you give the name of the great sea and the Atlantick
ocean. And even in this known and frequented continent, what hope can
you entertain, that your renown will pass the stream of Ganges, or the
cliffs of Caucasus? or by whom will your name be uttered in the
extremities of the north or south, towards the rising or the setting
sun? So narrow is the space to which your fame can be propagated; and
even there how long will it remain?"

He then proceeds to assign natural causes why fame is not only narrow in
its extent, but short in its duration; he observes the difference
between the computation of time in earth and heaven, and declares, that
according to the celestial chronology, no human honours can last a
single year.

Such are the objections by which Tully has made a shew of discouraging
the pursuit of fame; objections which sufficiently discover his
tenderness and regard for his darling phantom. Homer, when the plan of
his poem made the death of Patroclus necessary, resolved, at least, that
he should die with honour; and therefore brought down against him the
patron god of Troy, and left to Hector only the mean task of giving the
last blow to an enemy whom a divine hand had disabled from resistance.
Thus Tully ennobles fame, which he professes to degrade, by opposing it
to celestial happiness; he confines not its extent but by the boundaries
of nature, nor contracts its duration but by representing it small in
the estimation of superior beings. He still admits it the highest and
noblest of terrestrial objects, and alleges little more against it, than
that it is neither without end, nor without limits.

What might be the effect of these observations conveyed in Ciceronian
eloquence to Roman understandings, cannot be determined; but few of
those who shall in the present age read my humble version will find
themselves much depressed in their hopes, or retarded in their designs;
for I am not inclined to believe, that they who among us pass their
lives in the cultivation of knowledge, or acquisition of power, have
very anxiously inquired what opinions prevail on the further banks of
the Ganges, or invigorated any effort by the desire of spreading their
renown among the clans of Caucasus. The hopes and fears of modern minds
are content to range in a narrower compass; a single nation, and a few
years, have generally sufficient amplitude to fill our imaginations.

A little consideration will indeed teach us, that fame has other limits
than mountains and oceans; and that he who places happiness in the
frequent repetition of his name, may spend his life in propagating it,
without any danger of weeping for new worlds, or necessity of passing
the Atlantick sea.

The numbers to whom any real and perceptible good or evil can be derived
by the greatest power, or most active diligence, are inconsiderable; and
where neither benefit nor mischief operate, the only motive to the
mention or remembrance of others is curiosity; a passion, which, though
in some degree universally associated to reason, is easily confined,
overborne, or diverted from any particular object.

Among the lower classes of mankind, there will be found very little
desire of any other knowledge, than what may contribute immediately to
the relief of some pressing uneasiness, or the attainment of some near
advantage. The Turks are said to hear with wonder a proposal to walk
out, only that they may walk back; and inquire why any man should labour
for nothing: so those whose condition has always restrained them to the
contemplation of their own necessities, and who have been accustomed to
look forward only to a small distance, will scarcely understand, why
nights and days should be spent in studies, which end in new studies,
and which, according to Malherbe's observation, do not tend to lessen
the price of bread; nor will the trader or manufacturer easily be
persuaded, that much pleasure can arise from the mere knowledge of
actions, performed in remote regions, or in distant times; or that any
thing can deserve their inquiry, of which, [Greek: kleos oion akouomen,
oide ti idmen], we can only hear the report, but which cannot influence
our lives by any consequences.

The truth is, that very few have leisure from indispensable business, to
employ their thoughts upon narrative or characters; and among those to
whom fortune has given the liberty of living more by their own choice,
many create to themselves engagements, by the indulgence of some petty
ambition, the admission of some insatiable desire, or the toleration of
some predominant passion. The man whose whole wish is to accumulate
money, has no other care than to collect interest, to estimate
securities, and to engage for mortgages: the lover disdains to turn his
ear to any other name than that of Corinna; and the courtier thinks the
hour lost which is not spent in promoting his interest, and facilitating
his advancement. The adventures of valour, and the discoveries of
science, will find a cold reception, when they are obtruded upon an
attention thus busy with its favourite amusement, and impatient of
interruption or disturbance.

But not only such employments as seduce attention by appearances of
dignity, or promises of happiness, may restrain the mind from excursion
and inquiry; curiosity may be equally destroyed by less formidable
enemies; it may be dissipated in trifles, or congealed by indolence. The
sportsman and the man of dress have their heads filled with a fox or a
horse-race, a feather or a ball; and live in ignorance of every thing
beside, with as much content as he that heaps up gold, or solicits
preferment, digs the field, or beats the anvil; and some yet lower in
the ranks of intellect, dream out their days without pleasure or
business, without joy or sorrow, nor ever rouse from their lethargy to
hear or think.

Even of those who have dedicated themselves to knowledge, the far
greater part have confined their curiosity to a few objects, and have
very little inclination to promote any fame, but that which their own
studies entitle them to partake. The naturalist has no desire to know
the opinions or conjectures of the philologer: the botanist looks upon
the astronomer as a being unworthy of his regard: the lawyer scarcely
hears the name of a physician without contempt; and he that is growing
great and happy by electrifying a bottle, wonders how the world can be
engaged by trifling prattle about war or peace.

If, therefore, he that imagines the world filled with his actions and
praises, shall subduct from the number of his encomiasts, all those who
are placed below the flight of fame, and who hear in the valleys of life
no voice but that of necessity; all those who imagine themselves too
important to regard him, and consider the mention of his name as an
usurpation of their time; all who are too much or too little pleased
with themselves, to attend to any thing external; all who are attracted
by pleasure, or chained down by pain, to unvaried ideas; all who are
withheld from attending his triumph by different pursuits; and all who
slumber in universal negligence; he will find his renown straitened by
nearer bounds than the rocks of Caucasus, and perceive that no man can
be venerable or formidable, but to a small part of his fellow-creatures.

That we may not languish in our endeavours after excellence, it is
necessary, that, as Africanus counsels his descendant, "we raise our
eyes to higher prospects, and contemplate our future and eternal state,
without giving up our hearts to the praise of crowds, or fixing our
hopes on such rewards as human power can bestow."



No. 119. TUESDAY, MAY 7, 1751.

  _Iliacos intra muros peccatur, et extra_. HOR. Lib. i. Ep. ii, 16.

  Faults lay on either side the Trojan tow'rs. ELPHINSTON.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

As, notwithstanding all that wit, or malice, or pride, or prudence will
be able to suggest, men and women must at last pass their lives
together, I have never therefore thought those writers friends to human
happiness, who endeavour to excite in either sex a general contempt or
suspicion of the other. To persuade them who are entering the world, and
looking abroad for a suitable associate, that all are equally vicious,
or equally ridiculous; that they who trust are certainly betrayed, and
they who esteem are always disappointed; is not to awaken judgment, but
to inflame temerity. Without hope there can be no caution. Those who are
convinced, that no reason for preference can be found, will never harass
their thoughts with doubt and deliberation; they will resolve, since
they are doomed to misery, that no needless anxiety shall disturb their
quiet; they will plunge at hazard into the crowd, and snatch the first
hand that shall be held toward them.

That the world is over-run with vice, cannot be denied; but vice,
however predominant, has not yet gained an unlimited dominion. Simple
and unmingled good is not in our power, but we may generally escape a
greater evil by suffering a less; and therefore, those who undertake to
initiate the young and ignorant in the knowledge of life, should be
careful to inculcate the possibility of virtue and happiness, and to
encourage endeavours by prospects of success.

You, perhaps, do not suspect, that these are the sentiments of one who
has been subject for many years to all the hardships of antiquated
virginity; has been long accustomed to the coldness of neglect, and the
petulance of insult; has been mortified in full assemblies by inquiries
after forgotten fashions, games long disused, and wits and beauties of
ancient renown; has been invited, with malicious importunity, to the
second wedding of many acquaintances; has been ridiculed by two
generations of coquets in whispers intended to be heard; and been long
considered by the airy and gay, as too venerable for familiarity, and
too wise for pleasure. It is indeed natural for injury to provoke anger,
and by continual repetition to produce an habitual asperity; yet I have
hitherto struggled with so much vigilance against my pride and my
resentment, that I have preserved my temper uncorrupted. I have not yet
made it any part of my employment to collect sentences against marriage;
nor am inclined to lessen the number of the few friends whom time has
left me, by obstructing that happiness which I cannot partake, and
venting my vexation in censures of the forwardness and indiscretion of
girls, or the inconstancy, tastelessness, and perfidy of men.

It is, indeed, not very difficult to bear that condition to which we are
not condemned by necessity, but induced by observation and choice; and
therefore I, perhaps, have never yet felt all the malignity with which a
reproach, edged with the appellation of old maid, swells some of those
hearts in which it is infixed. I was not condemned in my youth to
solitude, either by indigence or deformity, nor passed the earlier part
of life without the flattery of courtship, and the joys of triumph. I
have danced the round of gaiety amidst the murmurs of envy, and
gratulations of applause; been attended from pleasure to pleasure by the
great, the sprightly, and the vain; and seen my regard solicited by the
obsequiousness of gallantry, the gaiety of wit, and the timidity of
love. If, therefore, I am yet a stranger to nuptial happiness, I suffer
only the consequences of my own resolves, and can look back upon the
succession of lovers, whose addresses I have rejected, without grief,
and without malice.

When my name first began to be inscribed upon glasses, I was honoured
with the amorous professions of the gay Venustulus, a gentleman, who,
being the only son of a wealthy family, had been educated in all the
wantonness of expense, and softness of effeminacy. He was beautiful in
his person, and easy in his address, and, therefore, soon gained upon my
eye at an age when the sight is very little over-ruled by the
understanding. He had not any power in himself of gladdening or amusing;
but supplied his want of conversation by treats and diversions; and his
chief art of courtship was to fill the mind of his mistress with
parties, rambles, musick, and shows. We were often engaged in short
excursions to gardens and seats, and I was for a while pleased with the
care which Venustulus discovered in securing me from any appearance of
danger, or possibility of mischance. He never failed to recommend
caution to his coachman, or to promise the waterman a reward if he
landed us safe; and always contrived to return by daylight, for fear of
robbers. This extraordinary solicitude was represented for a time as the
effect of his tenderness for me; but fear is too strong for continued
hypocrisy. I soon discovered that Venustulus had the cowardice as well
as elegance of a female. His imagination was perpetually clouded with
terrours, and he could scarcely refrain from screams and outcries at any
accidental surprise. He durst not enter a room if a rat was heard behind
the wainscot, nor cross a field where the cattle were frisking in the
sunshine; the least breeze that waved upon the river was a storm, and
every clamour in the street was a cry of fire. I have seen him lose his
colour when my squirrel had broke his chain; and was forced to throw
water in his face on the sudden entrance of a black cat. Compassion once
obliged me to drive away with my fan, a beetle that kept him in
distress, and chide off a dog that yelped at his heels, to which he
would gladly have given up me to facilitate his own escape. Women
naturally expect defence and protection from a lover or a husband, and,
therefore, you will not think me culpable in refusing a wretch, who
would have burdened life with unnecessary fears, and flown to me for
that succour which it was his duty to have given.

My next lover was Fungoso, the son of a stockjobber, whose visits my
friends, by the importunity of persuasion, prevailed upon me to allow.
Fungoso was no very suitable companion; for having been bred in a
counting-house, he spoke a language unintelligible in any other place.
He had no desire of any reputation but that of an acute prognosticator
of the changes in the funds; nor had any means of raising merriment, but
by telling how somebody was overreached in a bargain by his father. He
was, however, a youth of great sobriety and prudence, and frequently
informed us how carefully he would improve my fortune. I was not in
haste to conclude the match, but was so much awed by my parents, that I
durst not dismiss him, and might, perhaps, have been doomed for ever to
the grossness of pedlary, and the jargon of usury, had not a fraud been
discovered in the settlement, which set me free from the persecution of
grovelling pride, and pecuniary impudence. I was afterwards six months
without any particular notice but at last became the idol of the
glittering Flosculus, who prescribed the mode of embroidery to all the
fops of his time, and varied at pleasure the cock of every hat, and the
sleeve of every coat that appeared in fashionable assemblies. Flosculus
made some impression upon my heart by a compliment which few ladies can
hear without emotion; he commended my skill in dress, my judgment in
suiting colours, and my art in disposing ornaments. But Flosculus was
too much engaged by his own elegance, to be sufficiently attentive to
the duties of a lover, or to please with varied praise an ear made
delicate by riot of adulation. He expected to be repaid part of his
tribute, and staid away three days, because I neglected to take notice
of a new coat. I quickly found, that Flosculus was rather a rival than
an admirer; and that we should probably live in a perpetual struggle of
emulous finery, and spend our lives in stratagems to be first in the
fashion.

I had soon after the honour at a feast of attracting the eyes of
Dentatus, one of those human beings whose only happiness is to dine.
Dentatus regaled me with foreign varieties, told me of measures that he
had laid for procuring the best cook in France, and entertained me with
bills of fare, prescribed the arrangement of dishes, and taught me two
sauces invented by himself. At length, such is the uncertainty of human
happiness, I declared my opinion too hastily upon a pie made under his
own direction; after which he grew so cold and negligent, that he was
easily dismissed.

Many other lovers, or pretended lovers, I have had the honour to lead
awhile in triumph. But two of them I drove from me, by discovering that
they had no taste or knowledge in musick; three I dismissed, because
they were drunkards; two, because they paid their addresses at the same
time to other ladies; and six, because they attempted to influence my
choice by bribing my maid. Two more I discarded at the second visit for
obscene allusions; and five for drollery on religion. In the latter part
of my reign, I sentenced two to perpetual exile, for offering me
settlements, by which the children of a former marriage would have been
injured; four, for representing falsely the value of their estates;
three for concealing their debts; and one, for raising the rent of a
decrepit tenant.

I have now sent you a narrative, which the ladies may oppose, to the
tale of Hymenaeus. I mean not to depreciate the sex which has produced
poets and philosophers, heroes and martyrs; but will not suffer the
rising generation of beauties to be dejected by partial satire; or to
imagine that those who censured them have not likewise their follies,
and their vices. I do not yet believe happiness unattainable in
marriage, though I have never yet been able to find a man, with whom I
could prudently venture an inseparable union. It is necessary to expose
faults, that their deformity may be seen; but the reproach ought not to
be extended beyond the crime, nor either sex to be contemned, because
some women, or men, are indelicate or dishonest.

I am, &c.

TRANQUILLA.



No. 120. SATURDAY, MAY 11, 1751.

  Redditum Cyri solio Phraaten.
  Dissidens plebi, numero beatorum
  Eiimit virtus, populumque falsis
          Dedocet uti
  Vocibus.--HOR. Lib. ii. Od. ii. 17.

  True virtue can the crowd unteach
  Their false mistaken forms of speech;
  Virtue, to crowds a foe profest,
  Disdains to number with the blest
  Phraates, by his slaves ador'd,
  And to the Parthian crown restor'd. FRANCIS.

In the reign of Jenghiz Can, conqueror of the east, in the city of
Samarcand, lived Nouradin the merchant, renowned throughout all the
regions of India, for the extent of his commerce, and the integrity of
his dealings. His warehouses were filled with all the commodities of the
remotest nations; every rarity of nature, every curiosity of art,
whatever was valuable, whatever was useful, hasted to his hand. The
streets were crowded with his carriages; the sea was covered with his
ships; the streams of Oxus were wearied with conveyance, and every
breeze of the sky wafted wealth to Nouradin.

At length Nouradin felt himself seized with a slow malady, which he
first endeavoured to divert by application, and afterwards to relieve by
luxury and indulgence; but finding his strength every day less, he was
at last terrified, and called for help upon the sages of physick; they
filled his apartments with alexipharmicks, restoratives, and essential
virtues; the pearls of the ocean were dissolved, the spices of Arabia
were distilled, and all the powers of nature were employed to give new
spirits to his nerves, and new balsam to his blood. Nouradin was for
some time amused with promises, invigorated with cordials, or soothed
with anodynes; but the disease preyed upon his vitals, and he soon
discovered with indignation, that health was not to be bought. He was
confined to his chamber, deserted by his physicians, and rarely visited
by his friends; but his unwillingness to die flattered him long with
hopes of life.

At length, having passed the night in tedious languor, he called to him
Almamoulin, his only son, and dismissing his attendants, "My son," says
he, "behold here the weakness and fragility of man; look backward a few
days, thy father was great and happy, fresh as the vernal rose, and
strong as the cedar of the mountain; the nations of Asia drank his dews,
and art and commerce delighted in his shade. Malevolence beheld me, and
sighed: 'His root,' she cried, 'is fixed in the depths; it is watered by
the fountains of Oxus; it sends out branches afar, and bids defiance to
the blast; prudence reclines against his trunk, and prosperity dances on
his top.' Now, Almamoulin, look upon me withering and prostrate; look
upon me, and attend. I have trafficked, I have prospered, I have rioted
in gain; my house is splendid, my servants are numerous; yet I displayed
only a small part of my riches; the rest, which I was hindered from
enjoying by the fear of raising envy, or tempting rapacity, I have piled
in towers, I have buried in caverns, I have hidden in secret
repositories, which this scroll will discover. My purpose was, after ten
months more spent in commerce, to have withdrawn my wealth to a safer
country; to have given seven years to delight and festivity, and the
remaining part of my days to solitude and repentance; but the hand of
death is upon me; a frigorifick torpor encroaches upon my veins; I am
now leaving the produce of my toil, which it must be thy business to
enjoy with wisdom." The thought of leaving his wealth filled Nouradin
with such grief, that he fell into convulsions, became delirious, and
expired.

Almamoulin, who loved his father, was touched a while with honest
sorrow, and sat two hours in profound meditation, without perusing the
paper which he held in his hand. He then retired to his own chamber, as
overborne with affliction, and there read the inventory of his new
possessions, which swelled his heart with such transports, that he no
longer lamented his father's death. He was now sufficiently composed to
order a funeral of modest magnificence, suitable at once to the rank of
Nouradin's profession, and the reputation of his wealth. The two next
nights he spent in visiting the tower and the caverns, and found the
treasures greater to his eye than to his imagination.

Almamoulin had been bred to the practice of exact frugality, and had
often looked with envy on the finery and expenses of other young men: he
therefore believed, that happiness was now in his power, since he could
obtain all of which he had hitherto been accustomed to regret the want.
He resolved to give a loose to his desires, to revel in enjoyment, and
feel pain or uneasiness no more.

He immediately procured a splendid equipage, dressed his servants in
rich embroidery, and covered his horses with golden caparisons. He
showered down silver on the populace, and suffered their acclamations to
swell him with insolence. The nobles saw him with anger, the wise men of
the state combined against him, the leaders of armies threatened his
destruction. Almamoulin was informed of his danger: he put on the robe
of mourning in the presence of his enemies, and appeased them with gold,
and gems, and supplication.

He then sought to strengthen himself by an alliance with the princes of
Tartary, and offered the price of kingdoms for a wife of noble birth.
His suit was generally rejected, and his presents refused; but the
princess of Astracan once condescended to admit him to her presence. She
received him, sitting on a throne, attired in the robe of royalty, and
shining with the jewels of Golconda; command sparkled in her eyes, and
dignity towered on her forehead. Almamoulin approached and trembled. She
saw his confusion and disdained him: "How," says she, "dares the wretch
hope my obedience, who thus shrinks at my glance? Retire, and enjoy thy
riches in sordid ostentation; thou wast born to be wealthy, but never
canst be great."

He then contracted his desires to more private and domestick pleasures.
He built palaces, he laid out gardens[d], he changed the face of the
land, he transplanted forests, he levelled mountains, opened prospects
into distant regions, poured fountains from the tops of turrets, and
rolled rivers through new channels.

These amusements pleased him for a time; but languor and weariness soon
invaded him. His bowers lost their fragrance, and the waters murmured
without notice. He purchased large tracts of land in distant provinces,
adorned them with houses of pleasure, and diversified them with
accommodations for different seasons. Change of place at first relieved
his satiety, but all the novelties of situation were soon exhausted; he
found his heart vacant, and his desires, for want of external objects,
ravaging himself.

He therefore returned to Samarcand, and set open his doors to those whom
idleness sends out in search of pleasure. His tables were always covered
with delicacies; wines of every vintage sparkled in his bowls, and his
lamps scattered perfumes. The sound of the lute, and the voice of the
singer, chased away sadness; every hour was crowded with pleasure; and
the day ended and began with feasts and dances, and revelry and
merriment. Almamoulin cried out, "I have at last found the use of
riches; I am surrounded by companions, who view my greatness without
envy; and I enjoy at once the raptures of popularity, and the safety of
an obscure station. What trouble can he feel, whom all are studious to
please, that they may be repaid with pleasure? What danger can he dread,
to whom every man is a friend?"

Such were the thoughts of Almamoulin, as he looked down from a gallery
upon the gay assembly regaling at his expense; but, in the midst of this
soliloquy, an officer of justice entered the house, and in the form of
legal citation, summoned Almamoulin to appear before the emperor. The
guests stood awhile aghast, then stole imperceptibly away, and he was
led off without a single voice to witness his integrity. He now found
one of his most frequent visitants accusing him of treason, in hopes of
sharing his confiscation; yet, unpatronized and unsupported, he cleared
himself by the openness of innocence, and the consistence of truth; he
was dismissed with honour, and his accuser perished in prison.

Almamoulin now perceived with how little reason he had hoped for justice
or fidelity from those who live only to gratify their senses; and, being
now weary with vain experiments upon life and fruitless researches after
felicity, he had recourse to a sage, who, after spending his youth in
travel and observation, had retired from all human cares, to a small
habitation on the banks of Oxus, where he conversed only with such as
solicited his counsel. "Brother," said the philosopher, "thou hast
suffered thy reason to be deluded by idle hopes, and fallacious
appearances. Having long looked with desire upon riches, thou hadst
taught thyself to think them more valuable than nature designed them,
and to expect from them, what experience has now taught thee, that they
cannot give. That they do not confer wisdom, thou mayest be convinced,
by considering at how dear a price they tempted thee, upon thy first
entrance into the world, to purchase the empty sound of vulgar
acclamation. That they cannot bestow fortitude or magnanimity, that man
may be certain, who stood trembling at Astracan, before a being not
naturally superior to himself. That they will not supply unexhausted
pleasure, the recollection of forsaken palaces, and neglected gardens,
will easily inform thee. That they rarely purchase friends, thou didst
soon discover, when thou wert left to stand thy trial uncountenanced and
alone. Yet think not riches useless; there are purposes to which a wise
man may be delighted to apply them; they may, by a rational distribution
to those who want them, ease the pains of helpless disease, still the
throbs of restless anxiety, relieve innocence from oppression, and raise
imbecility to cheerfulness and vigour. This they will enable thee to
perform, and this will afford the only happiness ordained for our
present state, the confidence of Divine favour, and the hope of future
rewards."

[Footnote d: See Vathek.]



No. 121. TUESDAY, MAY 14, 1751.

  O imitatores, servum pecus! Hor. Lib. i. Ep. xix. 19.

  Away, ye imitators, servile herd! ELPHINSTON.

I have been informed by a letter from one of the universities, that
among the youth from whom the next swarm of reasoners is to learn
philosophy, and the next flight of beauties to hear elegies and sonnets,
there are many, who, instead of endeavouring by books and meditation to
form their own opinions, content themselves with the secondary
knowledge, which a convenient bench in a coffee-house can supply; and
without any examination or distinction, adopt the criticisms and
remarks, which happen to drop from those who have risen, by merit or
fortune, to reputation and authority.

These humble retailers of knowledge my correspondent stigmatises with
the name of Echoes; and seems desirous that they should be made ashamed
of lazy submission, and animated to attempts after new discoveries and
original sentiments.

It is very natural for young men to be vehement, acrimonious, and
severe. For, as they seldom comprehend at once all the consequences of a
position, or perceive the difficulties by which cooler and more
experienced reasoners are restrained from confidence, they form their
conclusions with great precipitance. Seeing nothing that can darken or
embarrass the question, they expect to find their own opinion
universally prevalent, and are inclined to impute uncertainty and
hesitation to want of honesty, rather than of knowledge. I may, perhaps,
therefore, be reproached by my lively correspondent, when it shall be
found, that I have no inclination to persecute these collectors of
fortuitous knowledge with the severity required; yet, as I am now too
old to be much pained by hasty censure, I shall not be afraid of taking
into protection those whom I think condemned without a sufficient
knowledge of their cause.

He that adopts the sentiments of another, whom he has reason to believe
wiser than himself, is only to be blamed when he claims the honours
which are not due but to the author, and endeavours to deceive the world
into praise and veneration; for, to learn, is the proper business of
youth; and whether we increase our knowledge by books or by
conversation, we are equally indebted to foreign assistance.

The greater part of students are not born with abilities to construct
systems, or advance knowledge; nor can have any hope beyond that of
becoming intelligent hearers in the schools of art, of being able to
comprehend what others discover, and to remember what others teach. Even
those to whom Providence hath allotted greater strength of
understanding, can expect only to improve a single science. In every
other part of learning, they must be content to follow opinions, which
they are not able to examine; and, even in that which they claim as
peculiarly their own, can seldom add more than some small particle of
knowledge, to the hereditary stock devolved to them from ancient times,
the collective labour of a thousand intellects.

In science, which, being fixed and limited, admits of no other variety
than such as arises from new methods of distribution, or new arts of
illustration, the necessity of following the traces of our predecessors
is indisputably evident; but there appears no reason, why imagination
should be subject to the same restraint. It might be conceived, that of
those who profess to forsake the narrow paths of truth, every one may
deviate towards a different point, since, though rectitude is uniform
and fixed, obliquity may be infinitely diversified. The roads of science
are narrow, so that they who travel them, must either follow or meet one
another; but in the boundless regions of possibility, which fiction
claims for her dominion, there are surely a thousand recesses
unexplored, a thousand flowers unplucked, a thousand fountains
unexhausted, combinations of imagery yet unobserved, and races of ideal
inhabitants not hitherto described.

Yet, whatever hope may persuade, or reason evince, experience can boast
of very few additions to ancient fable. The wars of Troy, and the
travels of Ulysses, have furnished almost all succeeding poets with
incidents, characters, and sentiments. The Romans are confessed to have
attempted little more than to display in their own tongue the inventions
of the Greeks. There is, in all their writings, such a perpetual
recurrence of allusions to the tales of the fabulous age, that they must
be confessed often to want that power of giving pleasure which novelty
supplies; nor can we wonder that they excelled so much in the graces of
diction, when we consider how rarely they were employed in search of new
thoughts.

The warmest admirers of the great Mantuan poet can extol him for little
more than the skill with which he has, by making his hero both a
traveller and a warrior, united the beauties of the Iliad and the
Odyssey in one composition: yet his judgment was perhaps sometimes
overborne by his avarice of the Homeric treasures; and, for fear of
suffering a sparkling ornament to be lost, he has inserted it where it
cannot shine with its original splendour.

When Ulysses visited the infernal regions, he found among the heroes
that perished at Troy, his competitor, Ajax, who, when the arms of
Achilles were adjudged to Ulysses, died by his own hand in the madness
of disappointment. He still appeared to resent, as on earth, his loss
and disgrace, Ulysses endeavoured to pacify him with praises and
submission; but Ajax walked away without reply. This passage has always
been considered as eminently beautiful; because Ajax, the haughty chief,
the unlettered soldier, of unshaken courage, of immovable constancy, but
without the power of recommending his own virtues by eloquence, or
enforcing his assertions by any other argument than the sword, had no
way of making his anger known, but by gloomy sullenness and dumb
ferocity. His hatred of a man whom he conceived to have defeated him
only by volubility of tongue, was therefore naturally shewn by silence
more contemptuous and piercing than any words that so rude an orator
could have found, and by which he gave his enemy no opportunity of
exerting the only power in which he was superior.

When Æneas is sent by Virgil to the shades, he meets Dido the queen of
Carthage, whom his perfidy had hurried to the grave; he accosts her with
tenderness and excuses; but the lady turns away like Ajax in mute
disdain. She turns away like Ajax; but she resembles him in none of
those qualities which give either dignity or propriety to silence. She
might, without any departure from the tenour of her conduct, have burst
out like other injured women into clamour, reproach, and denunciation;
but Virgil had his imagination full of Ajax, and therefore could not
prevail on himself to teach Dido any other mode of resentment.

If Virgil could be thus seduced by imitation, there will be little hope,
that common wits should escape; and accordingly we find, that besides
the universal and acknowledged practice of copying the ancients, there
has prevailed in every age a particular species of fiction. At one time
all truth was conveyed in allegory; at another, nothing was seen but in
a vision; at one period all the poets followed sheep, and every event
produced a pastoral; at another they busied themselves wholly in giving
directions to a painter.

It is indeed easy to conceive why any fashion should become popular, by
which idleness is favoured, and imbecility assisted; but surely no man
of genius can much applaud himself for repeating a tale with which the
audience is already tired, and which could bring no honour to any but
its inventor.

There are, I think, two schemes of writing, on which the laborious wits
of the present time employ their faculties. One is the adaptation of
sense to all the rhymes which our language can supply to some word, that
makes the burden of the stanza; but this, as it has been only used in a
kind of amorous burlesque, can scarcely be censured with much acrimony.
The other is the imitation of Spenser, which, by the influence of some
men of learning and genius, seems likely to gain upon the age, and
therefore deserves to be more attentively considered.

To imitate the fictions and sentiments of Spenser can incur no reproach,
for allegory is perhaps one of the most pleasing vehicles of
instruction. But I am very far from extending the same respect to his
diction or his stanza. His style was in his own time allowed to be
vicious, so darkened with old words and peculiarities of phrase, and so
remote from common use, that Jonson boldly pronounces him _to have
written no language_. His stanza is at once difficult and unpleasing;
tiresome to the ear by its uniformity, and to the attention by its
length. It was at first formed in imitation of the Italian poets,
without due regard to the genius of our language. The Italians have
little variety of termination, and were forced to contrive such a stanza
as might admit the greatest number of similar rhymes; but our words end
with so much diversity, that it is seldom convenient for us to bring
more than two of the same sound together. If it be justly observed by
Milton, that rhyme obliges poets to express their thoughts in improper
terms, these improprieties must always be multiplied, as the difficulty
of rhyme is increased by long concatenations.

The imitators of Spenser are indeed not very rigid censors of
themselves, for they seem to conclude, that when they have disfigured
their lines with a few obsolete syllables, they have accomplished their
design, without considering that they ought not only to admit old words,
but to avoid new. The laws of imitation are broken by every word
introduced since the time of Spenser, as the character of Hector is
violated by quoting Aristotle in the play. It would, indeed, be
difficult to exclude from a long poem all modern phrases, though it is
easy to sprinkle it with gleanings of antiquity. Perhaps, however, the
style of Spenser might by long labour be justly copied; but life is
surely given us for higher purposes than to gather what our ancestors
have wisely thrown away, and to learn what is of no value, but because
it has been forgotten.



No. 122. SATURDAY, MAY 18, 1751.

  Nescio qua natale solum dulcedine captos
  Ducit. OVID, Ex Pon. Lib. i. Ep. iii. 35.

  By secret charms our native land attracts.

Nothing is more subject to mistake and disappointment than anticipated
judgment concerning the easiness or difficulty of any undertaking,
whether we form our opinion from the performances of others, or from
abstracted contemplation of the thing to be attempted.

Whatever is done skilfully appears to be done with ease; and art, when
it is once matured to habit, vanishes from observation. We are therefore
more powerfully excited to emulation, by those who have attained the
highest degree of excellence, and whom we can therefore with least
reason hope to equal.

In adjusting the probability of success by a previous consideration of
the undertaking, we are equally in danger of deceiving ourselves. It is
never easy, nor often possible, to comprise the series of any process
with all its circumstances, incidents, and variations, in a speculative
scheme. Experience soon shows us the tortuosities of imaginary
rectitude, the complications of simplicity, and the asperities of
smoothness. Sudden difficulties often start up from the ambushes of art,
stop the career of activity, repress the gaiety of confidence, and when
we imagine ourselves almost at the end of our labours, drive us back to
new plans and different measures.

There are many things which we every day see others unable to perform,
and perhaps have even ourselves miscarried in attempting; and yet can
hardly allow to be difficult; nor can we forbear to wonder afresh at
every new failure, or to promise certainty of success to our next essay;
but when we try, the same hindrances recur, the same inability is
perceived, and the vexation of disappointment must again be suffered.

Of the various kinds of speaking or writing, which serve necessity, or
promote pleasure, none appears so artless or easy as simple narration;
for what should make him that knows the whole order and progress of an
affair unable to relate it? Yet we hourly find such as endeavour to
entertain or instruct us by recitals, clouding the facts which they
intend to illustrate, and losing themselves and their auditors in wilds
and mazes, in digression and confusion. When we have congratulated
ourselves upon a new opportunity of inquiry, and new means of
information, it often happens, that without designing either deceit or
concealment, without ignorance of the fact, or unwillingness to disclose
it, the relator fills the ear with empty sounds, harasses the attention
with fruitless impatience, and disturbs the imagination by a tumult of
events, without order of time, or train of consequence.

It is natural to believe, upon the same principle, that no writer has a
more easy task than the historian. The philosopher has the works of
omniscience to examine; and is therefore engaged in disquisitions, to
which finite intellects are utterly unequal. The poet trusts to his
invention, and is not only in danger of those inconsistencies, to which
every one is exposed by departure from truth; but may be censured as
well for deficiencies of matter, as for irregularity of disposition, or
impropriety of ornament. But the happy historian has no other labour
than of gathering what tradition pours down before him, or records
treasure for his use. He has only the actions and designs of men like
himself to conceive and to relate; he is not to form, but copy
characters, and therefore is not blamed for the inconsistency of
statesmen, the injustice of tyrants, or the cowardice of commanders. The
difficulty of making variety consistent, or uniting probability with
surprise, needs not to disturb him; the manners and actions of his
personages are already fixed; his materials are provided and put into
his hands, and he is at leisure to employ all his powers in arranging
and displaying them.

Yet, even with these advantages, very few in any age have been able to
raise themselves to reputation by writing histories; and among the
innumerable authors, who fill every nation with accounts of their
ancestors, or undertake to transmit to futurity the events of their own
time, the greater part, when fashion and novelty have ceased to
recommend them, are of no other use than chronological memorials, which
necessity may sometimes require to be consulted, but which fright away
curiosity, and disgust delicacy.

It is observed, that our nation, which has produced so many authors
eminent for almost every other species of literary excellence, has been
hitherto remarkably barren of historical genius; and so far has this
defect raised prejudices against us, that some have doubted whether an
Englishman can stop at that mediocrity of style, or confine his mind to
that even tenour of imagination, which narrative requires.

They who can believe that nature has so capriciously distributed
understanding, have surely no claim to the honour of serious
confutation. The inhabitants of the same country have opposite
characters in different ages; the prevalence or neglect of any
particular study can proceed only from the accidental influence of some
temporary cause; and if we have failed in history, we can have failed
only because history has not hitherto been diligently cultivated.

But how is it evident, that we have not historians among us, whom we may
venture to place in comparison with any that the neighbouring nations
can produce? The attempt of Raleigh is deservedly celebrated for the
labour of his researches, and the elegance of his style; but he has
endeavoured to exert his judgment more than his genius, to select facts,
rather than adorn them; and has produced an historical dissertation, but
seldom risen to the majesty of history.

The works of Clarendon deserve more regard. His diction is indeed
neither exact in itself, nor suited to the purpose of history. It is the
effusion of a mind crowded with ideas, and desirous of imparting them;
and therefore always accumulating words, and involving one clause and
sentence in another. But there is in his negligence a rude inartificial
majesty, which, without the nicety of laboured elegance, swells the mind
by its plenitude and diffusion. His narration is not perhaps
sufficiently rapid, being stopped too frequently by particularities,
which, though they might strike the author who was present at the
transactions, will not equally detain the attention of posterity. But
his ignorance or carelessness of the art of writing is amply compensated
by his knowledge of nature and of policy; the wisdom of his maxims, the
justness of his reasonings, and the variety, distinctness, and strength
of his characters.

But none of our writers can, in my opinion, justly contest the
superiority of Knolles, who, in his history of the Turks, has displayed
all the excellencies that narration can admit. His style, though
somewhat obscured by time, and sometimes vitiated by false wit, is pure,
nervous, elevated, and clear. A wonderful multiplicity of events is so
artfully arranged, and so distinctly explained, that each facilitates
the knowledge of the next. Whenever a new personage is introduced, the
reader is prepared by his character for his actions; when a nation is
first attacked, or city besieged, he is made acquainted with its
history, or situation; so that a great part of the world is brought into
view. The descriptions of this author are without minuteness, and the
digressions without ostentation. Collateral events are so artfully woven
into the contexture of his principal story, that they cannot be
disjoined without leaving it lacerated and broken. There is nothing
turgid in his dignity, nor superfluous in his copiousness. His orations
only, which he feigns, like the ancient historians, to have been
pronounced on remarkable occasions, are tedious and languid; and since
they are merely the voluntary sports of imagination, prove how much the
most judicious and skilful may be mistaken in the estimate of their own
powers.

Nothing could have sunk this author in obscurity, but the remoteness and
barbarity of the people, whose story he relates. It seldom happens, that
all circumstances concur to happiness or fame. The nation which produced
this great historian, has the grief of seeing his genius employed upon a
foreign and uninteresting subject; and that writer who might have
secured perpetuity to his name, by a history of his own country, has
exposed himself to the danger of oblivion, by recounting enterprises and
revolutions, of which none desire to be informed.


No. 123. TUESDAY, MAY 21, 1751.

  _Quo semet est imbuta recens, servabit odorem
  Testa din_.--HOR. Lib. i. Ep. ii. 69.

  What season'd first the vessel, keeps the taste. CREECH.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Though I have so long found myself deluded by projects of honour and
distinction, that I often resolve to admit them no more into my heart;
yet how determinately soever excluded, they always recover their
dominion by force or stratagem; and whenever, after the shortest
relaxation of vigilance, reason and caution return to their charge, they
find hope again in possession, with all her train of pleasures dancing
about her.

Even while I am preparing to write a history of disappointed
expectations, I cannot forbear to flatter myself, that you and your
readers are impatient for my performance; and that the sons of learning
have laid down several of your late papers with discontent, when they
found that Misocapelus had delayed to continue his narrative.

But the desire of gratifying the expectations that I have raised, is not
the only motive of this relation, which, having once promised it, I
think myself no longer at liberty to forbear. For, however I may have
wished to clear myself from every other adhesion of trade, I hope I
shall be always wise enough to retain my punctuality, and amidst all my
new arts of politeness, continue to despise negligence, and detest
falsehood.

When the death of my brother had dismissed me from the duties of a shop,
I considered myself as restored to the rights of my birth, and entitled
to the rank and reception which my ancestors obtained. I was, however,
embarrassed with many difficulties at my first re-entrance into the
world; for my haste to be a gentleman inclined me to precipitate
measures; and every accident that forced me back towards my old station,
was considered by me as an obstruction of my happiness.

It was with no common grief and indignation, that I found my former
companions still daring to claim my notice, and the journeymen and
apprentices sometimes pulling me by the sleeve as I was walking in the
street, and without any terrour of my new sword, which was,
notwithstanding, of an uncommon size, inviting me to partake of a bottle
at the old house, and entertaining me with histories of the girls in the
neighbourhood. I had always, in my officinal state, been kept in awe by
lace and embroidery; and imagined that, to fright away these unwelcome
familiarities, nothing was necessary, but that I should, by splendour of
dress, proclaim my re-union with a higher rank. I, therefore, sent for
my tailor; ordered a suit with twice the usual quantity of lace; and
that I might not let my persecutors increase their confidence, by the
habit of accosting me, staid at home till it was made.

This week of confinement I passed in practising a forbidding frown, a
smile of condescension, a slight salutation, and an abrupt departure;
and in four mornings was able to turn upon my heel, with so much levity
and sprightliness, that I made no doubt of discouraging all publick
attempts upon my dignity. I therefore issued forth in my new coat, with
a resolution of dazzling intimacy to a fitter distance; and pleased
myself with the timidity and reverence, which I should impress upon all
who had hitherto presumed to harass me with their freedoms. But,
whatever was the cause, I did not find myself received with any new
degree of respect; those whom I intended to drive from me, ventured to
advance with their usual phrases of benevolence; and those whose
acquaintance I solicited, grew more supercilious and reserved. I began
soon to repent the expense, by which I had procured no advantage, and to
suspect that a shining dress, like a weighty weapon, has no force in
itself, but owes all its efficacy to him that wears it.

Many were the mortifications and calamities which I was condemned to
suffer in my initiation to politeness. I was so much tortured by the
incessant civilities of my companions, that I never passed through that
region of the city but in a chair with the curtains drawn; and at last
left my lodgings, and fixed myself in the verge of the court. Here I
endeavoured to be thought a gentleman just returned from his travels,
and was pleased to have my landlord believe that I was in some danger
from importunate creditors; but this scheme was quickly defeated by a
formal deputation sent to offer me, though I had now retired from
business, the freedom of my company.

I was now detected in trade, and therefore resolved to stay no longer. I
hired another apartment, and changed my servants. Here I lived very
happily for three months, and, with secret satisfaction, often overheard
the family celebrating the greatness and felicity of the esquire; though
the conversation seldom ended without some complaint of my covetousness,
or some remark upon my language, or my gait. I now began to venture in
the publick walks, and to know the faces of nobles and beauties; but
could not observe, without wonder, as I passed by them, how frequently
they were talking of a tailor. I longed, however, to be admitted to
conversation, and was somewhat weary of walking in crowds without a
companion, yet continued to come and go with the rest, till a lady whom
I endeavoured to protect in a crowded passage, as she was about to step
into her chariot, thanked me for my civility, and told me, that, as she
had often distinguished me for my modest and respectful behaviour,
whenever I set up for myself, I might expect to see her among my first
customers.

Here was an end of all my ambulatory projects. I indeed sometimes
entered the walks again, but was always blasted by this destructive
lady, whose mischievous generosity recommended me to her acquaintance.
Being therefore forced to practise my adscititious character upon
another stage, I betook myself to a coffee-house frequented by wits,
among whom I learned in a short time the cant of criticism, and talked
so loudly and volubly of nature, and manners, and sentiment, and
diction, and similies, and contrasts, and action, and pronunciation,
that I was often desired to lead the hiss and clap, and was feared and
hated by the players and the poets. Many a sentence have I hissed, which
I did not understand, and many a groan have I uttered, when the ladies
were weeping in the boxes. At last a malignant author, whose performance
I had persecuted through the nine nights, wrote an epigram upon Tape the
critick, which drove me from the pit for ever.

My desire to be a fine gentleman still continued: I therefore, after a
short suspense, chose a new set of friends at the gaming-table, and was
for some time pleased with the civility and openness with which I found
myself treated. I was indeed obliged to play; but being naturally
timorous and vigilant, was never surprised into large sums. What might
have been the consequence of long familiarity with these plunderers, I
had not an opportunity of knowing; for one night the constables entered
and seized us, and I was once more compelled to sink into my former
condition, by sending for my old master to attest my character.

When I was deliberating to what new qualifications I should aspire, I
was summoned into the country, by an account of my father's death. Here
I had hopes of being able to distinguish myself, and to support the
honour of my family. I therefore bought guns and horses, and, contrary
to the expectation of the tenants, increased the salary of the huntsman.
But when I entered the field, it was soon discovered, that I was not
destined to the glories of the chase. I was afraid of thorns in the
thicket, and of dirt in the marsh; I shivered on the brink of a river
while the sportsmen crossed it, and trembled at the sight of a five-bar
gate. When the sport and danger were over, I was still equally
disconcerted; for I was effeminate, though not delicate, and could only
join a feeble whispering voice in the clamours of their triumph.

A fall, by which my ribs were broken, soon recalled me to domestick
pleasures, and I exerted all my art to obtain the favour of the
neighbouring ladies; but wherever I came, there was always some unlucky
conversation upon ribands, fillets, pins, or thread, which drove all my
stock of compliments out of my memory, and overwhelmed me with shame and
dejection.

Thus I passed the ten first years after the death of my brother, in
which I have learned at last to repress that ambition, which I could
never gratify; and, instead of wasting more of my life in vain
endeavours after accomplishments, which, if not early acquired, no
endeavours can obtain, I shall confine my care to those higher
excellencies which are in every man's power, and though I cannot enchant
affection by elegance and ease, hope to secure esteem by honesty and
truth.

I am, &c.

MISOCAPELUS.



No. 124. SATURDAY, MAY 25, 1751.

  --Taciturn sylvas inter reptare salubres,
  Curantem quicquid dignim sapiente bonoque est?
  HOR. Lib. i. Ep. iv. 4.

  To range in silence through each healthful wood,
  And muse what's worthy of the wise and good. ELPHINSTON.

The season of the year is now come, in which the theatres are shut, and
the card-tables forsaken; the regions of luxury are for a while
unpeopled, and pleasure leads out her votaries to groves and gardens, to
still scenes and erratick gratifications. Those who have passed many
months in a continual tumult of diversion; who have never opened their
eyes in the morning, but upon some new appointment; nor slept at night
without a dream of dances, musick, and good hands, or of soft sighs and
humble supplications; must now retire to distant provinces, where the
syrens of flattery are scarcely to be heard, where beauty sparkles
without praise or envy, and wit is repeated only by the echo.

As I think it one of the most important duties of social benevolence to
give warning of the approach of calamity, when by timely prevention it
may be turned aside, or by preparatory measures be more easily endured,
I cannot feel the increasing warmth, or observe the lengthening days,
without considering the condition of my fair readers, who are now
preparing to leave all that has so long filled up their hours, all from
which they have been accustomed to hope for delight; and who, till
fashion proclaims the liberty of returning to the seats of mirth and
elegance, must endure the rugged 'squire, the sober housewife, the loud
huntsman, or the formal parson, the roar of obstreperous jollity, or the
dulness of prudential instruction; without any retreat, but to the gloom
of solitude, where they will yet find greater inconveniencies, and must
learn, however unwillingly, to endure themselves.

In winter, the life of the polite and gay may be said to roll on with a
strong and rapid current; they float along from pleasure to pleasure,
without the trouble of regulating their own motions, and pursue the
course of the stream in all the felicity of inattention; content that
they find themselves in progression, and careless whither they are
going. But the months of summer are a kind of sleeping stagnation
without wind or tide, where they are left to force themselves forward by
their own labour, and to direct their passage by their own skill; and
where, if they have not some internal principle of activity, they must
be stranded upon shallows, or lie torpid in a perpetual calm.

There are, indeed, some to whom this universal dissolution of gay
societies affords a welcome opportunity of quitting, without disgrace,
the post which they have found themselves unable to maintain; and of
seeming to retreat only at the call of nature, from assemblies where,
after a short triumph of uncontested superiority, they are overpowered
by some new intruder of softer elegance or sprightlier vivacity. By
these, hopeless of victory, and yet ashamed to confess a conquest, the
summer is regarded as a release from the fatiguing service of celebrity,
a dismission to more certain joys and a safer empire. They now solace
themselves with the influence which they shall obtain, where they have
no rival to fear; and with the lustre which they shall effuse, when
nothing can be seen of brighter splendour. They imagine, while they are
preparing for their journey, the admiration with which the rusticks will
crowd about them; plan the laws of a new assembly; or contrive to delude
provincial ignorance with a fictitious mode. A thousand pleasing
expectations swarm in the fancy; and all the approaching weeks are
filled with distinctions, honours, and authority.

But others, who have lately entered the world, or have yet had no proofs
of its inconstancy and desertion, are cut off, by this cruel
interruption, from the enjoyment of their prerogatives, and doomed to
lose four months in inactive obscurity. Many complaints do vexation and
desire extort from those exiled tyrants of the town, against the
inexorable sun, who pursues his course without any regard to love or
beauty; and visits either tropick at the stated time, whether shunned or
courted, deprecated or implored.

To them who leave the places of publick resort in the full bloom of
reputation, and withdraw from admiration, courtship, submission, and
applause, a rural triumph can give nothing equivalent. The praise of
ignorance, and the subjection of weakness, are little regarded by
beauties who have been accustomed to more important conquests, and more
valuable panegyricks. Nor indeed should the powers which have made
havock in the theatres, or borne down rivalry in courts, be degraded to
a mean attack upon the untravelled heir, or ignoble contest with the
ruddy milkmaid.

How then must four long months be worn away? Four months, in which there
will be no routes, no shows, no ridottos; in which visits must be
regulated by the weather, and assemblies will depend upon the moon! The
Platonists imagine, that the future punishment of those who have in this
life debased their reason by subjection to their senses, and have
preferred the gross gratifications of lewdness and luxury, to the pure
and sublime felicity of virtue and contemplation, will arise from the
predominance and solicitations of the same appetites, in a state which
can furnish no means of appeasing them. I cannot but suspect that this
month, bright with sunshine, and fragrant with perfumes; this month,
which covers the meadow with verdure, and decks the gardens with all the
mixtures of colorifick radiance; this month, from which the man of fancy
expects new infusions of imagery, and the naturalist new scenes of
observation; this month will chain down multitudes to the Platonick
penance of desire without enjoyment, and hurry them from the highest
satisfactions, which they have yet learned to conceive, into a state of
hopeless wishes and pining recollection, where the eye of vanity will
look round for admiration to no purpose, and the hand of avarice shuffle
cards in a bower with ineffectual dexterity.

From the tediousness of this melancholy suspension of life, I would
willingly preserve those who are exposed to it, only by inexperience;
who want not inclination to wisdom or virtue, though they have been
dissipated by negligence, or misled by example; and who would gladly
find the way to rational happiness, though it should be necessary to
struggle with habit, and abandon fashion. To these many arts of spending
time might be recommended, which would neither sadden the present hour
with weariness, nor the future with repentance.

It would seem impossible to a solitary speculatist, that a human being
can want employment. To be born in ignorance with a capacity of
knowledge, and to be placed in the midst of a world filled with variety,
perpetually pressing upon the senses and irritating curiosity, is surely
a sufficient security against the languishment of inattention. Novelty
is indeed necessary to preserve eagerness and alacrity; but art and
nature have stores inexhaustible by human intellects; and every moment
produces something new to him, who has quickened his faculties by
diligent observation.

Some studies, for which the country and the summer afford peculiar
opportunities, I shall perhaps endeavour to recommend in a future essay;
but if there be any apprehension not apt to admit unaccustomed ideas, or
any attention so stubborn and inflexible, as not easily to comply with
new directions, even these obstructions cannot exclude the pleasure of
application; for there is a higher and nobler employment, to which all
faculties are adapted by Him who gave them. The duties of religion,
sincerely and regularly performed, will always be sufficient to exalt
the meanest, and to exercise the highest understanding. That mind will
never be vacant, which is frequently recalled by stated duties to
meditations on eternal interests; nor can any hour be long, which is
spent in obtaining some new qualification for celestial happiness.



No. 125. TUESDAY, MAY 28, 1751.

  _Descriptas servare vices, operumque colores,
  Cur ego, si nequeo ignoroque, poëta salutor?_ HOR. De Ar. Poet. 86.

  But if, through weakness, or my want of art,
  I can't to every different style impart
  The proper strokes and colours it may claim,
  Why am I honour'd with a poet's name? FRANCIS.

It is one of the maxims of the civil law, that _definitions are
hazardous_. Things modified by human understandings, subject to
varieties of complication, and changeable as experience advances
knowledge, or accident influences caprice, are scarcely to be included
in any standing form of expression, because they are always suffering
some alteration of their state. Definition is, indeed, not the province
of man; every thing is set above or below our faculties. The works and
operations of nature are too great in their extent, or too much diffused
in their relations, and the performances of art too inconstant and
uncertain, to be reduced to any determinate idea. It is impossible to
impress upon our minds an adequate and just representation of an object
so great that we can never take it into our view, or so mutable that it
is always changing under our eye, and has already lost its form while we
are labouring to conceive it.

Definitions have been no less difficult or uncertain in criticisms than
in law. Imagination, a licentious and vagrant faculty, unsusceptible of
limitations, and impatient of restraint, has always endeavoured to
baffle the logician, to perplex the confines of distinction, and burst
the inclosures of regularity. There is therefore scarcely any species of
writing, of which we can tell what is its essence, and what are its
constituents; every new genius produces some innovation, which, when
invented and approved, subverts the rules which the practice of
foregoing authors had established.

Comedy has been particularly unpropitious to definers; for though
perhaps they might properly have contented themselves, with declaring it
to be _such a dramatick representation of human life, as may excite
mirth_, they have embarrassed their definition with the means by which
the comick writers attain their end, without considering that the
various methods of exhilarating their audience, not being limited by
nature, cannot be comprised in precept. Thus, some make comedy a
representation of mean and others of bad men; some think that its
essence consists in the unimportance, others in the fictitiousness of
the transaction. But any man's reflections will inform him, that every
dramatick composition which raises mirth, is comick; and that, to raise
mirth, it is by no means universally necessary, that the personages
should be either mean or corrupt, nor always requisite, that the action
should be trivial, nor ever, that it should be fictitious.

If the two kinds of dramatick poetry had been defined only by their
effects upon the mind, some absurdities might have been prevented, with
which the compositions of our greatest poets are disgraced, who, for
want of some settled ideas and accurate distinctions, have unhappily
confounded tragick with comick sentiments. They seem to have thought,
that as the meanest of personages constituted comedy, their greatness
was sufficient to form a tragedy; and that nothing was necessary but
that they should crowd the scene with monarchs, and generals, and
guards; and make them talk, at certain intervals, of the downfall of
kingdoms, and the rout of armies. They have not considered, that
thoughts or incidents, in themselves ridiculous, grow still more
grotesque by the solemnity of such characters; that reason and nature
are uniform and inflexible: and that what is despicable and absurd, will
not, by any association with splendid titles, become rational or great;
that the most important affairs, by an intermixture of an unseasonable
levity, may be made contemptible; and that the robes of royalty can give
no dignity to nonsense or to folly.

"Comedy," says Horace, "sometimes raises her voice;" and Tragedy may
likewise on proper occasions abate her dignity; but as the comick
personages can only depart from their familiarity of style, when the
more violent passions are put in motion, the heroes and queens of
tragedy should never descend to trifle, but in the hours of ease, and
intermissions of danger. Yet in the tragedy of Don Sebastian, when the
king of Portugal is in the hands of his enemy, and having just drawn the
lot, by which he is condemned to die, breaks out into a wild boast that
his dust shall take possession of Africk, the dialogue proceeds thus
between the captive and his conqueror:

  _Muley Moluch_. What shall I do to conquer thee?

  _Seb_. Impossible!
  Souls know no conquerors.

  _M. Mol_. I'll shew thee for a monster thro' my Afric.

  _Seb_. No, thou canst only shew me for a man:
  Afric is stored with monsters; man's a prodigy
  Thy subjects have not seen.

  _M. Mol_. Thou talk'st as if
  Still at the head of battle.

  _Seb_. Thou mistak'st,
  For there I would not talk.

  _Benducar, the Minister_. Sure he would sleep.
 This conversation, with the sly remark of the minister, can only be
found not to be comick, because it wants the probability necessary to
representations of common life, and degenerates too much towards
buffoonery and farce.

The same play affords a smart return of the general to to the emperor,
who, enforcing his orders for the death of Sebastian, vents his
impatience in this abrupt threat:

  --No more replies,
  But see thou dost it: Or--

To which Dorax answers,

  Choak in that threat: I can say Or as loud.

A thousand instances of such impropriety might be produced, were not one
scene in Aureng-Zebe sufficient to exemplify it. Indamora, a captive
queen, having Aureng-Zebe for her lover, employs Arimant, to whose
charge she had been entrusted, and whom she had made sensible of her
charms, to carry her message to his rival.

  ARIMANT, _with a letter in his hand_: INDAMORA.

  _Arim_. And I the messenger to him from you?
  Your empire you to tyranny pursue:
  You lay commands both cruel and unjust,
  To serve my rival, and betray my trust.

  _Ind_. You first betray'd your trust in loving me:
  And should not I my own advantage see?
  Serving my love, you may my friendship gain;
  You know the rest of your pretences vain.
  You must, my Arimant, you must be kind:
  'Tis in your nature, and your noble mind.

  _Arim_. I'll to the king, and straight my trust resign.

  _Ind_. His trust you may, but you shall never mine.
  Heaven made you love me for no other end,
  But to become my confidant and friend:
  As such, I keep no secret from your sight,
  And therefore make you judge how ill I write:
  Read it, and tell me freely then your mind,
  If 'tis indited, as I meant it, kind.

  Arim. _I ask not heaven my freedom to restore_--[Reading.
  _But only for your sake_--I'll read no more.
  And yet I must--
  _Less for my own, than for your sorrow sad_--[Reading.
  Another line like this, would make me mad--
  Heav'n! she goes on--yet more--and yet more kind!
                                                  [--_As reading_.
  Each sentence is a dagger to my mind.
  _See me this night_--[Reading.
  _Thank fortune who did such a friend provide;
  For faithful Arimant shall be your guide_.
  Not only to be made an instrument,
  But pre-engaged without my own consent!

  _Ind_. Unknown to engage you still augments my score,
  And gives you scope of meriting the more.

  _Arim_. The best of men
  Some int'rest in their actions must confess;
  None merit, but in hope they may possess:
  The fatal paper rather let me tear,
  Than, like Bellerophon, my own sentence hear.

  _Ind_. You may; but 'twill not be your best advice:
  'Twill only give me pains of writing twice.
  You know you must obey me, soon or late:
  Why should you vainly struggle with your fate?

  _Arim_. I thank thee, heav'n! thou hast been wondrous kind!
  Why am I thus to slavery design'd,
  And yet am cheated with a free-born mind!
  Or make thy orders with my reason suit,
  Or let me live by sense, a glorious brute--[_She frowns_.
  You frown, and I obey with speed, before
  That dreadful sentence comes, _See me no more_.

In this scene, every circumstance concurs to turn tragedy to farce. The
wild absurdity of the expedient; the contemptible subjection of the
lover; the folly of obliging him to read the letter, only because it
ought to have been concealed from him; the frequent interruptions of
amorous impatience; the faint expostulations of a voluntary slave; the
imperious haughtiness of a tyrant without power; the deep reflection of
the yielding rebel upon fate and free-will; and his wise wish to lose
his reason as soon as he finds himself about to do what he cannot
persuade his reason to approve, are sufficient to awaken the most torpid
risibility.

There is scarce a tragedy of the last century which has not debased its
most important incidents, and polluted its most serious interlocutions,
with buffoonery and meanness; but though, perhaps, it cannot be
pretended that the present age has added much to the force and efficacy
of the drama, it has at least been able to escape many faults, which
either ignorance had overlooked, or indulgence had licensed. The later
tragedies, indeed, have faults of another kind, perhaps more destructive
to delight, though less open to censure. That perpetual tumour of phrase
with which every thought is now expressed by every personage, the
paucity of adventures which regularity admits, and the unvaried equality
of flowing dialogue, has taken away from our present writers almost all
that dominion over the passions which was the boast of their
predecessors. Yet they may at least claim this commendation, that they
avoid gross faults, and that if they cannot often move terrour or pity,
they are always careful not to provoke laughter.



No. 126. SATURDAY, JUNE 1, 1751.

  _--Nihil est aliud magnum quam multa minuta_.    VET. AUCT.

  Sands form the mountain, moments make the year.       YOUNG.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Among other topicks of conversation which your papers supply, I was
lately engaged in a discussion of the character given by Tranquilla of
her lover Venustulus, whom, notwithstanding the severity of his
mistress, the greater number seemed inclined to acquit of unmanly or
culpable timidity.

One of the company remarked that prudence ought to be distinguished from
fear; and that if Venustulus was afraid of nocturnal adventures, no man
who considered how much every avenue of the town was infested with
robbers could think him blameable; for why should life be hazarded
without prospect of honour or advantage? Another was of opinion, that a
brave man might be afraid of crossing the river in the calmest weather,
and declared, that, for his part, while there were coaches and a bridge,
he would never be seen tottering in a wooden case, out of which he might
be thrown by any irregular agitation, or which might be overset by
accident, or negligence, or by the force of a sudden gust, or the rush
of a larger vessel. It was his custom, he said, to keep the security of
daylight, and dry ground; for it was a maxim with him, that no wise man
ever perished by water, or was lost in the dark.

The next was humbly of opinion, that if Tranquilla had seen, like him,
the cattle run roaring about the meadows in the hot months, she would
not have thought meanly of her lover for not venturing his safety among
them. His neighbour then told us, that for his part he was not ashamed
to confess, that he could not see a rat, though it was dead, without
palpitation; that he had been driven six times out of his lodgings
either by rats or mice; and that he always had a bed in the closet for
his servant, whom he called up whenever the enemy was in motion. Another
wondered that any man should think himself disgraced by a precipitate
retreat from a dog; for there was always a possibility that a dog might
be mad; and that surely, though there was no danger but of being bit by
a fierce animal, there was more wisdom in flight than contest. By all
these declarations another was encouraged to confess, that if he had
been admitted to the honour of paying his addresses to Tranquilla, he
should have been likely to incur the same censure; for, among all the
animals upon which nature has impressed deformity and horrour, there is
none whom he durst not encounter rather than a beetle.

Thus, Sir, though cowardice is universally defined too close and anxious
an attention to personal safety, there will be found scarcely any fear,
however excessive in its degree, or unreasonable in its object, which
will be allowed to characterise a coward. Fear is a passion which every
man feels so frequently predominant in his own breast, that he is
unwilling to hear it censured with great asperity; and, perhaps, if we
confess the truth, the same restraint which would hinder a man from
declaiming against the frauds of any employment among those who profess
it, should withhold him from treating fear with contempt among human
beings.

Yet, since fortitude is one of those virtues which the condition of our
nature makes hourly necessary, I think you cannot better direct your
admonitions than against superfluous and panick terrours. Fear is
implanted in us as a preservative from evil; but its duty, like that of
other passions, is not to overbear reason, but to assist it; nor should
it be suffered to tyrannize in the imagination, to raise phantoms of
horrour, or beset life with supernumerary distresses.

To be always afraid of losing life is, indeed, scarcely to enjoy a life
that can deserve the care of preservation. He that once indulges idle
fears will never be at rest. Our present state admits only of a kind of
negative security; we must conclude ourselves safe when we see no
danger, or none inadequate to our powers of opposition. Death, indeed,
continually hovers about us, but hovers commonly unseen, unless we
sharpen our sight by useless curiosity.

There is always a point at which caution, however solicitous, must limit
its preservatives, because one terrour often counteracts another. I once
knew one of the speculatists of cowardice, whose reigning disturbance
was the dread of housebreakers. His inquiries were for nine years
employed upon the best method of barring a window, or a door; and many
an hour has he spent in establishing the preference of a bolt to a lock.
He had at last, by the daily superaddition of new expedients, contrived
a door which could never be forced; for one bar was secured by another
with such intricacy of subordination, that he was himself not always
able to disengage them in the proper method. He was happy in this
fortification, till being asked how he would escape if he was threatened
by fire, he discovered, that with all his care and expense, he had only
been assisting his own destruction. He then immediately tore off his
bolts, and now leaves at night his outer door half-locked, that he may
not by his own folly perish in the flames.

There is one species of terrour which those who are unwilling to suffer
the reproach of cowardice have wisely dignified with the name of
_antipathy_. A man who talks with intrepidity of the monsters of the
wilderness while they are out of sight, will readily confess his
antipathy to a mole, a weasel, or a frog. He has indeed no dread of harm
from an insect or a worm, but his antipathy turns him pale whenever they
approach him. He believes that a boat will transport him with as much
safety as his neighbours, but he cannot conquer his antipathy to the
water. Thus he goes on without any reproach from his own reflections,
and every day multiplies antipathies, till he becomes contemptible to
others, and burdensome to himself. It is indeed certain, that
impressions of dread may sometimes be unluckily made by objects not in
themselves justly formidable; but when fear is discovered to be
groundless, it is to be eradicated like other false opinions, and
antipathies are generally superable by a single effort. He that has been
taught to shudder at a mouse, if he can persuade himself to risk one
encounter, will find his own superiority, and exchange his terrours for
the pride of conquest.

I am, Sir, &c.

THRASO.

SIR, As you profess to extend your regard to the minuteness of decency,
as well as to the dignity of science, I cannot forbear to lay before you
a mode of persecution by which I have been exiled to taverns and
coffee-houses, and deterred from entering the doors of my friends. Among
the ladies who please themselves with splendid furniture, or elegant
entertainment, it is a practice very common, to ask every guest how he
likes the carved work of the cornice, or the figures of the tapestry;
the china at the table, or the plate on the side-board: and on all
occasions to inquire his opinion of their judgment and their choice.
Melania has laid her new watch in the window nineteen times, that she
may desire me to look upon it. Calista has an art of dropping her
snuff-box by drawing out her handkerchief, that when I pick it up I may
admire it; and Fulgentia has conducted me, by mistake, into the wrong
room, at every visit I have paid since her picture was put into a new
frame.

I hope, Mr. Rambler, you will inform them, that no man should be denied
the privilege of silence, or tortured to false declarations; and that
though ladies may justly claim to be exempt from rudeness, they have no
right to force unwilling civilities. To please is a laudable and elegant
ambition, and is properly rewarded with honest praise; but to seize
applause by violence, and call out for commendation, without knowing, or
caring to know, whether it be given from conviction, is a species of
tyranny by which modesty is oppressed, and sincerity corrupted. The
tribute of admiration, thus exacted by impudence and importunity,
differs from the respect paid to silent merit, as the plunder of a
pirate from the merchant's profit.

I am, &c.

MISOCOLAX



SIR,

Your great predecessor, the Spectator, endeavoured to diffuse among his
female readers a desire of knowledge; nor can I charge you, though you
do not seem equally attentive to the ladies, with endeavouring to
discourage them from any laudable pursuit. But however either he or you
may excite our curiosity, you have not yet informed us how it may be
gratified. The world seems to have formed an universal conspiracy
against our understandings; our questions are supposed not to expect
answers, our arguments are confuted with a jest, and we are treated like
beings who transgress the limits of our nature whenever we aspire to
seriousness or improvement.

I inquired yesterday of a gentleman eminent for astronomical skill, what
made the day long in summer, and short in winter; and was told that
nature protracted the days in summer, lest ladies should want time to
walk in the park; and the nights in winter, lest they should not have
hours sufficient to spend at the card-table.

I hope you do not doubt but I heard such information with just contempt,
and I desire you to discover to this great master of ridicule, that I
was far from wanting any intelligence which he could have given me. I
asked the question with no other intention than to set him free from the
necessity of silence, and give him an opportunity of mingling on equal
terms with a polite assembly, from which, however uneasy, he could not
then escape, by a kind introduction of the only subject on which I
believed him able to speak with propriety.

I am, &c.

GENEROSA.



No. 127. TUESDAY, JUNE 4, 1751.

  _Capisti meliust, quam desinis. Ultima primis
  Cedunt: dissimiles hic vir et ille puer_.    Ovid. Ep. ix. 24.

  Succeeding years thy early fame destroy;
  Thou, who began'st a man, wilt end a boy.

Politian, a name eminent among the restorers of polite literature, when
he published a collection of epigrams, prefixed to many of them the year
of his age at which they were composed. He might design, by this
information, either to boast the early maturity of his genius, or to
conciliate indulgence to the puerility of his performances. But whatever
was his intent, it is remarked by Scaliger, that he very little promoted
his own reputation, because he fell below the promise which his first
productions had given, and, in the latter part of his life, seldom
equalled the sallies of his youth.

It is not uncommon for those who, at their first entrance into the
world, were distinguished for attainments or abilities, to disappoint
the hopes which they had raised, and to end in neglect and obscurity
that life which they began in celebrity and honour. To the long
catalogue of the inconveniencies of old age, which moral and satirical
writers have so copiously displayed, may be often added the loss of
fame.

The advance of the human mind towards any object of laudable pursuit,
may be compared to the progress of a body driven by a blow. It moves,
for a time, with great velocity and vigour, but the force of the first
impulse is perpetually decreasing, and though it should encounter no
obstacle capable of quelling it by a sudden stop, the resistance of the
medium through which it passes, and the latent inequalities of the
smoothest surface, will, in a short time, by continued retardation,
wholly overpower it. Some hindrances will be found in every road of
life, but he that fixes his eyes upon any thing at a distance,
necessarily loses sight of all that fills up the intermediate space, and
therefore sets forward with alacrity and confidence, nor suspects a
thousand obstacles, by which he afterwards finds his passage embarrassed
and obstructed. Some are indeed stopt at once in their career by a
sudden shock of calamity, or diverted to a different direction by the
cross impulse of some violent passion; but far the greater part languish
by slow degrees, deviate at first into slight obliquities, and
themselves scarcely perceive at what time their ardour forsook them, or
when they lost sight of their original design.

Weariness and negligence are perpetually prevailing by silent
encroachments, assisted by different causes, and not observed till they
cannot, without great difficulty, be opposed. Labour necessarily
requires pauses of ease and relaxation, and the deliciousness of ease
commonly makes us unwilling to return to labour. We, perhaps, prevail
upon ourselves to renew our attempts, but eagerly listen to every
argument for frequent interpositions of amusement; for, when indolence
has once entered upon the mind, it can scarcely be dispossessed but by
such efforts as very few are willing to exert.

It is the fate of industry to be equally endangered by miscarriage and
success, by confidence and despondency. He that engages in a great
undertaking, with a false opinion of its facility, or too high
conceptions of his own strength, is easily discouraged by the first
hindrance of his advances, because he had promised himself an equal and
perpetual progression without impediment or disturbance; when unexpected
interruptions break in upon him, he is in the state of a man surprised
by a tempest, where he purposed only to bask in the calm, or sport in
the shallows.

It is not only common to find the difficulty of an enterprize greater,
but the profit less, than hope had pictured it. Youth enters the world
with very happy prejudices in her own favour. She imagines herself not
only certain of accomplishing every adventure, but of obtaining those
rewards which the accomplishment may deserve. She is not easily
persuaded to believe that the force of merit can be resisted by
obstinacy and avarice, or its lustre darkened by envy and malignity. She
has not yet learned that the most evident claims to praise or preferment
may be rejected by malice against conviction, or by indolence without
examination; that they may be sometimes defeated by artifices, and
sometimes overborne by clamour; that, in the mingled numbers of mankind,
many need no other provocation to enmity than that they find themselves
excelled; that others have ceased their curiosity, and consider every
man who fills the mouth of report with a new name, as an intruder upon
their retreat, and disturber of their repose; that some are engaged in
complications of interest which they imagine endangered by every
innovation; that many yield themselves up implicitly to every report
which hatred disseminates or folly scatters; and that whoever aspires to
the notice of the publick, has in almost every man an enemy and a rival;
and must struggle with the opposition of the daring, and elude the
stratagems of the timorous, must quicken the frigid and soften the
obdurate, must reclaim perverseness and inform stupidity.

It is no wonder that when the prospect of reward has vanished, the zeal
of enterprize should cease; for who would persevere to cultivate the
soil which he has, after long labour, discovered to be barren? He who
hath pleased himself with anticipated praises, and expected that he
should meet in every place with patronage or friendship, will soon remit
his vigour, when he finds that, from those who desire to be considered
as his admirers, nothing can be hoped but cold civility, and that many
refuse to own his excellence, lest they should be too justly expected to
reward it.

A man, thus cut off from the prospect of that port to which his address
and fortitude had been employed to steer him, often abandons himself to
chance and to the wind, and glides careless and idle down the current of
life, without resolution to make another effort, till he is swallowed up
by the gulph of mortality.

Others are betrayed to the same desertion of themselves by a contrary
fallacy. It was said of Hannibal, that he wanted nothing to the
completion of his martial virtues, but that when he had gained a victory
he should know how to use it. The folly of desisting too soon from
successful labours, and the haste of enjoying advantages before they are
secured, are often fatal to men of impetuous desire, to men whose
consciousness of uncommon powers fills them with presumption, and who,
having borne opposition down before them, and left emulation panting
behind, are early persuaded to imagine that they have reached the
heights of perfection, and that now, being no longer in danger from
competitors, they may pass the rest of their days in the enjoyment of
their acquisitions, in contemplation of their own superiority, and in
attention to their own praises, and look unconcerned from their eminence
upon the toils and contentions of meaner beings.

It is not sufficiently considered in the hour of exultation, that all
human excellence is comparative; that no man performs much but in
proportion to what others accomplish, or to the time and opportunities
which have been allowed him; and that he who stops at any point of
excellence is every day sinking in estimation, because his improvement
grows continually more incommensurate to his life. Yet, as no man
willingly quits opinions favourable to himself, they who have once been
justly celebrated, imagine that they still have the same pretensions to
regard, and seldom perceive the diminution of their character while
there is time to recover it. Nothing then remains but murmurs and
remorse; for if the spendthrift's poverty be embittered by the
reflection that he once was rich, how must the idler's obscurity be
clouded by remembering that he once had lustre!

These errours all arise from an original mistake of the true motives of
action. He that never extends his view beyond the praises or rewards of
men will be dejected by neglect and envy, or infatuated by honours and
applause. But the consideration that life is only deposited in his hands
to be employed in obedience to a Master who will regard his endeavours,
not his success, would have preserved him from trivial elations and
discouragements, and enabled him to proceed with constancy and
cheerfulness, neither enervated by commendation, nor intimidated by
censure.



No. 128. SATURDAY, JUNE 8, 1751.

  [Greek:
    Aion d asphalaes
  Ouk egent, out Aiakida para Paelei,
  Oute par antitheo
  Kadmo legontai man broton
  Olbon hupertaton hoi
  Schein.] PIND. Py. iii. 153.

  For not the brave, or wise, or great,
  E'er yet had happiness complete:
  Nor Peleus, grandson of the sky,
    Nor Cadmus, scap'd the shafts of pain,
  Though favour'd by the Pow'rs on high,
    With every bliss that man can gain.

The writers who have undertaken the task of reconciling mankind to their
present state, and relieving the discontent produced by the various
distribution of terrestrial advantages, frequently remind us that we
judge too hastily of good and evil, that we view only the superfices of
life, and determine of the whole by a very small part; and that in the
condition of men it frequently happens, that grief and anxiety lie hid
under the golden robes of prosperity, and the gloom of calamity is
cheered by secret radiations of hope and comfort; as in the works of
nature the bog is sometimes covered with flowers, and the mine concealed
in the barren crags.

None but those who have learned the art of subjecting their senses as
well as reason to hypothetical systems, can be persuaded by the most
specious rhetorician that the lots of life are equal; yet it cannot be
denied that every one has his peculiar pleasures and vexations, that
external accidents operate variously upon different minds, and that no
man can exactly judge from his own sensations, what another would feel
in the same circumstances.

If the general disposition of things be estimated by the representation
which every one makes of his own estate, the world must be considered as
the abode of sorrow and misery; for how few can forbear to relate their
troubles and distresses? If we judge by the account which may be
obtained of every man's fortune from others, it may be concluded, that
we all are placed in an elysian region, overspread with the luxuriance
of plenty, and fanned by the breezes of felicity; since scarcely any
complaint is uttered without censure from those that hear it, and almost
all are allowed to have obtained a provision at least adequate to their
virtue or their understanding, to possess either more than they deserve,
or more than they enjoy.

We are either born with such dissimilitude of temper and inclination, or
receive so many of our ideas and opinions from the state of life in
which we are engaged, that the griefs and cares of one part of mankind
seem to the other hypocrisy, folly, and affectation. Every class of
society has its cant of lamentation, which is understood or regarded by
none but themselves; and every part of life has its uneasiness, which
those who do not feel them will not commiserate. An event which spreads
distraction over half the commercial world, assembles the trading
companies in councils and committees, and shakes the nerves of a
thousand stockjobbers, is read by the landlord and the farmer with
frigid indifference. An affair of love, which fills the young breast
with incessant alternations of hope and fear, and steals away the night
and day from every other pleasure or employment, is regarded by them
whose passions time has extinguished, as an amusement, which can
properly raise neither joy nor sorrow, and, though it may be suffered to
fill the vacuity of an idle moment, should always give way to prudence
or interest.

He that never had any other desire than to fill a chest with money, or
to add another manor to his estate, who never grieved but at a bad
mortgage, or entered a company but to make a bargain, would be
astonished to hear of beings known among the polite and gay by the
denomination of wits. How would he gape with curiosity, or grin with
contempt, at the mention of beings who have no wish but to speak what
was never spoken before; who, if they happen to inherit wealth, often
exhaust their patrimonies in treating those who will hear them talk; and
if they are poor, neglect opportunities of improving their fortunes, for
the pleasure of making others laugh? How slowly would he believe that
there are men who would rather lose a legacy than the reputation of a
distich; who think it less disgrace to want money than repartee; whom
the vexation of having been foiled in a contest of raillery is sometimes
sufficient to deprive of sleep; and who would esteem it a lighter evil
to miss a profitable bargain by some accidental delay, than not to have
thought of a smart reply till the time of producing it was past? How
little would he suspect that this child of idleness and frolick enters
every assembly with a beating bosom, like a litigant on the day of
decision, and revolves the probability of applause with the anxiety of a
conspirator, whose fate depends upon the next night; that at the hour of
retirement he carries home, under a show of airy negligence, a heart
lacerated with envy, or depressed with disappointment; and immures
himself in his closet, that he may disencumber his memory at leisure,
review the progress of the day, state with accuracy his loss or gain of
reputation, and examine the causes of his failure or success?

Yet more remote from common conceptions are the numerous and restless
anxieties, by which female happiness is particularly disturbed. A
solitary philosopher would imagine ladies born with an exemption from
care and sorrow, lulled in perpetual quiet, and feasted with unmingled
pleasure; for what can interrupt the content of those, upon whom one age
has laboured after another to confer honours, and accumulate immunities;
those to whom rudeness is infamy, and insult is cowardice; whose eye
commands the brave, and whose smiles soften the severe; whom the sailor
travels to adorn, the soldier bleeds to defend, and the poet wears out
life to celebrate; who claim tribute from every art and science, and for
whom all who approach them endeavour to multiply delights, without
requiring from them any returns but willingness to be pleased?

Surely, among these favourites of nature, thus unacquainted with toil
and danger, felicity must have fixed her residence; they must know only
the changes of more vivid or more gentle joys: their life must always
move either to the slow or sprightly melody of the lyre of gladness;
they can never assemble but to pleasure, or retire but to peace.

Such would be the thoughts of every man who should hover at a distance
round the world, and know it only by conjecture and speculation. But
experience will soon discover how easily those are disgusted who have
been made nice by plenty and tender by indulgence. He will soon see to
how many dangers power is exposed which has no other guard than youth
and beauty, and how easily that tranquillity is molested which can only
be soothed with the songs of flattery. It is impossible to supply wants
as fast as an idle imagination may be able to form them, or to remove
all inconveniencies by which elegance refined into impatience may be
offended. None are so hard to please, as those whom satiety of pleasure
makes weary of themselves; nor any so readily provoked as those who have
been always courted with an emulation of civility.

There are, indeed, some strokes which the envy of fate aims immediately
at the fair. The mistress of Catullus wept for her sparrow many
centuries ago, and lapdogs will be sometimes sick in the present age.
The most fashionable brocade is subject to stains; a pinner, the pride
of Brussels, may be torn by a careless washer; a picture may drop from a
watch; or the triumph of a new suit may be interrupted on the first day
of its enjoyment, and all distinctions of dress unexpectedly obliterated
by a general mourning.

Such is the state of every age, every sex, and every condition: all have
their cares, either from nature or from folly: and whoever therefore
finds himself inclined to envy another, should remember that he knows
not the real condition which he desires to obtain, but is certain that
by indulging a vicious passion, he must lessen that happiness which he
thinks already too sparingly bestowed.



No. 129. TUESDAY, JUNE 11. 1751.

  _--Nunc, O nunc, Daedale, dixit,
    Materiam, qua sis ingeniosus, habes.
  Possidet en terras, et possidet aequara, Minos:
    Nec tellus nostrae, nec patet undo fugae.
  Restat iter coelo: tentabimus ire.
    Da veniam caepto, Jupiter alte, meo. OVID. Ar. Am. Lib. ii. 33_.

  Now, Daedalus, behold, by fate assign'd,
  A task proportion'd to thy mighty mind!
  Unconquer'd bars on earth and sea withstand;
  Thine, Minos, is the main, and thine the land.
  The skies are open--let us try the skies:
  Forgive, great Jove, the daring enterprize.

Moralists, like other writers, instead of casting their eyes abroad in
the living world, and endeavouring to form maxims of practice and new
hints of theory, content their curiosity with that secondary knowledge
which books afford, and think themselves entitled to reverence by a new
arrangement of an ancient system, or new illustration of established
principles[e]. The sage precepts of the first instructors of the world
are transmitted from age to age with little variation, and echoed from
one author to another, not perhaps without some loss of their original
force at every repercussion.

I know not whether any other reason than this idleness of imitation can
be assigned for that uniform and constant partiality, by which some
vices have hitherto escaped censure, and some virtues wanted
recommendation; nor can I discover why else we have been warned only
against part of our enemies, while the rest have been suffered to steal
upon us without notice; why the heart has on one side been doubly
fortified, and laid open on the other to the incursions of errour, and
the ravages of vice.

Among the favourite topicks of moral declamation, may be numbered the
miscarriages of imprudent boldness, and the folly of attempts beyond our
power. Every page of every philosopher is crowded with examples of
temerity that sunk under burdens which she laid upon herself, and called
out enemies to battle by whom she was destroyed.

Their remarks are too just to be disputed, and too salutary to be
rejected; but there is likewise some danger lest timorous prudence
should be inculcated, till courage and enterprise are wholly repressed,
and the mind congealed in perpetual inactivity by the fatal influence of
frigorifick wisdom.

Every man should, indeed, carefully compare his force with his
undertaking; for though we ought not to live only for our own sakes, and
though therefore danger or difficulty should not be avoided merely
because we may expose ourselves to misery or disgrace; yet it may be
justly required of us, not to throw away our lives upon inadequate and
hopeless designs, since we might, by a just estimate of our abilities,
become more useful to mankind.

There is an irrational contempt of danger, which approaches nearly to
the folly, if not the guilt of suicide; there is a ridiculous
perseverance in impracticable schemes, which is justly punished with
ignominy and reproach. But in the wide regions of probability, which are
the proper province of prudence and election, there is always room to
deviate on either side of rectitude without rushing against apparent
absurdity; and according to the inclinations of nature, or the
impressions of precept, the daring and the cautious may move in
different directions without touching upon rashness or cowardice.

That there is a middle path which it is every man's duty to find, and to
keep, is unanimously confessed: but it is likewise acknowledged that
this middle path is so narrow, that it cannot easily be discovered, and
so little beaten, that there are no certain marks by which it can be
followed: the care, therefore, of all those who conduct others has been,
that whenever they decline into obliquities, they should tend towards
the side of safety.

It can, indeed, raise no wonder that temerity has been generally
censured; for it is one of the vices with which few can be charged, and
which therefore, great numbers are ready to condemn. It is the vice of
noble and generous minds, the exuberance of magnanimity, and the
ebullition of genius; and is therefore not regarded with much
tenderness, because it never flatters us by that appearance of softness
and imbecility which is commonly necessary to conciliate compassion. But
if the same attention had been applied to the search of arguments
against the folly of pre-supposing impossibilities, and anticipating
frustration, I know not whether many would not have been roused to
usefulness, who, having been taught to confound prudence with timidity,
never ventured to excel, lest they should unfortunately fail.

It is necessary to distinguish our own interest from that of others, and
that distinction will perhaps assist us in fixing the just limits of
caution and adventurousness. In an undertaking that involves the
happiness or the safety of many, we have certainly no right to hazard
more than is allowed by those who partake the danger; but where only
ourselves can suffer by miscarriage, we are not confined within such
narrow limits; and still less is the reproach of temerity, when numbers
will receive advantage by success, and only one be incommoded by
failure.

Men are generally willing to hear precepts by which ease is favoured;
and as no resentment is raised by general representations of human
folly, even in those who are most eminently jealous of comparative
reputation, we confess, without reluctance, that vain man is ignorant of
his own weakness, and therefore frequently presumes to attempt what he
can never accomplish; but it ought likewise to be remembered, that man
is no less ignorant of his own powers, and might perhaps have
accomplished a thousand designs, which the prejudices of cowardice
restrained him from attempting.

It is observed in the golden verses of Pythagoras, that "Power is never
far from necessity." The vigour of the human mind quickly appears, when
there is no longer any place for doubt and hesitation, when diffidence
is absorbed in the sense of danger, or overwhelmed by some resistless
passion. We then soon discover, that difficulty is, for the most part,
the daughter of idleness, that the obstacles with which our way seemed
to be obstructed were only phantoms, which we believed real, because we
durst not advance to a close examination; and we learn that it is
impossible to determine without experience how much constancy may
endure, or perseverance perform.

But whatever pleasure may be found in the review of distresses when art
or courage has surmounted them, few will be persuaded to wish that they
may be awakened by want, or terrour, to the conviction of their own
abilities. Every one should therefore endeavour to invigorate himself by
reason and reflection, and determine to exert the latent force that
nature may have reposed in him, before the hour of exigence comes upon
him, and compulsion shall torture him to diligence. It is below the
dignity of a reasonable being to owe that strength to necessity which
ought always to act at the call of choice, or to need any other motive
to industry than the desire of performing his duty.

Reflections that may drive away despair, cannot be wanting to him who
considers how much life is now advanced beyond the state of naked,
undisciplined, uninstructed nature. Whatever has been effected for
convenience or elegance, while it was yet unknown, was believed
impossible; and therefore would never have been attempted, had not some,
more daring than the rest, adventured to bid defiance to prejudice and
censure. Nor is there yet any reason to doubt that the same labour would
be rewarded with the same success. There are qualities in the products
of nature yet undiscovered, and combinations in the powers of art yet
untried. It is the duty of every man to endeavour that something may be
added by his industry to the hereditary aggregate of knowledge and
happiness. To add much can indeed be the lot of few, but to add
something, however little, every one may hope; and of every honest
endeavour, it is certain, that, however unsuccessful, it will be at last
rewarded.

[Footnote e: Johnson gained _his_ knowledge from actual experience. He
told Boswell that before he wrote the Rambler he had been running about
the world more than almost any body. Boswell's Life of Johnson, vol. i.
p. 196.; and vol. iii. pp. 20, 21.]



No. 130. SATURDAY, JUNE 15, 1751.

  Non sic prata novo vere decentia
  Æstatis calidtæ dispoliat vapor:
  Sævit solstitio cum medius dies;--
  Ut fulgor teneris qui radiat genis
  Momento rapitur! nullaque non dies
  Formosi spolium corporis abstulit.
  Res est forma fugax: quis sapiens bono
  Confidat fragili? SENECA, Hippol. act. ii. 764.

  Not faster in the summer's ray
  The spring's frail beauty fades away,
  Than anguish and decay consume
  The smiling virgin's rosy bloom.
  Some beauty's snatch'd each day, each hour;
  For beauty is a fleeting flow'r:
  Then how can wisdom e'er confide
  In beauty's momentary pride? ELPHINSTON

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

You have very lately observed that in the numerous subdivisions of the
world, every class and order of mankind have joys and sorrows of their
own; we all feel hourly pain and pleasure from events which pass
unheeded before other eyes, but can scarcely communicate our perceptions
to minds pre-occupied by different objects, any more than the delight of
well-disposed colours or harmonious sounds can be imparted to such as
want the senses of hearing or of sight.

I am so strongly convinced of the justness of this remark, and have on
so many occasions discovered with how little attention pride looks upon
calamity of which she thinks herself not in danger, and indolence
listens to complaint when it is not echoed by her own remembrance, that
though I am about to lay the occurrences of my life before you, I
question whether you will condescend to peruse my narrative, or, without
the help of some female speculatists, to be able to understand it.

I was born a beauty. From the dawn of reason I had my regard turned
wholly upon myself, nor can recollect any thing earlier than praise and
admiration. My mother, whose face had luckily advanced her to a
condition above her birth, thought no evil so great as deformity. She
had not the power of imagining any other defect than a cloudy
complexion, or disproportionate features; and therefore contemplated me
as an assemblage of all that could raise envy or desire, and predicted
with triumphant fondness the extent of my conquests, and the number of
my slaves.

She never mentioned any of my young acquaintance before me, but to
remark how much they fell below my perfection; how one would have had a
fine face, but that her eyes were without lustre; how another struck the
sight at a distance, but wanted my hair and teeth at a nearer view;
another disgraced an elegant shape with a brown skin; some had short
fingers, and others dimples in a wrong place.

As she expected no happiness nor advantage but from beauty, she thought
nothing but beauty worthy of her care; and her maternal kindness was
chiefly exercised in contrivances to protect me from any accident that
might deface me with a scar, or stain me with a freckle: she never
thought me sufficiently shaded from the sun, or screened from the fire.
She was severe or indulgent with no other intention than the
preservation of my form; she excused me from work, lest I should learn
to hang down my head, or harden my finger with a needle; she snatched
away my book, because a young lady in the neighbourhood had made her
eyes red with reading by a candle; but she would scarcely suffer me to
eat, lest I should spoil my shape, nor to walk lest I should swell my
ancle with a sprain. At night I was accurately surveyed from head to
foot, lest I should have suffered any diminution of my charms in the
adventures of the day; and was never permitted to sleep, till I had
passed through the cosmetick discipline, part of which was a regular
lustration performed with bean-flower water and May-dews; my hair was
perfumed with variety of unguents, by some of which it was to be
thickened, and by others to be curled. The softness of my hands was
secured by medicated gloves, and my bosom rubbed with a pomade prepared
by my mother, of virtue to discuss pimples, and clear discolorations.

I was always called up early, because the morning air gives a freshness
to the cheeks; but I was placed behind a curtain in my mother's chamber,
because the neck is easily tanned by the rising sun. I was then dressed
with a thousand precautions, and again heard my own praises, and
triumphed in the compliments and prognostications of all that approached
me.

My mother was not so much prepossessed with an opinion of my natural
excellencies as not to think some cultivation necessary to their
completion. She took care that I should want none of the accomplishments
included in female education, or considered necessary in fashionable
life. I was looked upon in my ninth year as the chief ornament of the
dancing-master's ball; and Mr. Ariet used to reproach his other scholars
with my performances on the harpsichord. At twelve I was remarkable for
playing my cards with great elegance of manner, and accuracy of
judgment.

At last the time came when my mother thought me perfect in my exercises,
and qualified to display in the open world those accomplishments which
had yet only been discovered in select parties, or domestick assemblies.
Preparations were therefore made for my appearance on a publick night,
which she considered as the most important and critical moment of my
life. She cannot be charged with neglecting any means of recommendation,
or leaving any thing to chance which prudence could ascertain. Every
ornament was tried in every position, every friend was consulted about
the colour of my dress, and the mantua-makers were harassed with
directions and alterations.

At last the night arrived from which my future life was to be reckoned.
I was dressed and sent out to conquer, with a heart beating like that of
an old knight-errant at his first sally. Scholars have told me of a
Spartan matron, who, when she armed her son for battle, bade him bring
back his shield, or be brought upon it. My venerable parent dismissed me
to a field, in her opinion of equal glory, with a command to shew that I
was her daughter, and not to return without a lover.

I went, and was received like other pleasing novelties with a tumult of
applause. Every man who valued himself upon the graces of his person, or
the elegance of his address, crowded about me, and wit and splendour
contended for my notice. I was delightfully fatigued with incessant
civilities, which were made more pleasing by the apparent envy of those
whom my presence exposed to neglect, and returned with an attendant
equal in rank and wealth to my utmost wishes, and from this time stood
in the first rank of beauty, was followed by gazers in the Mall,
celebrated in the papers of the day, imitated by all who endeavoured to
rise into fashion, and censured by those whom age or disappointment
forced to retire.

My mother, who pleased herself with the hopes of seeing my exaltation,
dressed me with all the exuberance of finery; and when I represented to
her that a fortune might be expected proportionate to my appearance,
told me that she should scorn the reptile who could inquire after the
fortune of a girl like me. She advised me to prosecute my victories, and
time would certainly bring me a captive who might deserve the honour of
being enchained for ever.

My lovers were indeed so numerous, that I had no other care than that of
determining to whom I should seem to give the preference. But having
been steadily and industriously instructed to preserve my heart from any
impressions which might hinder me from consulting my interest, I acted
with less embarrassment, because my choice was regulated by principles
more clear and certain than the caprice of approbation. When I had
singled out one from the rest as more worthy of encouragement, I
proceeded in my measures by the rules of art; and yet when the ardour of
the first visits was spent, generally found a sudden declension of my
influence; I felt in myself the want of some power to diversify
amusement, and enliven conversation, and could not but suspect that my
mind failed in performing the promises of my face. This opinion was soon
confirmed by one of my lovers, who married Lavinia with less beauty and
fortune than mine, because he thought a wife ought to have qualities
which might make her amiable when her bloom was past.

The vanity of my mother would not suffer her to discover any defect in
one that had been formed by her instructions, and had all the excellence
which she herself could boast. She told me that nothing so much hindered
the advancement of women as literature and wit, which generally
frightened away those that could make the best settlements, and drew
about them a needy tribe of poets and philosophers, that filled their
heads with wild notions of content, and contemplation, and virtuous
obscurity. She therefore enjoined me to improve my minuet-step with a
new French dancing-master, and wait the event of the next birth-night.

I had now almost completed my nineteenth year: if my charms had lost any
of their softness, it was more than compensated by additional dignity;
and if the attractions of innocence were impaired, their place was
supplied by the arts of allurement. I was therefore preparing for a new
attack, without any abatement of my confidence, when, in the midst of my
hopes and schemes, I was seized by that dreadful malady which has so
often put a sudden end to the tyranny of beauty. I recovered my health
after a long confinement; but when I looked again on that face which had
been often flushed with transport at its own reflection, and saw all
that I had learned to value, all that I had endeavoured to improve, all
that had procured me honours or praises, irrecoverably destroyed, I sunk
at once into melancholy and despondence. My pain was not much consoled
or alleviated by my mother, who grieved that I had not lost my life
together with my beauty; and declared, that she thought a young woman
divested of her charms had nothing for which those who loved her could
desire to save her from the grave.

Having thus continued my relation to the period from which my life took
a new course, I shall conclude it in another letter, if, by publishing
this, you shew any regard for the correspondence of,

Sir, &c.

VICTORIA.



No. 131. TUESDAY, JUNE 18, 1751.

    _--Fatis accede, Deisque,
  Et cole felices, miseros fuge. sidera terrae
  Ut distant, ut flamma mari, sic utile recto_. LUCAN. Lib. viii. 486.
[Transcriber's note: punctuation in original.]

  Still follow where auspicious fates invite;
  Caress the happy, and the wretched slight.
  Sooner shall jarring elements unite,
  Than truth with gain, than interest with right. F. LEWIS.

There is scarcely any sentiment in which, amidst the innumerable
varieties of inclination that nature or accident have scattered in the
world, we find greater numbers concurring, than in the wish for riches;
a wish, indeed, so prevalent that it may be considered as universal and
transcendental, as the desire in which all other desires are included,
and of which the various purposes which actuate mankind are only
subordinate species and different modifications.

Wealth is the general centre of inclination, the point to which all
minds preserve an invariable tendency, and from which they afterwards
diverge in numberless directions. Whatever is the remote or ultimate
design, the immediate care is to be rich; and in whatever enjoyment we
intend finally to acquiesce, we seldom consider it as attainable but by
the means of money. Of wealth therefore all unanimously confess the
value, nor is there any disagreement but about the use.

No desire can be formed which riches do not assist to gratify. He that
places his happiness in splendid equipage or numerous dependants, in
refined praise or popular acclamations, in the accumulation of
curiosities or the revels of luxury, in splendid edifices or wide
plantations, must still, either by birth or acquisition, possess riches.
They may be considered as the elemental principles of pleasure, which
may be combined with endless diversity; as the essential and necessary
substance, of which only the form is left to be adjusted by choice.

The necessity of riches being thus apparent, it is not wonderful that
almost every mind has been employed in endeavours to acquire them; that
multitudes have vied in arts by which life is furnished with
accommodations, and which therefore mankind may reasonably be expected
to reward.

It had, indeed, been happy, if this predominant appetite had operated
only in concurrence with virtue, by influencing none but those who were
zealous to deserve what they were eager to possess, and had abilities to
improve their own fortunes by contributing to the ease or happiness of
others. To have riches and to have merit would then have been the same,
and success might reasonably have been considered as a proof of
excellence.

But we do not find that any of the wishes of men keep a stated
proportion to their powers of attainment. Many envy and desire wealth,
who can never procure it by honest industry or useful knowledge. They
therefore turn their eyes about to examine what other methods can be
found of gaining that which none, however impotent or worthless, will be
content to want.

A little inquiry will discover that there are nearer ways to profit than
through the intricacies of art, or up the steeps of labour; what wisdom
and virtue scarcely receive at the close of life, as the recompense of
long toil and repeated efforts, is brought within the reach of subtilty
and dishonesty by more expeditious and compendious measures: the wealth
of credulity is an open prey to falsehood; and the possessions of
ignorance and imbecility are easily stolen away by the conveyances of
secret artifice, or seized by the gripe of unresisted violence.

It is likewise not hard to discover that riches always procure
protection for themselves, that they dazzle the eyes of inquiry, divert
the celerity of pursuit, or appease the ferocity of vengeance. When any
man is incontestably known to have large possessions, very few think it
requisite to inquire by what practices they were obtained; the
resentment of mankind rages only against the struggles of feeble and
timorous corruption, but when it has surmounted the first opposition, it
is afterwards supported by favour, and animated by applause.

The prospect of gaining speedily what is ardently desired, and the
certainty of obtaining by every accession of advantage an addition of
security, have so far prevailed upon the passions of mankind, that the
peace of life is destroyed by a general and incessant struggle for
riches. It is observed of gold, by an old epigrammatist, that "To have
it is to be in fear, and to want it is to be in sorrow." There is no
condition which is not disquieted either with the care of gaining or of
keeping money; and the race of man may be divided in a political
estimate between those who are practising fraud, and those who are
repelling it.

If we consider the present state of the world, it will be found, that
all confidence is lost among mankind, that no man ventures to act, where
money can be endangered upon the faith of another. It is impossible to
see the long scrolls in which every contract is included, with all their
appendages of seals and attestation, without wondering at the depravity
of those beings, who must be restrained from violation of promise by
such formal and publick evidences, and precluded from equivocation and
subterfuge by such punctilious minuteness. Among all the satires to
which folly and wickedness have given occasion, none is equally severe
with a bond or a settlement.

Of the various arts by which riches may be obtained, the greater part
are at the first view irreconcileable with the laws of virtue; some are
openly flagitious, and practised not only in neglect, but in defiance of
faith and justice; and the rest are on every side so entangled with
dubious tendencies, and so beset with perpetual temptations, that very
few, even of those who are not yet abandoned, are able to preserve their
innocence, or can produce any other claim to pardon than that they
deviated from the right less than others, and have sooner and more
diligently endeavoured to return.

One of the chief characteristicks of the golden age, of the age in which
neither care nor danger had intruded on mankind, is the community of
possessions: strife and fraud were totally excluded, and every turbulent
passion was stilled by plenty and equality. Such were indeed happy
times, but such times can return no more. Community of possession must
include spontaneity of production; for what is obtained by labour will
be of right the property of him by whose labour it is gained. And while
a rightful claim to pleasure or to affluence must be procured either by
slow industry or uncertain hazard, there will always be multitudes whom
cowardice or impatience incite to more safe and more speedy methods, who
strive to pluck the fruit without cultivating the tree, and to share the
advantages of victory without partaking the danger of the battle. In
later ages, the conviction of the danger to which virtue is exposed
while the mind continues open to the influence of riches, has determined
many to vows of perpetual poverty; they have suppressed desire by
cutting off the possibility of gratification, and secured their peace by
destroying the enemy whom they had no hope of reducing to quiet
subjection. But, by debarring themselves from evil, they have rescinded
many opportunities of good; they have too often sunk into inactivity and
uselessness; and, though they have forborne to injure society, have not
fully paid their contributions to its happiness.

While riches are so necessary to present convenience, and so much more
easily obtained by crimes than virtues, the mind can only be secured
from yielding to the continual impulse of covetousness by the
preponderation of unchangeable and eternal motives. Gold will turn the
intellectual balance, when weighed only against reputation; but will be
light and ineffectual when the opposite scale is charged with justice,
veracity, and piety[f].



No. 132. SATURDAY, JUNE 22, 1751.

  --_Dociles imitandis
  Turpibus ac pravis omnes sumus_.--JUV. Sat. xiv. 40.

  The mind of mortals, in perverseness strong,
  Imbibes with dire docility the wrong.

TO THE RAMBLER.

MR. RAMBLER,

I was bred a scholar, and after the usual course of education, found it
necessary to employ for the support of life that learning which I had
almost exhausted my little fortune in acquiring. The lucrative
professions drew my regard with equal attraction; each presented ideas
which excited my curiosity, and each imposed duties which terrified my
apprehension.

There is no temper more unpropitious to interest than desultory
application and unlimited inquiry, by which the desires are held in a
perpetual equipoise, and the mind fluctuates between different purposes
without determination. I had books of every kind round me, among which I
divided my time as caprice or accident directed. I often spent the first
hours of the day, in considering to what study I should devote the rest,
and at last snatched up any author that lay upon the table, or perhaps
fled to a coffee-house for deliverance from the anxiety of irresolution,
and the gloominess of solitude.

Thus my little patrimony grew imperceptibly less, till I was roused from
my literary slumber by a creditor, whose importunity obliged me to
pacify him with so large a sum, that what remained was not sufficient to
support me more than eight months. I hope you will not reproach me with
avarice or cowardice, if I acknowledge that I now thought myself in
danger of distress, and obliged to endeavour after some certain
competence.

There have been heroes of negligence, who have laid the price of their
last acre in a drawer, and, without the least interruption of their
tranquillity, or abatement of their expenses, taken out one piece after
another, till there was no more remaining. But I was not born to such
dignity of imprudence, or such exaltation above the cares and
necessities of life; I therefore immediately engaged my friends to
procure me a little employment, which might set me free from the dread
of poverty, and afford me time to plan out some final scheme of lasting
advantage.

My friends were struck with honest solicitude, and immediately promised
their endeavours for my extrication. They did not suffer their kindness
to languish by delay, but prosecuted their inquiries with such success,
that in less than a month I was perplexed with variety of offers and
contrariety of prospects.

I had however no time for long pauses of consideration; and therefore
soon resolved to accept the office of instructing a young nobleman in
the house of his father: I went to the seat at which the family then
happened to reside, was received with great politeness, and invited to
enter immediately on my charge. The terms offered were such as I should
willingly have accepted, though my fortune had allowed me greater
liberty of choice: the respect with which I was treated, flattered my
vanity; and perhaps the splendour of the apartments, and the luxury of
the table, were not wholly without their influence. I immediately
complied with the proposals, and received the young lord into my care.

Having no desire to gain more than I should truly deserve, I very
diligently prosecuted my undertaking, and had the satisfaction of
discovering in my pupil a flexible temper, a quick apprehension, and a
retentive memory. I did not much doubt that my care would, in time,
produce a wise and useful counsellor to the state, though my labours
were somewhat obstructed by want of authority, and the necessity of
complying with the freaks of negligence, and of waiting patiently for
the lucky moment of voluntary attention. To a man whose imagination was
filled with the dignity of knowledge, and to whom a studious life had
made all the common amusements insipid and contemptible, it was not very
easy to suppress his indignation, when he saw himself forsaken in the
midst of his lecture, for an opportunity to catch an insect, and found
his instructions debarred from access to the intellectual faculties, by
the memory of a childish frolick, or the desire of a new play-thing.

Those vexations would have recurred less frequently, had not his mamma,
by entreating at one time that he should be excused from a task as a
reward for some petty compliance, and withholding him from his book at
another, to gratify herself or her visitants with his vivacity, shewn
him that every thing was more pleasing and more important than
knowledge, and that study was to be endured rather than chosen, and was
only the business of those hours which pleasure left vacant, or
discipline usurped.

I thought it my duty to complain, in tender terms, of these frequent
avocations; but was answered, that rank and fortune might reasonably
hope for some indulgence; that the retardation of my pupil's progress
would not be imputed to any negligence or inability of mine; and that
with the success which satisfied every body else, I might surely satisfy
myself. I had now done my duty, and without more remonstrances continued
to inculcate my precepts whenever they could be heard, gained every day
new influence, and found that by degrees my scholar began to feel the
quick impulses of curiosity, and the honest ardour of studious ambition.

At length it was resolved to pass a winter in London. The lady had too
much fondness for her son to live five months without him, and too high
an opinion of his wit and learning to refuse her vanity the
gratification of exhibiting him to the publick. I remonstrated against
too early an acquaintance with cards and company; but, with a soft
contempt of my ignorance and pedantry, she said, that he had been
already confined too long to solitary study, and it was now time to shew
him the world; nothing was more a brand of meanness than bashful
timidity; gay freedom and elegant assurance were only to be gained by
mixed conversation, a frequent intercourse with strangers, and a timely
introduction to splendid assemblies; and she had more than once
observed, that his forwardness and complaisance began to desert him,
that he was silent when he had not something of consequence to say,
blushed whenever he happened to find himself mistaken, and hung down his
head in the presence of the ladies, without the readiness of reply, and
activity of officiousness, remarkable in young gentlemen that are bred
in London.

Again I found resistance hopeless, and again thought it proper to
comply. We entered the coach, and in four days were placed in the gayest
and most magnificent region of the town. My pupil, who had for several
years lived at a remote seat, was immediately dazzled with a thousand
beams of novelty and shew. His imagination was filled with the perpetual
tumult of pleasure that passed before him, and it was impossible to
allure him from the window, or to overpower by any charm of eloquence
the rattle of coaches, and the sounds which echoed from the doors in the
neighbourhood. In three days his attention, which he began to regain,
was disturbed by a rich suit, in which he was equipped for the reception
of company, and which, having been long accustomed to a plain dress, he
could not at first survey without ecstacy.

The arrival of the family was now formally notified; every hour of every
day brought more intimate or more distant acquaintances to the door; and
my pupil was indiscriminately introduced to all, that he might accustom
himself to change of faces, and be rid with speed of his rustick
diffidence. He soon endeared himself to his mother by the speedy
acquisition or recovery of her darling qualities; his eyes sparkle at a
numerous assembly, and his heart dances at the mention of a ball. He has
at once caught the infection of high life, and has no other test of
principles or actions than the quality of those to whom they are
ascribed. He begins already to look down on me with superiority, and
submits to one short lesson in a week, as an act of condescension rather
than obedience; for he is of opinion, that no tutor is properly
qualified who cannot speak French; and having formerly learned a few
familiar phrases from his sister's governess, he is every day soliciting
his mamma to procure him a foreign footman, that he may grow polite by
his conversation. I am not yet insulted, but find myself likely to
become soon a superfluous incumbrance, for my scholar has now no time
for science, or for virtue; and the lady yesterday declared him so much
the favourite of every company, that she was afraid he would not have an
hour in the day to dance and fence.

I am, &c.

EUMATHES.

[Footnote f: Johnson often conversed, as well as wrote, on riches. In
his conversations on the subject, amidst his often indulged laxity of
talk, there was ever a deep insight into the human heart. "All the
arguments," he once with keen satire remarked, "which are brought to
represent poverty as no evil, shew it to be evidently a great evil. You
never find people _labouring_ to convince you that you may live happily
upon a plentiful fortune. So you hear people talking how miserable a
king must be, and yet they all wish to be in his place." _Boswell_ vol.
i. p. 422.

When Simonides was asked whether it were better to be wise or rich, he
gave an answer in favour of wealth. "For," said he, "I always behold the
wise lingering at the gates of the wealthy." Aristot. Rhet. ii. 18.]



No. 133. TUESDAY, JUNE 25, 1751.

  _Magna quidem, sacris quæ dat præcepta libellis
  Victrix fortune sapientia. Dicimus autem
  Hos quoque felices, qui ferre incommoda vitæ,
  Nec jactare jugum, vita didicere magistra._ Juv. Sat. xiii. 19.

  Let Stoicks ethicks' haughty rules advance
  To combat fortune, and to conquer chance:
  Yet happy those, though not so learn'd are thought,
  Whom life instructs, who by experience taught,
  For new to come from past misfortunes look,
  Nor shake the yoke, which galls the more 'tis shook. CREECH.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

You have shewn, by the publication of my letter, that you think the
life of Victoria not wholly unworthy of the notice of a philosopher: I
shall therefore continue my narrative, without any apology for
unimportance which you have dignified, or for inaccuracies which you are
to correct.

When my life appeared to be no longer in danger, and as much of my
strength was recovered as enabled me to bear the agitation of a coach, I
was placed at a lodging in a neighbouring village, to which my mother
dismissed me with a faint embrace, having repeated her command not to
expose my face too soon to the sun or wind, and told me that with care I
might perhaps become tolerable again. The prospect of being tolerable
had very little power to elevate the imagination of one who had so long
been accustomed to praise and ecstacy; but it was some satisfaction to
be separated from my mother, who was incessantly ringing the knell of
departed beauty, and never entered my room without the whine of
condolence, or the growl of anger. She often wandered over my face, as
travellers over the ruins of a celebrated city, to note every place
which had once been remarkable for a happy feature. She condescended to
visit my retirement, but always left me more melancholy; for after a
thousand trifling inquiries about my diet, and a minute examination of
my looks, she generally concluded with a sigh, that I should never more
be fit to be seen.

At last I was permitted to return home, but found no great improvement
of my condition; for I was imprisoned in my chamber as a criminal, whose
appearance would disgrace my friends, and condemn me to be tortured into
new beauty. Every experiment which the officiousness of folly could
communicate, or the credulity of ignorance admit, was tried upon me.
Sometimes I was covered with emollients, by which it was expected that
all the scars would be filled, and my cheeks plumped up to their former
smoothness; and sometimes I was punished with artificial excoriations,
in hopes of gaining new graces with a new skin. The cosmetick science
was exhausted upon me; but who can repair the ruins of nature? My mother
was forced to give me rest at last, and abandon me to the fate of a
fallen toast, whose fortune she considered as a hopeless game, no longer
worthy of solicitude or attention.

The condition of a young woman who has never thought or heard of any
other excellence than beauty, and whom the sudden blast of disease
wrinkles in her bloom, is indeed sufficiently calamitous. She is at once
deprived of all that gave her eminence or power; of all that elated her
pride, or animated her activity; all that filled her days with pleasure,
and her nights with hope; all that gave gladness to the present hour, or
brightened her prospects of futurity. It is perhaps not in the power of
a man whose attention has been divided by diversity of pursuits, and who
has not been accustomed to derive from others much of his happiness, to
image to himself such helpless destitution, such dismal inanity. Every
object of pleasing contemplation is at once snatched away, and the soul
finds every receptacle of ideas empty, or filled only with the memory of
joys that can return no more. All is gloomy privation, or impotent
desire; the faculties of anticipation slumber in despondency, or the
powers of pleasure mutiny for employment.

I was so little able to find entertainment for myself, that I was forced
in a short time to venture abroad as the solitary savage is driven by
hunger from his cavern. I entered with all the humility of disgrace into
assemblies, where I had lately sparkled with gaiety, and towered with
triumph. I was not wholly without hope, that dejection had
misrepresented me to myself, and that the remains of my former face
might yet have some attraction and influence; but the first circle of
visits convinced me, that my reign was at an end; that life and death
were no longer in my hands; that I was no more to practise the glance of
command, or the frown of prohibition; to receive the tribute of sighs
and praises, or be soothed with the gentle murmurs of amorous timidity.
My opinion was now unheard, and my proposals were unregarded; the
narrowness of my knowledge, and the meanness of my sentiments, were
easily discovered, when the eyes were no longer engaged against the
judgment; and it was observed, by those who had formerly been charmed
with my vivacious loquacity, that my understanding was impaired as well
as my face, and that I was no longer qualified to fill a place in any
company but a party at cards.

It is scarcely to be imagined how soon the mind sinks to a level with
the condition. I, who had long considered all who approached me as
vassals condemned to regulate their pleasures by my eyes, and harass
their inventions for my entertainment, was in less than three weeks
reduced to receive a ticket with professions of obligation; to catch
with eagerness at a compliment; and to watch with all the anxiousness of
dependance, lest any little civility that was paid me should pass
unacknowledged.

Though the negligence of the men was not very pleasing when compared
with vows and adoration, yet it was far more supportable than the
insolence of my own sex. For the first ten months after my return into
the world, I never entered a single house in which the memory of my
downfall was not revived. At one place I was congratulated on my escape
with life; at another I heard of the benefits of early inoculation; by
some I have been told in express terms, that I am not yet without my
charms; others have whispered at my entrance, This is the celebrated
beauty. One told me of a wash that would smooth the skin; and another
offered me her chair that I might not front the light. Some soothed me
with the observation that none can tell how soon my case may be her own;
and some thought it proper to receive me with mournful tenderness,
formal condolence, and consolatory blandishments.

Thus was I every day harassed with all the stratagems of well-bred
malignity; yet insolence was more tolerable than solitude, and I
therefore persisted to keep my time at the doors of my acquaintance,
without gratifying them with any appearance of resentment or depression.
I expected that their exultation would in time vapour away; that the joy
of their superiority would end with its novelty; and that I should be
suffered to glide along in my present form among the nameless multitude,
whom nature never intended to excite envy or admiration, nor enabled to
delight the eye or inflame the heart.

This was naturally to be expected, and this I began to experience. But
when I was no longer agitated by the perpetual ardour of resistance, and
effort of perseverance, I found more sensibly the want of those
entertainments which had formerly delighted me; the day rose upon me
without an engagement; and the evening closed in its natural gloom,
without summoning me to a concert or a ball. None had any care to find
amusements for me, and I had no power of amusing myself. Idleness
exposed me to melancholy, and life began to languish in motionless
indifference.

Misery and shame are nearly allied. It was not without many struggles
that I prevailed on myself to confess my uneasiness to Euphemia, the
only friend who had never pained me with comfort or with pity. I at last
laid my calamities before her, rather to ease my heart, than receive
assistance. "We must distinguish," said she, "my Victoria, those evils
which are imposed by Providence, from those to which we ourselves give
the power of hurting us. Of your calamity, a small part is the
infliction of Heaven, the rest is little more than the corrosion of idle
discontent. You have lost that which may indeed sometimes contribute to
happiness, but to which happiness is by no means inseparably annexed.
You have lost what the greater number of the human race never have
possessed; what those on whom it is bestowed for the most part possess
in vain; and what you, while it was yours, knew not how to use: you have
only lost early what the laws of nature forbid you to keep long, and
have lost it while your mind is yet flexible, and while you have time to
substitute more valuable and more durable excellencies. Consider
yourself, my Victoria, as a being born to know, to reason, and to act;
rise at once from your dream of melancholy to wisdom and to piety; you
will find that there are other charms than those of beauty, and other
joys than the praise of fools."

I am, Sir, &c.

VICTORIA.



No. 134. SATURDAY, JUNE 29, 1751.

  _Quis scit an adjiciant hodiernae crastina summae
  Tempora Dii superi?_ HOR. Lib. iv. Ode vii. 16.

  Who knows if Heav'n, with ever-bounteous pow'r,
  Shall add to-morrow to the present hour? FRANCIS.

I sat yesterday morning employed in deliberating on which, among the
various subjects that occurred to my imagination, I should bestow the
paper of to-day. After a short effort of meditation by which nothing was
determined, I grew every moment more irresolute, my ideas wandered from
the first intention, and I rather wished to think, than thought upon any
settled subject; till at last I was awakened from this dream of study by
a summons from the press; the time was now come for which I had been
thus negligently purposing to provide, and, however dubious or sluggish,
I was now necessitated to write.

Though to a writer whose design is so comprehensive and miscellaneous,
that he may accommodate himself with a topick from every scene of life,
or view of nature, it is no great aggravation of his task to be obliged
to a sudden composition; yet I could not forbear to reproach myself for
having so long neglected what was unavoidably to be done, and of which
every moment's idleness increased the difficulty. There was however some
pleasure in reflecting that I, who had only trifled till diligence was
necessary, might still congratulate myself upon my superiority to
multitudes, who have trifled till diligence is vain; who can by no
degree of activity or resolution recover the opportunities which have
slipped away; and who are condemned by their own carelessness to
hopeless calamity and barren sorrow.

The folly of allowing ourselves to delay what we know cannot be finally
escaped, is one of the general weaknesses, which, in spite of the
instruction of moralists, and the remonstrances of reason, prevail to a
greater or less degree in every mind; even they who most steadily
withstand it, find it, if not the most violent, the most pertinacious of
their passions, always renewing its attacks, and though often
vanquished, never destroyed.

It is indeed natural to have particular regard to the time present, and
to be most solicitous for that which is by its nearness enabled to make
the strongest impressions. When therefore any sharp pain is to be
suffered, or any formidable danger to be incurred, we can scarcely
exempt ourselves wholly from the seducements of imagination; we readily
believe that another day will bring some support or advantage which we
now want; and are easily persuaded, that the moment of necessity which
we desire never to arrive, is at a great distance from us.

Thus life is languished away in the gloom of anxiety, and consumed in
collecting resolutions which the next morning dissipates; in forming
purposes which we scarcely hope to keep, and reconciling ourselves to
our own cowardice by excuses, which, while we admit them, we know to be
absurd. Our firmness is by the continual contemplation of misery, hourly
impaired; every submission to our fear enlarges its dominion; we not
only waste that time in which the evil we dread might have been suffered
and surmounted, but even where procrastination produces no absolute
increase of our difficulties, make them less superable to ourselves by
habitual terrours. When evils cannot be avoided, it is wise to contract
the interval of expectation; to meet the mischiefs which will overtake
us if we fly; and suffer only their real malignity, without the
conflicts of doubt, and anguish of anticipation.

To act is far easier than to suffer; yet we every day see the progress
of life retarded by the _vis inertiae_, the mere repugnance to motion,
and find multitudes repining at the want of that which nothing but
idleness hinders them from enjoying. The case of Tantalus, in the region
of poetick punishment, was somewhat to be pitied, because the fruits
that hung about him retired from his hand; but what tenderness can be
claimed by those who, though perhaps they suffer the pains of Tantalus,
will never lift their hands for their own relief?

There is nothing more common among this torpid generation than murmurs
and complaints; murmurs at uneasiness which only vacancy and suspicion
expose them to feel, and complaints of distresses which it is in their
own power to remove. Laziness is commonly associated with timidity.
Either fear originally prohibits endeavours by infusing despair of
success; or the frequent failure of irresolute struggles, and the
constant desire of avoiding labour, impress by degrees false terrours on
the mind. But fear, whether natural or acquired, when once it has full
possession of the fancy, never fails to employ it upon visions of
calamity, such as, if they are not dissipated by useful employment, will
soon overcast it with horrours, and embitter life not only with those
miseries by which all earthly beings are really more or less tormented,
but with those which do not yet exist, and which can only be discerned
by the perspicacity of cowardice.

Among all who sacrifice future advantage to present inclination,
scarcely any gain so little as those that suffer themselves to freeze in
idleness. Others are corrupted by some enjoyment of more or less power
to gratify the passions; but to neglect our duties, merely to avoid the
labour of performing them, a labour which is always punctually rewarded,
is surely to sink under weak temptations. Idleness never can secure
tranquillity; the call of reason and of conscience will pierce the
closest pavilion of the sluggard, and though it may not have force to
drive him from his down, will be loud enough to hinder him from sleep.
Those moments which he cannot resolve to make useful, by devoting them
to the great business of his being, will still be usurped by powers that
will not leave them to his disposal; remorse and vexation will seize
upon them, and forbid him to enjoy what he is so desirous to
appropriate.

There are other causes of inactivity incident to more active faculties
and more acute discernment. He to whom many objects of pursuit arise at
the same time, will frequently hesitate between different desires, till
a rival has precluded him, or change his course as new attractions
prevail, and harass himself without advancing. He who sees different
ways to the same end, will, unless he watches carefully over his own
conduct, lay out too much of his attention upon the comparison of
probabilities, and the adjustment of expedients, and pause in the choice
of his road till some accident intercepts his journey. He whose
penetration extends to remote consequences, and who, whenever he applies
his attention to any design, discovers new prospects of advantage, and
possibilities of improvement, will not easily be persuaded that his
project is ripe for execution; but will superadd one contrivance to
another, endeavour to unite various purposes in one operation, multiply
complications, and refine niceties, till he is entangled in his own
scheme, and bewildered in the perplexity of various intentions. He that
resolves to unite all the beauties of situation in a new purchase, must
waste his life in roving to no purpose from province to province. He
that hopes in the same house to obtain every convenience, may draw plans
and study Palladio, but will never lay a stone. He will attempt a
treatise on some important subject, and amass materials, consult
authors, and study all the dependant and collateral parts of learning,
but never conclude himself qualified to write. He that has abilities to
conceive perfection, will not easily be content without it; and since
perfection cannot be reached, will lose the opportunity of doing well in
the vain hope of unattainable excellence.

The certainty that life cannot be long, and the probability that it will
be much shorter than nature allows, ought to awaken every man to the
active prosecution of whatever he is desirous to perform. It is true,
that no diligence can ascertain success; death may intercept the
swiftest career; but he who is cut off in the execution of an honest
undertaking, has at least the honour of falling in his rank, and has
fought the battle though he missed the victory.



No. 135. TUESDAY, JULY 2, 1751.

  Coelum, non animum, mutant. HOR. Lib. i. Ep. xi. 27.

  Place may be chang'd; but who can change his mind?

It is impossible to take a view on any side, or observe any of the
various classes that form the great community of the world, without
discovering the influence of example; and admitting with new conviction
the observation of Aristotle, that _man is an imitative being_. The
greater, far the greater number, follow the track which others have
beaten, without any curiosity after new discoveries, or ambition of
trusting themselves to their own conduct. And, of those who break the
ranks and disorder the uniformity of the march, most return in a short
time from their deviation, and prefer the equal and steady satisfaction
of security before the frolicks of caprice and the honours of adventure.

In questions difficult or dangerous it is indeed natural to repose upon
authority, and, when fear happens to predominate, upon the authority of
those whom we do not in general think wiser than ourselves. Very few
have abilities requisite for the discovery of abstruse truth; and of
those few some want leisure, and some resolution. But it is not so easy
to find the reason of the universal submission to precedent where every
man might safely judge for himself; where no irreparable loss can be
hazarded, nor any mischief of long continuance incurred. Vanity might be
expected to operate where the more powerful passions are not awakened;
the mere pleasure of acknowledging no superior might produce slight
singularities, or the hope of gaining some new degree of happiness
awaken the mind to invention or experiment.

If in any case the shackles of prescription could be wholly shaken off,
and the imagination left to act without control, on what occasion should
it be expected, but in the selection of lawful pleasure? Pleasure, of
which the essence is choice; which compulsion dissociates from every
thing to which nature has united it; and which owes not only its vigour
but its being to the smiles of liberty. Yet we see that the senses, as
well as the reason, are regulated by credulity; and that most will feel,
or say that they feel, the gratifications which others have taught them
to expect.

At this time of universal migration, when almost every one, considerable
enough to attract regard, has retired, or is preparing with all the
earnestness of distress to retire, into the country; when nothing is to
be heard but the hopes of speedy departure, or the complaints of
involuntary delay; I have often been tempted to inquire what happiness
is to be gained, or what inconvenience to be avoided, by this stated
recession? Of the birds of passage, some follow the summer and some the
winter, because they live upon sustenance which only summer or winter
can supply; but of the annual flight of human rovers it is much harder
to assign the reason, because they do not appear either to find or seek
any thing which is not equally afforded by the town and country.

I believe that many of these fugitives may have heard of men whose
continual wish was for the quiet of retirement, who watched every
opportunity to steal away from observation, to forsake the crowd, and
delight themselves with _the society of solitude_. There is indeed
scarcely any writer who has not celebrated the happiness of rural
privacy, and delighted himself and his reader with the melody of birds,
the whisper of groves, and the murmur of rivulets; nor any man eminent
for extent of capacity, or greatness of exploits, that has not left
behind him some memorials of lonely wisdom, and silent dignity.

But almost all absurdity of conduct arises from the imitation of those
whom we cannot resemble. Those who thus testified their weariness of
tumult and hurry, and hasted with so much eagerness to the leisure of
retreat, were either men overwhelmed with the pressure of difficult
employments, harassed with importunities, and distracted with
multiplicity; or men wholly engrossed by speculative sciences, who
having no other end of life but to learn and teach, found their searches
interrupted by the common commerce of civility, and their reasonings
disjointed by frequent interruptions. Such men might reasonably fly to
that ease and convenience which their condition allowed them to find
only in the country. The statesman who devoted the greater part of his
time to the publick, was desirous of keeping the remainder in his own
power. The general, ruffled with dangers, wearied with labours, and
stunned with acclamations, gladly snatched an interval of silence and
relaxation. The naturalist was unhappy where the works of Providence
were not always before him. The reasoner could adjust his systems only
where his mind was free from the intrusion of outward objects.

Such examples of solitude very few of those who are now hastening from
the town, have any pretensions to plead in their own justification,
since they cannot pretend either weariness of labour, or desire of
knowledge. They purpose nothing more than to quit one scene of idleness
for another, and after having trifled in publick, to sleep in secrecy.
The utmost that they can hope to gain is the change of ridiculousness to
obscurity, and the privilege of having fewer witnesses to a life of
folly. He who is not sufficiently important to be disturbed in his
pursuits, but spends all his hours according to his own inclination, and
has more hours than his mental faculties enable him to fill either with
enjoyment or desires, can have nothing to demand of shades and valleys.
As bravery is said to be a panoply, insignificancy is always a shelter.

There are, however, pleasures and advantages in a rural situation, which
are not confined to philosophers and heroes. The freshness of the air,
the verdure of the woods, the paint of the meadows, and the unexhausted
variety which summer scatters upon the earth, may easily give delight to
an unlearned spectator. It is not necessary that he who looks with
pleasure on the colours of a flower should study the principles of
vegetation, or that the Ptolemaick and Copernican system should be
compared before the light of the sun can gladden, or its warmth
invigorate. Novelty is itself a source of gratification; and Milton
justly observes, that to him who has been long pent up in cities, no
rural object can be presented, which will not delight or refresh some of
his senses.

Yet even these easy pleasures are missed by the greater part of those
who waste their summer in the country. Should any man pursue his
acquaintances to their retreats, he would find few of them listening to
Philomel, loitering in woods, or plucking daisies, catching the healthy
gale of the morning, or watching the gentle coruscations of declining
day. Some will be discovered at a window by the road side, rejoicing
when a new cloud of dust gathers towards them, as at the approach of a
momentary supply of conversation, and a short relief from the
tediousness of unideal vacancy. Others are placed in the adjacent
villages, where they look only upon houses as in the rest of the year,
with no change of objects but what a remove to any new street in London
might have given them. The same set of acquaintances still settle
together, and the form of life is not otherwise diversified than by
doing the same things in a different place. They pay and receive visits
in the usual form, they frequent the walks in the morning, they deal
cards at night, they attend to the same tattle, and dance with the same
partners; nor can they, at their return to their former habitation,
congratulate themselves on any other advantage, than that they have
passed their time like others of the same rank; and have the same right
to talk of the happiness and beauty of the country, of happiness which
they never felt, and beauty which they never regarded.

To be able to procure its own entertainments, and to subsist upon its
own stock, is not the prerogative of every mind. There are indeed
understandings so fertile and comprehensive, that they can always feed
reflection with new supplies, and suffer nothing from the preclusion of
adventitious amusements; as some cities have within their own walls
enclosed ground enough to feed their inhabitants in a siege. But others
live only from day to day, and must be constantly enabled, by foreign
supplies, to keep out the encroachments of languor and stupidity. Such
could not indeed be blamed for hovering within reach of their usual
pleasure, more than any other animal for not quitting its native
element, were not their faculties contracted by their own fault. But let
not those who go into the country, merely because they dare not be left
alone at home, boast their love of nature, or their qualifications for
solitude; nor pretend that they receive instantaneous infusions of
wisdom from the Dryads, and are able, when they leave smoke and noise
behind, to act, or think, or reason for themselves.



No. 136. SATURDAY, JULY 6, 1751.

  [Greek: Echthrus gar moi keimos, omos aidao pulusin,
  Os ch eteron men keuthei eni phresin, allo de bazei.]
  HOMER, [Greek: I'.] 313.

  Who dares think one thing, and another tell,
  My heart detests him as the gates of Hell. POPE.

The regard which they whose abilities are employed in the works of
imagination claim from the rest of mankind, arises in a great measure
from their influence on futurity. Rank may be conferred by princes, and
wealth bequeathed by misers or by robbers; but the honours of a lasting
name, and the veneration of distant ages, only the sons of learning have
the power of bestowing. While therefore it continues one of the
characteristicks of rational nature to decline oblivion, authors never
can be wholly overlooked in the search after happiness, nor become
contemptible but by their own fault.

The man who considers himself as constituted the ultimate judge of
disputable characters, and entrusted with the distribution of the last
terrestrial rewards of merit, ought to summon all his fortitude to the
support of his integrity, and resolve to discharge an office of such
dignity with the most vigilant caution and scrupulous justice. To
deliver examples to posterity, and to regulate the opinion of future
times, is no slight or trivial undertaking; nor is it easy to commit
more atrocious treason against the great republick of humanity, than by
falsifying its records and misguiding its decrees.

To scatter praise or blame without regard to justice, is to destroy the
distinction of good and evil. Many have no other test of actions than
general opinion; and all are so far influenced by a sense of reputation,
that they are often restrained by fear of reproach, and excited by hope
of honour, when other principles have lost their power; nor can any
species of prostitution promote general depravity more than that which
destroys the force of praise, by shewing that it may be acquired without
deserving it, and which, by setting free the active and ambitious from
the dread of infamy, lets loose the rapacity of power, and weakens the
only authority by which greatness is controlled.

Praise, like gold and diamonds, owes its value only to its scarcity. It
becomes cheap as it becomes vulgar, and will no longer raise
expectation, or animate enterprise. It is therefore not only necessary,
that wickedness, even when it is not safe to censure it, be denied
applause, but that goodness be commended only in proportion to its
degree; and that the garlands, due to the great benefactors of mankind,
be not suffered to fade upon the brow of him who can boast only petty
services and easy virtues.

Had these maxims been universally received, how much would have been
added to the task of dedication, the work on which all the power of
modern wit has been exhausted. How few of these initial panegyricks had
appeared, if the author had been obliged first to find a man of virtue,
then to distinguish the distinct species and degree of his desert, and
at last to pay him only the honours which he might justly claim. It is
much easier to learn the name of the last man whom chance has exalted to
wealth and power, to obtain by the intervention of some of his
domesticks the privilege of addressing him, or, in confidence of the
general acceptance of flattery, to venture on an address without any
previous solicitation; and after having heaped upon him all the virtues
to which philosophy had assigned a name, inform him how much more might
be truly said, did not the fear of giving pain to his modesty repress
the raptures of wonder and the zeal of veneration.

Nothing has so much degraded literature from its natural rank, as the
practice of indecent and promiscuous dedication; for what credit can he
expect who professes himself the hireling of vanity, however profligate,
and without shame or scruple, celebrates the worthless, dignifies the
mean, and gives to the corrupt, licentious, and oppressive, the
ornaments which ought only to add grace to truth, and loveliness to
innocence? Every other kind of adulation, however shameful, however
mischievous, is less detestable than the crime of counterfeiting
characters, and fixing the stamp of literary sanction upon the dross and
refuse of the world.

Yet I would not overwhelm the authors with the whole load of infamy, of
which part, perhaps the greater part, ought to fall upon their patrons.
If he that hires a bravo, partakes the guilt of murder, why should he
who bribes a flatterer, hope to be exempted from the shame of falsehood?
The unhappy dedicator is seldom without some motives which obstruct,
though not destroy, the liberty of choice; he is oppressed by miseries
which he hopes to relieve, or inflamed by ambition which he expects to
gratify. But the patron has no incitements equally violent; he can
receive only a short gratification, with which nothing but stupidity
could dispose him to be pleased. The real satisfaction which praise can
afford is by repeating aloud the whispers of conscience, and by shewing
us that we have not endeavoured to deserve well in vain. Every other
encomium is, to an intelligent mind, satire and reproach; the
celebration of those virtues which we feel ourselves to want, can only
impress a quicker sense of our own defects, and shew that we have not
yet satisfied the expectations of the world, by forcing us to observe
how much fiction must contribute to the completion of our character.

Yet sometimes the patron may claim indulgence; for it does not always
happen, that the encomiast has been much encouraged to his attempt. Many
a hapless author, when his book, and perhaps his dedication, was ready
for the press, has waited long before any one would pay the price of
prostitution, or consent to hear the praises destined to insure his name
against the casualties of time; and many a complaint has been vented
against the decline of learning, and neglect of genius, when either
parsimonious prudence has declined expense, or honest indignation
rejected falsehood. But if at last, after long inquiry and innumerable
disappointments, he find a lord willing to hear of his own eloquence and
taste, a statesman desirous of knowing how a friendly historian will
represent his conduct, or a lady delighted to leave to the world some
memorial of her wit and beauty, such weakness cannot be censured as an
instance of enormous depravity. The wisest man may, by a diligent
solicitor, be surprised in the hour of weakness, and persuaded to solace
vexation, or invigorate hope, with the musick of flattery.

To censure all dedications as adulatory and servile, would discover
rather envy than justice. Praise is the tribute of merit, and he that
has incontestably distinguished himself by any publick performance, has
a right to all the honours which the publick can bestow. To men thus
raised above the rest of the community, there is no need that the book
or its author should have any particular relation; that the patron is
known to deserve respect, is sufficient to vindicate him that pays it.
To the same regard from particular persons, private virtue and less
conspicuous excellence may be sometimes entitled. An author may with
great propriety inscribe his work to him by whose encouragement it was
undertaken, or by whose liberality he has been enabled to prosecute it,
and he may justly rejoice in his own fortitude that dares to rescue
merit from obscurity.

  _Acribus exemplis videor te claudere: misce
  Ergo aliquid nostris de moribus.--_

  Thus much I will indulge thee for thy ease,
  And mingle something of our times to please.   Dryden, jun.

I know not whether greater relaxation may not he indulged, and whether
hope as well as gratitude may not unblamably produce a dedication; but
let the writer who pours out his praises only to propitiate power, or
attract the attention of greatness, be cautious lest his desire betray
him to exuberant eulogies. We are naturally more apt to please ourselves
with the future than the past, and while we luxuriate in expectation,
may be easily persuaded to purchase what we yet rate, only by
imagination, at a higher price than experience will warrant.

But no private views of personal regard can discharge any man from his
general obligations to virtue and to truth. It may happen in the various
combinations of life, that a good man may receive favours from one, who,
notwithstanding his accidental beneficence, cannot be justly proposed to
the imitation of others, and whom therefore he must find some other way
of rewarding than by public celebrations. Self-love has indeed many
powers of seducement; but it surely ought not to exalt any individual to
equality with the collective body of mankind, or persuade him that a
benefit conferred on him is equivalent to every other virtue. Yet many,
upon false principles of gratitude, have ventured to extol wretches,
whom all but their dependents numbered among the reproaches of the
species, and whom they would likewise have beheld with the same scorn,
had they not been hired to dishonest approbation.

To encourage merit with praise is the great business of literature; but
praise must lose its influence, by unjust or negligent distribution; and
he that impairs its value may be charged with misapplication of the
power that genius puts into his hands, and with squandering on guilt the
recompense of virtue.



No. 137. TUESDAY, JULY 9, 1751.

  _Dum vitant stulti vitia, in contraria currunt_.
  Hor. Lib. i. Sat. ii. 24.

  --Whilst fools one vice condemn,
  They run into the opposite extreme. CREECH.

That wonder is the effect of ignorance, has been often observed. The
awful stillness of attention, with which the mind is overspread at the
first view of an unexpected effect, ceases when we have leisure to
disentangle complications and investigate causes. Wonder is a pause of
reason, a sudden cessation of the mental progress, which lasts only
while the understanding is fixed upon some single idea, and is at an end
when it recovers force enough to divide the object into its parts, or
mark the intermediate gradations from the first agent to the last
consequence.

It may be remarked with equal truth, that ignorance is often the effect
of wonder. It is common for those who have never accustomed themselves
to the labour of inquiry, nor invigorated their confidence by conquests
over difficulty, to sleep in the gloomy quiescence of astonishment,
without any effort to animate inquiry, or dispel obscurity. What they
cannot immediately conceive, they consider as too high to be reached, or
too extensive to be comprehended; they therefore content themselves with
the gaze of folly, forbear to attempt what they have no hopes of
performing, and resign the pleasure of rational contemplation to more
pertinacious study, or more active faculties.

Among the productions of mechanick art, many are of a form so different
from that of their first materials, and many consist of parts so
numerous and so nicely adapted to each other, that it is not possible to
view them without amazement. But when we enter the shops of artificers,
observe the various tools by which every operation is facilitated, and
trace the progress of a manufacture through the different hands, that,
in succession to each other, contribute to its perfection, we soon
discover that every single man has an easy task, and that the extremes,
however remote, of natural rudeness and artificial elegance, are joined
by a regular concatenation of effects, of which every one is introduced
by that which precedes it, and equally introduces that which is to
follow.

The same is the state of intellectual and manual performances. Long
calculations or complex diagrams affright the timorous and unexperienced
from a second view; but if we have skill sufficient to analyze them into
simple principles, it will be discovered that our fear was groundless.
_Divide and conquer_, is a principle equally just in science as in
policy. Complication is a species of confederacy, which, while it
continues united, bids defiance to the most active and vigorous
intellect; but of which every member is separately weak, and which may
therefore be quickly subdued, if it can once be broken.

The chief art of learning, as Locke has observed, is to attempt but
little at a time. The widest excursions of the mind are made by short
flights frequently repeated; the most lofty fabricks of science are
formed by the continued accumulation of single propositions.

It often happens, whatever be the cause, that impatience of labour, or
dread of miscarriage, seizes those who are most distinguished for
quickness of apprehension; and that they who might with greatest reason
promise themselves victory, are least willing to hazard the encounter.
This diffidence, where the attention is not laid asleep by laziness, or
dissipated by pleasures, can arise only from confused and general views,
such as negligence snatches in haste, or from the disappointment of the
first hopes formed by arrogance without reflection. To expect that the
intricacies of science will be pierced by a careless glance, or the
eminences of fame ascended without labour, is to expect a particular
privilege, a power denied to the rest of mankind; but to suppose that
the maze is inscrutable to diligence, or the heights inaccessible to
perseverance, is to submit tamely to the tyranny of fancy, and enchain
the mind in voluntary shackles.

It is the proper ambition of the heroes in literature to enlarge the
boundaries of knowledge by discovering and conquering new regions of the
intellectual world. To the success of such undertakings perhaps some
degree of fortuitous happiness is necessary, which no man can promise or
procure to himself; and therefore doubt and irresolution may be forgiven
in him that ventures into the unexplored abysses of truth, and attempts
to find his way through the fluctuations of uncertainty, and the
conflicts of contradiction. But when nothing more is required, than to
pursue a path already beaten, and to trample obstacles which others have
demolished, why should any man so much distrust his own intellect as to
imagine himself unequal to the attempt?

It were to be wished that they who devote their lives to study would at
once believe nothing too great for their attainment, and consider
nothing as too little for their regard; that they would extend their
notice alike to science and to life, and unite some knowledge of the
present world to their acquaintance with past ages and remote events.

Nothing has so much exposed men of learning to contempt and ridicule, as
their ignorance of things which are known to all but themselves. Those
who have been taught to consider the institutions of the schools, as
giving the last perfection to human abilities, are surprised to see men
wrinkled with study, yet wanting to be instructed in the minute
circumstances of propriety, or the necessary forms of daily transaction;
and quickly shake off their reverence for modes of education, which they
find to produce no ability above the rest of mankind.

"Books," says Bacon, "can never teach the use of books." The student
must learn by commerce with mankind to reduce his speculations to
practice, and accommodate his knowledge to the purposes of life.

It is too common for those who have been bred to scholastick
professions, and passed much of their time in academies where nothing
but learning confers honours, to disregard every other qualification,
and to imagine that they shall find mankind ready to pay homage to their
knowledge, and to crowd about them for instruction. They therefore step
out from their cells into the open world with all the confidence of
authority and dignity of importance; they look round about them at once
with ignorance and scorn on a race of beings to whom they are equally
unknown and equally contemptible, but whose manners they must imitate,
and with whose opinions they must comply, if they desire to pass their
time happily among them.

To lessen that disdain with which scholars are inclined to look on the
common business of the world, and the unwillingness with which they
condescend to learn what is not to be found in any system of philosophy,
it may be necessary to consider that though admiration is excited by
abstruse researches and remote discoveries, yet pleasure is not given,
nor affection conciliated, but by softer accomplishments, and qualities
more easily communicable to those about us. He that can only converse
upon questions, about which only a small part of mankind has knowledge
sufficient to make them curious, must lose his days in unsocial silence,
and live in the crowd of life without a companion. He that can only be
useful on great occasions, may die without exerting his abilities, and
stand a helpless spectator of a thousand vexations which fret away
happiness, and which nothing is required to remove but a little
dexterity of conduct and readiness of expedients.

No degree of knowledge attainable by man is able to set him above the
want of hourly assistance, or to extinguish the desire of fond
endearments, and tender officiousness; and therefore, no one should
think it unnecessary to learn those arts by which friendship may be
gained. Kindness is preserved by a constant reciprocation of benefits or
interchange of pleasures; but such benefits only can be bestowed, as
others are capable to receive, and such pleasures only imparted, as
others are qualified to enjoy.

By this descent from the pinnacles of art no honour will be lost; for
the condescensions of learning are always overpaid by gratitude. An
elevated genius employed in little things, appears, to use the simile of
Longinus, like the sun in his evening declination: he remits his
splendour but retains his magnitude, and pleases more though he dazzles
less.



No. 138. SATURDAY, JULY 13, 1751.

  _O tantum libeat mecum tibi sordida rura,
  Atque humiles habitare casas, et figere cervos_. VIRG. EC. ii 28.

  With me retire, and leave the pomp of courts
  For humble cottages and rural sports.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Though the contempt with which you have treated the annual migrations of
the gay and busy part of mankind is justified by daily observation;
since most of those who leave the town, neither vary their
entertainments nor enlarge their notions; yet I suppose you do not
intend to represent the practice itself as ridiculous, or to declare
that he whose condition puts the distribution of his time into his own
power may not properly divide it between the town and country.

That the country, and only the country, displays the inexhaustible
varieties of nature, and supplies the philosophical mind with matter for
admiration and inquiry, never was denied; but my curiosity is very
little attracted by the colour of a flower, the anatomy of an insect, or
the structure of a nest; I am generally employed upon human manners, and
therefore fill up the months of rural leisure with remarks on those who
live within the circle of my notice. If writers would more frequently
visit those regions of negligence and liberty, they might diversify
their representations, and multiply their images, for in the country are
original characters chiefly to be found. In cities, and yet more in
courts, the minute discriminations which distinguish one from another
are for the most part effaced, the peculiarities of temper and opinion
are gradually worn away by promiscuous converse, as angular bodies and
uneven surfaces lose their points and asperities by frequent attrition
against one another, and approach by degrees to uniform rotundity. The
prevalence of fashion, the influence of example, the desire of applause,
and the dread of censure, obstruct the natural tendencies of the mind,
and check the fancy in its first efforts to break forth into experiments
of caprice.

Few inclinations are so strong as to grow up into habits, when they must
struggle with the constant opposition of settled forms and established
customs. But in the country every man is a separate and independent
being: solitude flatters irregularity with hopes of secrecy; and wealth,
removed from the mortification of comparison, and the awe of equality,
swells into contemptuous confidence, and sets blame and laughter at
defiance; the impulses of nature act unrestrained, and the disposition
dares to shew itself in its true form, without any disguise of
hypocrisy, or decorations of elegance. Every one indulges the full
enjoyment of his own choice, and talks and lives with no other view than
to please himself, without inquiring how far he deviates from the
general practice, or considering others as entitled to any account of
his sentiments or actions. If he builds or demolishes, opens or
encloses, deluges or drains, it is not his care what may be the opinion
of those who are skilled in perspective or architecture, it is
sufficient that he has no landlord to controul him, and that none has
any right to examine in what projects the lord of the manour spends his
own money on his own grounds.

For this reason it is not very common to want subjects for rural
conversation. Almost every man is daily doing something which produces
merriment, wonder, or resentment, among his neighbours. This utter
exemption from restraint leaves every anomalous quality to operate in
its full extent, and suffers the natural character to diffuse itself to
every part of life. The pride which, under the check of publick
observation, would have been only vented among servants and domesticks,
becomes in a country baronet the torment of a province, and instead of
terminating in the destruction of China-ware and glasses, ruins tenants,
dispossesses cottagers, and harasses villages with actions of trespass
and bills of indictment.

It frequently happens that, even without violent passions, or enormous
corruption, the freedom and laxity of a rustick life produces remarkable
particularities of conduct or manner. In the province where I now
reside, we have one lady eminent for wearing a gown always of the same
cut and colour; another for shaking hands with those that visit her; and
a third for unshaken resolution never to let tea or coffee enter her
house.

But of all the female characters which this place affords, I have found
none so worthy of attention as that of Mrs. Busy, a widow, who lost her
husband in her thirtieth year, and has since passed her time at the
manour-house in the government of her children, and the management of
the estate.

Mrs. Busy was married at eighteen from a boarding-school, where she had
passed her time like other young ladies, in needle-work, with a few
intervals of dancing and reading. When she became a bride she spent one
winter with her husband in town, where, having no idea of any
conversation beyond the formalities of a visit, she found nothing to
engage her passions: and when she had been one night at court, and two
at an opera, and seen the Monument, the Tombs, and the Tower, she
concluded that London had nothing more to shew, and wondered that when
women had once seen the world, they could not be content to stay at
home. She therefore went willingly to the ancient seat, and for some
years studied housewifery under Mr. Busy's mother, with so much
assiduity, that the old lady, when she died, bequeathed her a
caudle-cup, a soup-dish, two beakers, and a chest of table-linen spun
by herself.

Mr. Busy, finding the economical qualities of his lady, resigned his
affairs wholly into her hands, and devoted his life to his pointers and
his hounds. He never visited his estates but to destroy the partridges
or foxes; and often committed such devastations in the rage of pleasure,
that some of his tenants refused to hold their lands at the usual rent.
Their landlady persuaded them to be satisfied, and entreated her husband
to dismiss his dogs, with many exact calculations of the ale drunk by
his companions, and corn consumed by the horses, and remonstrances
against the insolence of the huntsman, and the frauds of the groom. The
huntsman was too necessary to his happiness to be discarded; and he had
still continued to ravage his own estate, had he not caught a cold and a
fever by shooting mallards in the fens. His fever was followed by a
consumption, which in a few months brought him to the grave.

Mrs. Busy was too much an economist to feel either joy or sorrow at his
death. She received the compliments and consolations of her neighbours
in a dark room, out of which she stole privately every night and morning
to see the cows milked; and after a few days declared that she thought a
widow might employ herself better than in nursing grief; and that, for
her part, she was resolved that the fortunes of her children should not
be impaired by her neglect.

She therefore immediately applied herself to the reformation of abuses.
She gave away the dogs, discharged the servants of the kennel and
stable, and sent the horses to the next fair, but rated at so high a
price that they returned unsold. She was resolved to have nothing idle
about her, and ordered them to be employed in common drudgery. They lost
their sleekness and grace, and were soon purchased at half the value.

She soon disencumbered herself from her weeds, and put on a riding-hood,
a coarse apron, and short petticoats, and has turned a large manour into
a farm, of which she takes the management wholly upon herself. She rises
before the sun to order the horses to their gears, and sees them well
rubbed down at their return from work; she attends the dairy morning and
evening, and watches when a calf falls that it may be carefully nursed;
she walks out among the sheep at noon, counts the lambs, and observes
the fences, and, where she finds a gap, stops it with a bush till it can
be better mended. In harvest she rides a-field in the waggon, and is
very liberal of her ale from a wooden bottle. At her leisure hours she
looks goose eggs, airs the wool-room, and turns the cheese.

When respect or curiosity brings visitants to her house, she entertains
them with prognosticks of a scarcity of wheat, or a rot among the sheep,
and always thinks herself privileged to dismiss them, when she is to see
the hogs fed, or to count her poultry on the roost.

The only things neglected about her are her children, whom she has
taught nothing but the lowest household duties. In my last visit I met
Miss Busy carrying grains to a sick cow, and was entertained with the
accomplishments of her eldest son, a youth of such early maturity, that
though he is only sixteen, she can trust him to sell corn in the market.
Her younger daughter, who is eminent for her beauty, though somewhat
tanned in making hay, was busy in pouring out ale to the ploughmen, that
every one might have an equal share.

I could not but look with pity on this young family, doomed by the
absurd prudence of their mother to ignorance and meanness: but when I
recommended a more elegant education, was answered, that she never saw
bookish or finical people grow rich, and that she was good for nothing
herself till she had forgotten the nicety of the boarding-school.

I am, Yours, &c.

BUCOLUS.



No. 139. TUESDAY, JULY 16, 1751

  --_Sit quod vis simplex duntanat et unum_. Hor. Art. Poet. 23.

  Let ev'ry piece be simple and be one.

It is required by Aristotle to the perfection of a tragedy, and is
equally necessary to every other species of regular composition, that it
should have a beginning, a middle, and an end. "The beginning," says he,
"is that which hath nothing necessarily previous, but to which that
which follows is naturally consequent; the end, on the contrary, is that
which by necessity, or, at least, according to the common course of
things, succeeds something else, but which implies nothing consequent to
itself; the middle is connected on one side to something that naturally
goes before, and on the other to something that naturally follows it."

Such is the rule laid down by this great critick, for the disposition of
the different parts of a well-constituted fable. It must begin where it
may be made intelligible without introduction; and end where the mind is
left in repose, without expectation of any further event. The
intermediate passages must join the last effect to the first cause, by a
regular and unbroken concatenation; nothing must be, therefore,
inserted, which does not apparently arise from something foregoing, and
properly make way for something that succeeds it.

This precept is to be understood in its rigour only with respect to
great and essential events, and cannot be extended in the same force to
minuter circumstances and arbitrary decorations, which yet are more
happy, as they contribute more to the main design; for it is always a
proof of extensive thought and accurate circumspection, to promote
various purposes by the same act; and the idea of an ornament admits
use, though it seems to exclude necessity.

Whoever purposes, as it is expressed by Milton, _to build the lofty
rhyme_, must acquaint himself with this law of poetical architecture,
and take care that his edifice be solid as well as beautiful; that
nothing stand single or independent, so as that it may be taken away
without injuring the rest; but that, from the foundation to the
pinnacles, one part rest firm upon another.

The regular and consequential distribution is among common authors
frequently neglected; but the failures of those, whose example can have
no influence, may be safely overlooked, nor is it of much use to recall
obscure and unguarded names to memory for the sake of sporting with
their infamy. But if there is any writer whose genius can embellish
impropriety, and whose authority can make errour venerable, his works
are the proper objects of critical inquisition. To expunge faults where
there are no excellencies is a task equally useless with that of the
chymist, who employs the arts of separation and refinement upon ore in
which no precious metal is contained to reward his operations.

The tragedy of Samson Agonistes has been celebrated as the second work
of the great author of Paradise Lost, and opposed, with all the
confidence of triumph, to the dramatick performances of other nations.
It contains, indeed, just sentiments, maxims of wisdom, and oracles of
piety, and many passages written with the ancient spirit of choral
poetry, in which there is a just and pleasing mixture of Seneca's moral
declamation, with the wild enthusiasm of the Greek writers. It is,
therefore, worthy of examination, whether a performance thus illuminated
with genius, and enriched with learning, is composed according to the
indispensable laws of Aristotelian criticism: and, omitting, at present,
all other considerations, whether it exhibits a beginning, a middle, and
an end.

The beginning is undoubtedly beautiful and proper, opening with a
graceful abruptness, and proceeding naturally to a mournful recital of
facts necessary to be known:

  _Samson_. A little onward lend thy guiding hand
  To these dark steps, a little further on;
  For yonder bank hath choice of sun and shade:
  There I am wont to sit, when any chance
  Relieves me from my task of servile toil,
  Daily in the common prison else enjoin'd me.--
  O, wherefore was my birth from Heav'n foretold
  Twice by an Angel?--
  Why was my breeding order'd and prescrib'd,
  As of a person separate to God,
  Design'd for great exploits; if I must die
  Betray'd, captiv'd, and both my eyes put out?--
  Whom have I to complain of but myself?
  Who this high gift of strength committed to me,
  In what part lodg'd, how easily bereft me,
  Under the seal of silence could not keep:
  But weakly to a woman must reveal it.

His soliloquy is interrupted by a chorus or company of men of his own
tribe, who condole his miseries, extenuate his fault, and conclude with
a solemn vindication of divine justice. So that at the conclusion of the
first act there is no design laid, no discovery made, nor any
disposition formed towards the consequent event.

In the second act, Manoah, the father of Samson, comes to seek his son,
and, being shewn him by the chorus, breaks out into lamentations of his
misery, and comparisons of his present with his former state,
representing to him the ignominy which his religion suffers, by the
festival this day celebrated in honour of Dagon, to whom the idolaters
ascribed his overthrow.

              --Thou bear'st
  Enough, and more, the burthen of that fault;
  Bitterly hast thou paid, and still art paying
  That rigid score. A worse thing yet remains,
  This day the Philistines a popular feast
  Here celebrate in Gaza; and proclaim
  Great pomp, and sacrifice, and praises loud
  To Dagon, as their God who hath deliver'd
  Thee, Samson, bound and blind, into their hands,
  Them out of thine, who slew'st them many a slain.

Samson, touched with this reproach, makes a reply equally penitential
and pious, which his father considers as the effusion of prophetick
confidence:

  _Samson_.--He, be sure,
  Will not connive, or linger, thus provok'd,
  But will arise and his great name assert:
  Dagon must stoop, and shall ere long receive
  Such a discomfit, as shall quite despoil him
  Of all these boasted trophies won on me.

  _Manoah_. With cause this hope relieves thee, and these words
  I as a prophecy receive; for God,
  Nothing more certain, will not long defer
  To vindicate the glory of his name.

This part of the dialogue, as it might tend to animate or exasperate
Samson, cannot, I think, be censured as wholly superfluous; but the
succeeding dispute, in which Samson contends to die, and which his
father breaks off, that he may go to solicit his release, is only
valuable for its own beauties, and has no tendency to introduce any
thing that follows it.

The next event of the drama is the arrival of Dalila, with all her
graces, artifices, and allurements. This produces a dialogue, in a very
high degree elegant and instructive, from which she retires, after she
has exhausted her persuasions, and is no more seen nor heard of; nor has
her visit any effect but that of raising the character of Samson.

In the fourth act enters Harapha, the giant of Gath, whose name had
never been mentioned before, and who has now no other motive of coming,
than to see the man whose strength and actions are so loudly celebrated:

  _Haraph_.--Much I have heard
  Of thy prodigious might and feats perform'd,
  Incredible to me, in this displeas'd,
  That I was never present in the place
  Of those encounters, where we might have tried
  Each other's force in camp or listed fields;
  And now am come to see of whom such noise
  Hath walk'd about, and each limb to survey,
  If thy appearance answer loud report.

Samson challenges him to the combat; and, after an interchange of
reproaches, elevated by repeated defiance on one side, and imbittered by
contemptuous insults on the other, Harapha retires; we then hear it
determined by Samson, and the chorus, that no consequence good or bad
will proceed from their interview:

  _Chorus_. He will directly to the lords, I fear,
  And with malicious counsel stir them up
  Some way or other yet farther to afflict thee.

  _Sams_. He must allege some cause, and offer'd fight
  Will not dare mention, lest a question rise
  Whether he durst accept the offer or not;
  And, that he durst not, plain enough appear'd.

At last, in the fifth act, appears a messenger from the lords assembled
at the festival of Dagon, with a summons by which Samson is required to
come and entertain them with some proof of his strength. Samson, after a
short expostulation, dismisses him with a firm and resolute refusal;
but, during the absence of the messenger, having a while defended the
propriety of his conduct, he at last declares himself moved by a secret
impulse to comply, and utters some dark presages of a great event to be
brought to pass by his agency, under the direction of Providence:

  _Sams_. Be of good courage, I begin to feel
  Some rousing motions in me, which dispose
  To something extraordinary my thoughts.
  I with this messenger will go along,
  Nothing to do, be sure, that may dishonour
  Our Law, or stain my vow of Nazarite.
  If there be aught of presage in the mind,
  This day will be remarkable in my life
  By some great act, or of my days the last.

While Samson is conducted off by the messenger, his father returns with
hopes of success in his solicitation, upon which he confers with the
chorus till their dialogue is interrupted, first by a shout of triumph,
and afterwards by screams of horrour and agony. As they stand
deliberating where they shall be secure, a man who had been present at
the show enters, and relates how Samson, having prevailed on his guide
to suffer him to lean against the main pillars of the theatrical
edifice, tore down the roof upon the spectators and himself:

             --Those two massy pillars,
  With horrible convulsion, to and fro
  He tugg'd, he shook, till down they came, and drew
  The whole roof after them, with burst of thunder
  Upon the heads of all who sat beneath--
  Samson, with these immixt, inevitably
  Pull'd down the same destruction on himself.

This is undoubtedly a just and regular catastrophe, and the poem,
therefore, has a beginning and an end which Aristotle himself could not
have disapproved; but it must be allowed to want a middle, since nothing
passes between the first act and the last, that either hastens or delays
the death of Samson. The whole drama, if its superfluities were cut off,
would scarcely fill a single act; yet this is the tragedy which
ignorance has admired, and bigotry applauded.



No. 140. SATURDAY, JULY 20, 1751.

  --_Quis tam Lucili fautor inepte est,
  Ut non hoc fateatur?_ HOR. Lib. i. Sat. x. 2.

  What doating bigot, to his faults so blind,
  As not to grant me this, can Milton find?

It is common, says Bacon, to desire the end without enduring the means.
Every member of society feels and acknowledges the necessity of
detecting crimes, yet scarce any degree of virtue or reputation is able
to secure an informer from publick hatred. The learned world has always
admitted the usefulness of critical disquisitions, yet he that attempts
to show, however modestly, the failures of a celebrated writer, shall
surely irritate his admirers, and incur the imputation of envy,
captiousness, and malignity.

With this danger full in my view, I shall proceed to examine the
sentiments of Milton's tragedy, which, though much less liable to
censure than the disposition of his plan, are, like those of other
writers, sometimes exposed to just exceptions for want of care, or want
of discernment.

Sentiments are proper and improper as they consist more or less with the
character and circumstances of the person to whom they are attributed,
with the rules of the composition in which they are found, or with the
settled and unalterable nature of things.

It is common among the tragick poets to introduce their persons alluding
to events or opinions, of which they could not possibly have any
knowledge. The barbarians of remote or newly discovered regions often
display their skill in European learning. The god of love is mentioned
in Tamerlane with all the familiarity of a Roman epigrammatist; and a
late writer has put Harvey's doctrine of the circulation of the blood
into the mouth of a Turkish statesman, who lived near two centuries
before it was known even to philosophers or anatomists.

Milton's learning, which acquainted him with the manners of the ancient
eastern nations, and his invention, which required no assistance from
the common cant of poetry, have preserved him from frequent outrages of
local or chronological propriety. Yet he has mentioned Chalybean steel,
of which it is not very likely that his chorus should have heard, and
has made Alp the general name of a mountain, in a region where the Alps
could scarcely be known:

  No medicinal liquor can assuage,
  Nor breath of cooling air from snowy Alp.

He has taught Samson the tales of Circe, and the Syrens, at which he
apparently hints in his colloquy with Dalila:

   --I know thy trains,
  Though dearly to my cost, thy gins, and toils;
  Thy fair _enchanted cup_, and _warbling charms_
  No more on me have pow'r.

But the grossest errour of this kind is the solemn introduction of the
Phoenix in the last scene; which is faulty, not only as it is
incongruous to the personage to whom it is ascribed, but as it is so
evidently contrary to reason and nature, that it ought never to be
mentioned but as a fable in any serious poem:

          --Virtue giv'n for lost,
  Deprest, and overthrown, as seem'd,
  Like that self-begotten bird
  In the Arabian woods embost,
  That no second knows nor third,
  And lay ere while a holocaust,
  From out her ashy womb now teem'd,
  Revives, reflourishes, then vigorous most
  When most unactive deem'd,
  And though her body die, her fame survives
  A secular bird, ages of lives.

Another species of impropriety is the unsuitableness of thoughts to the
general character of the poem. The seriousness and solemnity of tragedy
necessarily reject all pointed or epigrammatical expressions, all remote
conceits and opposition of ideas. Samson's complaint is therefore too
elaborate to be natural:

  As in the land of darkness, yet in light,
  To live a life half dead, a living death,
  And bury'd; but, O yet more miserable!
  Myself, my sepulchre, a moving grave,
  Buried, yet not exempt,
  By privilege of death and burial,
  From worst of other evils, pains and wrongs.

All allusions to low and trivial objects, with which contempt is usually
associated, are doubtless unsuitable to a species of composition which
ought to be always awful, though not always magnificent. The remark
therefore of the chorus on good or bad news seems to want elevation:

  _Manoah_. A little stay will bring some notice hither.
  _Chor_. Of good _or_ bad so great, of bad the sooner;
  For evil news _rides post_, while good news _baits_.

But of all meanness that has least to plead which is produced by mere
verbal conceits, which, depending only upon sounds, lose their existence
by the change of a syllable. Of this kind is the following dialogue:

  _Chor_. But had we best retire? I see a _storm_.

  _Sams_. Fair days have oft contracted wind and rain.

  _Chor_. But this another kind of tempest brings.

  _Sams_. Be less abstruse, my riddling days are past.

  _Chor_. Look now for no enchanting voice, nor fear
  The bait of honied words; a rougher tongue
  Draws hitherward; I know him by his stride,
  The giant _Harapha_.--

And yet more despicable are the lines in which Manoah's paternal
kindness is commended by the chorus:

  Fathers are wont to _lay up_ for their sons,
  Thou for thy son art bent to _lay out_ all.

Samson's complaint of the inconveniencies of imprisonment is not wholly
without verbal quaintness:

  --I, a prisoner chain'd, scarce freely draw
  The air, imprison'd also, close and damp.

From the sentiments we may properly descend to the consideration of the
language, which, in imitation of the ancients, is through the whole
dialogue remarkably simple and unadorned, seldom heightened by epithets,
or varied by figures; yet sometimes metaphors find admission, even where
their consistency is not accurately preserved. Thus Samson confounds
loquacity with a shipwreck:

  How could I once look up, or heave the head,
  Who, like a foolish _pilot_, have _shipwreck'd_
  My _vessel_ trusted to me from above,
  Gloriously _rigg'd_; and for a word, a tear,
  Fool! have _divulg'd_ the _secret gift_ of God
  To a deceitful woman?--

And the chorus talks of adding fuel to flame in a report:

  He's gone, and who knows how he may _report_
  Thy _words_, by _adding fuel to the flame_?

The versification is in the dialogue much more smooth and harmonious,
than in the parts allotted to the chorus, which are often so harsh and
dissonant, as scarce to preserve, whether the lines end with or without
rhymes, any appearance of metrical regularity:

  Or do my eyes misrepresent? Can this be he,
  That heroic, that renown'd,
  Irresistible Samson? whom unarm'd
  No strength of man, or fiercest wild beast, could withstand;
  Who tore the lion, as the lion tears the kid.

Since I have thus pointed out the faults of Milton, critical integrity
requires that I should endeavour to display his excellencies, though
they will not easily be discovered in short quotations, because they
consist in the justness of diffuse reasonings, or in the contexture and
method of continued dialogues; this play having none of those
descriptions, similies, or splendid sentences, with which other
tragedies are so lavishly adorned.  Yet some passages may be selected
which seem to deserve particular notice, either as containing sentiments
of passion, representations of life, precepts of conduct, or sallies of
imagination. It is not easy to give a stronger representation of the
weariness of despondency, than in the words of Samson to his father:

  --I feel my genial spirits droop,
  My hopes all flat, Nature within me seems
  In all her functions weary of herself,
  My race of glory run, and race of shame,
  And I shall shortly be with them that rest.

The reply of Samson to the flattering Dalila affords a just and striking
description of the stratagems and allurements of feminine hypocrisy:

  --These are thy wonted arts,
  And arts of every woman false like thee,
  To break all faith, all vows, deceive, betray,
  Then as repentant to submit, beseech,
  And reconcilement move with feign'd remorse,
  Confess and promise wonders in her change;
  Not truly penitent, but chief to try
  Her husband, how far urg'd his patience bears,
  His virtue or weakness which way to assail:
  Then with more cautious and instructed skill
  Again transgresses, and again submits.

When Samson has refused to make himself a spectacle at the feast of
Dagon, he first justifies his behaviour to the chorus, who charge him
with having served the Philistines, by a very just distinction: and then
destroys the common excuse of cowardice and servility, which always
confound temptation with compulsion:

  _Chor_. Yet with thy strength thou serv'st the Philistines.

  _Sams_. Not in their idol worship, but by labour
  Honest and lawful to deserve my food
  Of those, who have me in their civil power.

  _Chor_. Where the heart joins not, outward acts defile not.

  _Sams_. Where outward force constrains, the sentence holds.
  But who constrains me to the temple of Dagon,
  Not dragging? The Philistine lords command.
  Commands are no constraints. If I obey them,
  I do it freely, venturing to displease
  God for the fear of Man, and Man prefer,
  Set God behind.

The complaint of blindness which Samson pours out at the beginning of
the tragedy is equally addressed to the passions and the fancy. The
enumeration of his miseries is succeeded by a very pleasing train of
poetical images, and concluded by such expostulation and wishes, as
reason too often submits to learn from despair:

  O first created Beam, and thou great Word
  "Let there be light, and light was over all;"
  Why am I thus bereav'd thy prime decree?
  The sun to me is dark
  And silent as the moon,
  When she deserts the night
  Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
  Since light so necessary is to life,
  And almost life itself, if it be true
  That light is in the soul,
  She all in every part; why was the sight
  To such a tender hall as the eye confin'd,
  So obvious and so easy to be quench'd?
  And not, as feeling, through all parts diffus'd,
  That she may look at will through every pore?

Such are the faults and such the beauties of Samson Agonistes, which I
have shown with no other purpose than to promote the knowledge of true
criticism. The everlasting verdure of Milton's laurels has nothing to
fear from the blasts of malignity; nor can my attempt produce any other
effect, than to strengthen their shoots by lopping their luxuriance[g].
[Footnote g: This is not the language of an accomplice in Lauder's
imposition.--ED.]



No. 141. TUESDAY, JULY 23, 1751.

  _Hilarisque, tamen cum pondere, virtus_. STAT.

  Greatness with ease, and gay severity.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Politicians have long observed, that the greatest events may be
often traced back to slender causes. Petty competition or casual
friendship, the prudence of a slave, or the garrulity of a woman, have
hindered or promoted the most important schemes, and hastened or
retarded the revolutions of empire.

Whoever shall review his life will generally find, that the whole tenour
of his conduct has been determined by some accident of no apparent
moment, or by a combination of inconsiderable circumstances, acting when
his imagination was unoccupied, and his judgment unsettled; and that his
principles and actions have taken their colour from some secret
infusion, mingled without design in the current of his ideas. The
desires that predominate in our hearts, are instilled by imperceptible
communications at the time when we look upon the various scenes of the
world, and the different employments of men, with the neutrality of
inexperience; and we come forth from the nursery or the school,
invariably destined to the pursuit of great acquisitions, or petty
accomplishments.

Such was the impulse by which I have been kept in motion from my
earliest years. I was born to an inheritance which gave my childhood a
claim to distinction and caresses, and was accustomed to hear applauses,
before they had much influence on my thoughts. The first praise of which
I remember myself sensible was that of good-humour, which, whether I
deserved it or not when it was bestowed, I have since made it my whole
business to propagate and maintain.

When I was sent to school, the gaiety of my look, and the liveliness of
my loquacity, soon gained me admission to hearts not yet fortified
against affection by artifice or interest. I was entrusted with every
stratagem, and associated in every sport; my company gave alacrity to a
frolick, and gladness to a holiday. I was indeed so much employed in
adjusting or executing schemes of diversion, that I had no leisure for
my tasks, but was furnished with exercises, and instructed in my
lessons, by some kind patron of the higher classes. My master, not
suspecting my deficiency, or unwilling to detect what his kindness would
not punish nor his impartiality excuse, allowed me to escape with a
slight examination, laughed at the pertness of my ignorance, and the
sprightliness of my absurdities, and could not forbear to show that he
regarded me with such tenderness, as genius and learning can seldom
excite.

From school I was dismissed to the university, where I soon drew upon me
the notice of the younger students, and was the constant partner of
their morning walks, and evening compotations. I was not indeed much
celebrated for literature, but was looked on with indulgence as a man of
parts, who wanted nothing but the dulness of a scholar, and might become
eminent whenever he should condescend to labour and attention. My tutor
a while reproached me with negligence, and repressed my sallies with
supercilious gravity; yet, having natural good-humour lurking in his
heart, he could not long hold out against the power of hilarity, but
after a few months began to relax the muscles of disciplinarian
moroseness, received me with smiles after an elopement, and, that he
might not betray his trust to his fondness, was content to spare my
diligence by increasing his own.

Thus I continued to dissipate the gloom of collegiate austerity, to
waste my own life in idleness, and lure others from their studies, till
the happy hour arrived, when I was sent to London. I soon discovered the
town to be the proper element of youth and gaiety, and was quickly
distinguished as a wit by the ladies, a species of beings only heard of
at the university, whom I had no sooner the happiness of approaching
than I devoted all my faculties to the ambition of pleasing them.

A wit, Mr. Rambler, in the dialect of ladies, is not always a man who,
by the action of a vigorous fancy upon comprehensive knowledge, brings
distant ideas unexpectedly together, who, by some peculiar acuteness,
discovers resemblance in objects dissimilar to common eyes, or, by
mixing heterogeneous notions, dazzles the attention with sudden
scintillations of conceit. A lady's wit is a man who can make ladies
laugh, to which, however easy it may seem, many gifts of nature, and
attainments of art, must commonly concur. He that hopes to be received
as a wit in female assemblies, should have a form neither so amiable as
to strike with admiration, nor so coarse as to raise disgust, with an
understanding too feeble to be dreaded, and too forcible to be despised.
The other parts of the character are more subject to variation; it was
formerly essential to a wit, that half his back should be covered with a
snowy fleece, and, at a time yet more remote, no man was a wit without
his boots. In the days of the _Spectator_ a snuff-box seems to have been
indispensable; but in my time an embroidered coat was sufficient,
without any precise regulation of the rest of his dress.

But wigs and boots and snuff-boxes are vain, without a perpetual
resolution to be merry, and who can always find supplies of mirth?
Juvenal indeed, in his comparison of the two opposite philosophers,
wonders only whence an unexhausted fountain of tears could be
discharged: but had Juvenal, with all his spirit, undertaken my
province, he would have found constant gaiety equally difficult to be
supported. Consider, Mr. Rambler, and compassionate the condition of a
man, who has taught every company to expect from him a continual feast
of laughter, an unintermitted stream of jocularity. The task of every
other slave has an end. The rower in time reaches the port; the
lexicographer at last finds the conclusion of his alphabet; only the
hapless wit has his labour always to begin, the call for novelty is
never satisfied, and one jest only raises expectation of another.

I know that among men of learning and asperity the retainers to the
female world are not much regarded: yet I cannot but hope that if you
knew at how dear a rate our honours are purchased, you would look with
some gratulation on our success, and with some pity on our miscarriages.
Think on the misery of him who is condemned to cultivate barrenness and
ransack vacuity; who is obliged to continue his talk when his meaning is
spent, to raise merriment without images, to harass his imagination in
quest of thoughts which he cannot start, and his memory in pursuit of
narratives which he cannot overtake; observe the effort with which he
strains to conceal despondency by a smile, and the distress in which he
sits while the eyes of the company are fixed upon him as the last refuge
from silence and dejection.

It were endless to recount the shifts to which I have been reduced, or
to enumerate the different species of artificial wit. I regularly
frequented coffee-houses, and have often lived a week upon an
expression, of which he who dropped it did not know the value. When
fortune did not favour my erratick industry, I gleaned jests at home
from obsolete farces. To collect wit was indeed safe, for I consorted
with none that looked much into books, but to disperse it was the
difficulty. A seeming negligence was often useful, and I have very
successfully made a reply not to what the lady had said, but to what it
was convenient for me to hear; for very few were so perverse as to
rectify a mistake which had given occasion to a burst of merriment.
Sometimes I drew the conversation up by degrees to a proper point, and
produced a conceit which I had treasured up, like sportsmen who boast of
killing the foxes which they lodge in the covert. Eminence is, however,
in some happy moments, gained at less expense; I have delighted a whole
circle at one time with a series of quibbles, and made myself good
company at another, by scalding my fingers, or mistaking a lady's lap
for my own chair.

These are artful deceits and useful expedients; but expedients are at
length exhausted, and deceits detected. Time itself, among other
injuries, diminishes the power of pleasing, and I now find, in my
forty-fifth year, many pranks and pleasantries very coldly received,
which had formerly filled a whole room with jollity and acclamation.
I am under the melancholy necessity of supporting that character by study,
which I gained by levity, having learned too late that gaiety must be
recommended by higher qualities, and that mirth can never please long
but as the efflorescence of a mind loved for its luxuriance, but
esteemed for its usefulness.

I am, &c.

PAPILIUS.



No. 142. SATURDAY, JULY 27, 1751.

  [Greek: Entha d aner eniaue pelorios--
  --oude, met allous
  Poleit, all apaneuthen eon athemistia ede.
  Kai gar Oaum etetukto pelorion oude epskei
  Andri ge sitophagps.] HOMER. Od. [Greek: I'.] 187.

  A giant shepherd here his flock maintains
  Far from the rest, and solitary reigns,
  In shelter thick of horrid shade reclin'd;
  And gloomy mischiefs labour in the mind.
  A form enormous! far unlike the race
  Of human birth, in stature or in face. POPE.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Having been accustomed to retire annually from the town, I lately
accepted the invitation of Eugenio, who has an estate and seat in a
distant county. As we were unwilling to travel without improvement, we
turned often from the direct road to please ourselves with the view of
nature or of art; we examined every wild mountain and medicinal spring,
criticised every edifice, contemplated every ruin, and compared every
scene of action with the narratives of historians. By this succession of
amusements we enjoyed the exercise of a journey without suffering the
fatigue, and had nothing to regret but that, by a progress so leisurely
and gentle, we missed the adventures of a post-chaise, and the pleasure
of alarming villages with the tumult of our passage, and of disguising
our insignificancy by the dignity of hurry.

The first week after our arrival at Eugenio's house was passed in
receiving visits from his neighbours, who crowded about him with all the
eagerness of benevolence; some impatient to learn the news of the court
and town, that they might be qualified by authentick information to
dictate to the rural politicians on the next bowling day; others
desirous of his interest to accommodate disputes, or his advice in the
settlement of their fortunes and the marriage of their children.

The civilities which he had received were soon to be returned; and I
passed sometime with great satisfaction in roving through the country,
and viewing the seats, gardens, and plantations, which are scattered
over it. My pleasure would indeed have been greater had I been sometimes
allowed to wander in a park or wilderness alone; but to appear as a
friend of Eugenio was an honour not to be enjoyed without some
inconveniencies: so much was every one solicitous for my regard, that I
could seldom escape to solitude, or steal a moment from the emulation of
complaisance, and the vigilance of officiousness.

In these rambles of good neighbourhood, we frequently passed by a house
of unusual magnificence. While I had my curiosity yet distracted among
many novelties, it did not much attract my observation; but in a short
time I could not forbear surveying it with particular notice; for the
length of the wall which inclosed the gardens, the disposition of the
shades that waved over it, and the canals of which I could obtain some
glimpses through the trees from our own windows, gave me reason to
expect more grandeur and beauty than I had yet seen in that province. I
therefore inquired, as we rode by it, why we never, amongst our
excursions, spent an hour where there was such an appearance of
splendour and affluence? Eugenio told me that the seat which I so much
admired, was commonly called in the country the _haunted house_, and
that no visits were paid there by any of the gentlemen whom I had yet
seen. As the haunts of incorporeal beings are generally ruinous,
neglected, and desolate, I easily conceived that there was something to
be explained, and told him that I supposed it only fairy ground, on
which we might venture by day-light without danger. The danger, says he,
is indeed only that of appearing to solicit the acquaintance of a man,
with whom it is not possible to converse without infamy, and who has
driven from him, by his insolence or malignity, every human being who
can live without him.

Our conversation was then accidentally interrupted; but my inquisitive
humour being now in motion, could not rest without a full account of
this newly discovered prodigy. I was soon informed that the fine house
and spacious gardens were haunted by squire Bluster, of whom it was very
easy to learn the character, since nobody had regard for him sufficient
to hinder them from telling whatever they could discover.

Squire Bluster is descended of an ancient family. The estate which his
ancestors had immemorially possessed was much augmented by captain
Bluster, who served under Drake in the reign of Elizabeth; and the
Blusters, who were before only petty gentlemen, have from that time
frequently represented the shire in parliament, been chosen to present
addresses, and given laws at hunting-matches and races. They were
eminently hospitable and popular, till the father of this gentleman died
of an election. His lady went to the grave soon after him, and left the
heir, then only ten years old, to the care of his grandmother, who would
not suffer him to be controlled, because she could not bear to hear him
cry; and never sent him to school, because she was not able to live
without his company. She taught him however very early to inspect the
steward's accounts, to dog the butler from the cellar, and to catch the
servants at a junket; so that he was at the age of eighteen a complete
master of all the lower arts of domestick policy, had often on the road
detected combinations between the coachman and the ostler, and procured
the discharge of nineteen maids for illicit correspondence with
cottagers and charwomen.

By the opportunities of parsimony which minority affords, and which the
probity of his guardians had diligently improved, a very large sum of
money was accumulated, and he found himself, when he took his affairs
into his own hands, the richest man in the county. It has been long the
custom of this family to celebrate the heir's completion of his
twenty-first year, by an entertainment, at which the house is thrown
open to all that are inclined to enter it, and the whole province flocks
together as to a general festivity. On this occasion young Bluster
exhibited the first tokens of his future eminence, by shaking his purse
at an old gentleman who had been the intimate friend of his father, and
offering to wager a greater sum than he could afford to venture; a
practice with which he has, at one time or other, insulted every
freeholder within ten miles round him.

His next acts of offence were committed in a contentious and spiteful
vindication of the privileges of his manours, and a rigorous and
relentless prosecution of every man that presumed to violate his game.
As he happens to have no estate adjoining equal to his own, his
oppressions are often borne without resistance, for fear of a long suit,
of which he delights to count the expenses without the least solicitude
about the event; for he knows, that where nothing but an honorary right
is contested, the poorer antagonist must always suffer, whatever shall
be the last decision of the law.

By the success of some of these disputes, he has so elated his
insolence, and, by reflection upon the general hatred which they have
brought upon him, so irritated his virulence, that his whole life is
spent in meditating or executing mischief. It is his common practice to
procure his hedges to be broken in the night, and then to demand
satisfaction for damages which his grounds have suffered from his
neighbour's cattle. An old widow was yesterday soliciting Eugenio to
enable her to replevin her only cow, then in the pound by squire
Bluster's order, who had sent one of his agents to take advantage of her
calamity, and persuade her to sell the cow at an under rate. He has
driven a day-labourer from his cottage, for gathering blackberries in a
hedge for his children, and has now an old woman in the county-gaol for
a trespass which she committed, by coming into his ground to pick up
acorns for her hog.

Money, in whatever hands, will confer power. Distress will fly to
immediate refuge, without much consideration of remote consequences.
Bluster has therefore a despotick authority in many families, whom he
has assisted, on pressing occasions, with larger sums than they can
easily repay. The only visits that he makes are to these houses of
misfortune, where he enters with the insolence of absolute command,
enjoys the terrours of the family, exacts their obedience, riots at
their charge, and in the height of his joy insults the father with
menaces, and the daughters with obscenity.

He is of late somewhat less offensive; for one of his debtors, after
gentle expostulations, by which he was only irritated to grosser
outrage, seized him by the sleeve, led him trembling into the
court-yard, and closed the door upon him in a stormy night. He took his
usual revenge next morning by a writ; but the debt was discharged by the
assistance of Eugenio.

It is his rule to suffer his tenants to owe him rent, because by this
indulgence he secures to himself the power of seizure whenever he has an
inclination to amuse himself with calamity, and feast his ears with
entreaties and lamentations. Yet as he is sometimes capriciously liberal
to those whom he happens to adopt as favourites, and lets his lands at a
cheap rate, his farms are never long unoccupied; and when one is ruined
by oppression, the possibility of better fortune quickly lures another
to supply his place.

Such is the life of squire Bluster; a man in whose power fortune has
liberally placed the means of happiness, but who has defeated all her
gifts of their end by the depravity of his mind. He is wealthy without
followers; he is magnificent without witnesses; he has birth without
alliance, and influence without dignity. His neighbours scorn him as a
brute; his dependants dread him as an oppressor; and he has only the
gloomy comfort of reflecting, that if he is hated, he is likewise
feared.

I am, Sir, &c.

VAGULUS.



No. 143. TUESDAY, JULY 30, 1751.

  _--Moveat cornicula risum
  Furtivis nudata coloribus.--_ HOR. Lib. i. Ep. i. 19.

  Lest when the birds their various colours claim,
  Stripp'd of his stolen pride, the crow forlorn
  Should stand the laughter of the publick scorn. FRANCIS.

Among the innumerable practices by which interest or envy have taught
those who live upon literary fame to disturb each other at their airy
banquets, one of the most common is the charge of plagiarism. When the
excellence of a new composition can no longer be contested, and malice
is compelled to give way to the unanimity of applause, there is yet this
one expedient to be tried, by which the author may be degraded, though
his work be reverenced; and the excellence which we cannot obscure, may
be set at such a distance as not to overpower our fainter lustre.

This accusation is dangerous, because, even when it is false, it may be
sometimes urged with probability. Bruyere declares, that we are come
into the world too late to produce any thing new, that nature and life
are preoccupied, and that description and sentiment have been long
exhausted. It is indeed certain, that whoever attempts any common
topick, will find unexpected coincidences of his thoughts with those of
other writers; nor can the nicest judgment always distinguish accidental
similitude from artful imitation. There is likewise a common stock of
images, a settled mode of arrangement, and a beaten track of transition,
which all authors suppose themselves at liberty to use, and which
produce the resemblance generally observable among contemporaries. So
that in books which best deserve the name of originals, there is little
new beyond the disposition of materials already provided; the same ideas
and combinations of ideas have been long in the possession of other
hands; and, by restoring to every man his own, as the Romans must have
returned to their cots from the possession of the world, so the most
inventive and fertile genius would reduce his folios to a few pages. Yet
the author who imitates his predecessors only by furnishing himself with
thoughts and elegancies out of the same general magazine of literature,
can with little more propriety be reproached as a plagiary, than the
architect can be censured as a mean copier of Angelo or Wren, because he
digs his marble from the same quarry, squares his stones by the same
art, and unites them in the columns of the same orders.

Many subjects fall under the consideration of an author, which, being
limited by nature, can admit only of slight and accidental diversities.
All definitions of the same thing must be nearly the same; and
descriptions, which are definitions of a more lax and fanciful kind,
must always have in some degree that resemblance to each other which
they all have to their object. Different poets describing the spring or
the sea would mention the zephyrs and the flowers, the billows and the
rocks; reflecting on human life, they would, without any communication
of opinions, lament the deceitfulness of hope, the fugacity of pleasure,
the fragility of beauty, and the frequency of calamity; and for
palliatives of these incurable miseries, they would concur in
recommending kindness, temperance, caution, and fortitude.

When therefore there are found in Virgil and Horace two similar
passages--

  _Hæ tibi erunt artes--
  Parcere subjectis, et debellare superbos_.    VIRG.

  To tame the proud, the fetter'd slave to free:
  These are imperial arts, and worthy thee.    DRYDEN.

  _Imperet bellante prior, jacentem
  Lenis in hostem_.    HOR.

  Let Cæsar spread his conquests far,
  Less pleas'd to triumph than to spare--

it is surely not necessary to suppose with a late critick, that one is
copied from the other, since neither Virgil nor Horace can be supposed
ignorant of the common duties of humanity, and the virtue of moderation
in success.

Cicero and Ovid have on very different occasions remarked how little of
the honour of a victory belongs to the general, when his soldiers and
his fortune have made their deductions; yet why should Ovid be suspected
to have owed to Tully an observation which perhaps occurs to every man
that sees or hears of military glories?

Tully observes of Achilles, that had not Homer written, his valour had
been without praise:

  _Nisi Ilias illa extitisset, idem tumulus qui corpus ejus contexerat,
  nomen ejus obruisset_.

  Unless the Iliad had been published, his name had been lost in the
  tomb that covered his body.

Horace tells us with more energy that there were brave men before the
wars of Troy, but they were lost in oblivion for want of a poet:

  _Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona
  Multi; sed omnes illachrymabiles
    Urgentur, ignotique longá
      Nocte, carent quia vate sacro_.

  Before great Agamemnon reign'd,
    Reign'd kings as great as he, and brave,
  Whose huge ambition's now contain'd
    In the small compass of a grave:
  In endless night they sleep, unwept, unknown:
  No bard had they to make all time their own.    FRANCIS.

Tully inquires, in the same oration, why, but for fame, we disturb a
short life with so many fatigues?

  _Quid est quod in hoc tam exiguo vitae curriculo et tam brevi, tantis
  nos in laboribus exerceamus?_

  Why in so small a circuit of life should we employ ourselves in so
  many fatigues?

Horace inquires in the same manner,

  _Quid brevi fortes jaculamur aevo
  Multa?_

  Why do we aim, with eager strife,
  At things beyond the mark of life?      FRANCIS.

when our life is of so short duration, why we form such numerous
designs? But Horace, as well as Tully, might discover that records are
needful to preserve the memory of actions, and that no records were so
durable as poems; either of them might find out that life is short, and
that we consume it in unnecessary labour.

There are other flowers of fiction so widely scattered and so easily
cropped, that it is scarcely just to tax the use of them as an act by
which any particular writer is despoiled of his garland; for they may be
said to have been planted by the ancients in the open road of poetry for
the accommodation of their successors, and to be the right of every one
that has art to pluck them without injuring their colours or their
fragrance. The passage of Orpheus to hell, with the recovery and second
loss of Eurydice, have been described after Boetius by Pope, in such a
manner as might justly leave him suspected of imitation, were not the
images such as they might both have derived from more ancient writers.

  _Quae sontes agitant metu,
  Ultrices scelerum deæ
  Jam masta: lacrymis madent,
  Non Ixionium caput
  Velox præcipitat rota_.

  The pow'rs of vengeance, while they hear,
  Touch'd with compassion, drop a tear:
  Ixion's rapid wheel is bound,
  Fix'd in attention to the sound.       F. LEWIS.

  Thy stone, O Sysiphus, stands still,
  Ixion rests upon the wheel,
    And the pale spectres dance!
  The furies sink upon their iron beds.     POPE

  _Tandem, vincimur, arbiter
  Umbrarum, miserans, ait--
  Donemus, comitem viro,
  Emtam carmine, conjugem_.

  Subdu'd at length, Hell's pitying monarch cry'd,
  The song rewarding, let us yield the bride.     F. LEWIS.

  He sung; and hell consented
    To hear the poet's prayer;
  Stern Proserpine relented,
    And gave him back the fair.      POPE

  _Heu, noctis prope terminos
    Orpheus Eurydicen suam
    Vidit, perdidit, occidit_.

  Nor yet the golden verge of day begun,
    When Orpheus, her unhappy lord,
    Eurydice to life restor'd,
  At once beheld, and lost, and was undone.   F. LEWIS.

  But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes:
  Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!    POPE.

No writer can be fully convicted of imitation, except there is a
concurrence of more resemblance than can be imagined to have happened by
chance; as where the same ideas are conjoined without any natural series
or necessary coherence, or where not only the thought but the words are
copied. Thus it can scarcely be doubted, that in the first of the
following passages Pope remembered Ovid, and that in the second he
copied Crashaw:

  _Saepe pater dixit, studium quid inutile tentas?
    Maeonides nullas ipse reliquit opes--
  Sponte suâ carmen numeros veniebat ad aptos,
    Et quod conabar scribere, versus erat_.      OVID.

  Quit, quit this barren trade, my father cry'd:
  Ev'n Homer left no riches when he dy'd--
  In verse spontaneous flow'd my native strain,
  Forc'd by no sweat or labour of the brain.    F. LEWIS.

  I left no calling for this idle trade;
  No duty broke, no father disobey'd;
  While yet a child, ere yet a fool to fame,
  I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.    POPE.

          --This plain floor,
  Believe me, reader, can say more
  Than many a braver marble can,
  Here lies a truly honest man.        CRASHAW.

  This modest stone, what few vain marbles can,
  May truly say, Here lies an honest man.     POPE.

Conceits, or thoughts not immediately impressed by sensible objects, or
necessarily arising from the coalition or comparison of common
sentiments, may be with great justice suspected whenever they are found
a second time. Thus Wallar probably owed to Grotius an elegant
compliment:

  Here lies the learned Savil's heir,
  So early wise, and lasting fair,
  That none, except her years they told,
  Thought her a child, or thought her old.          WALLER.

[Transcriber's note: Inconsistency in spelling Waller/Wallar in
original]

  _Unica lux saecli, genitoris gloria, nemo
   Quem puerum, nemo credidit esse senem_.      GROT.

  The age's miracle, his father's joy!
  Nor old you would pronounce him, nor a boy.       F. LEWIS.

And Prior was indebted for a pretty illustration to Alleyne's poetical
history of Henry the Seventh:

  For nought but light itself, itself can shew,
  And only kings can write, what kings can do.      ALLEYNE.

  Your musick's pow'r, your musick must disclose,
  For what light is, 'tis only light that shews.    PRIOR.

And with yet more certainty may the same writer be censured, for
endeavouring the clandestine appropriation of a thought which he
borrowed, surely without thinking himself disgraced, from an epigram of
Plato:

  [Greek: Tae Paphiae to katoptron, epei toiae men orasthai
  Ouk ethelo, oiae d' aen paros, ou dunamai.]

  Venus, take my votive glass,
  Since I am not what I was;
  What from this day I shall be,
  Venus, let me never see.

As not every instance of similitude can be considered as a proof of
imitation, so not every imitation ought to be stigmatized as plagiarism.
The adoption of a noble sentiment, or the insertion of a borrowed
ornament, may sometimes display so much judgment as will almost
compensate for invention: and an inferior genius may, without any
imputation of servility, pursue the path of the ancients, provided he
declines to tread in their footsteps.



No. 144. SATURDAY, AUGUST 3, 1751.

  --_Daphnidis arcum
  Fregisti et calamos: quae tu, perverse Menalea,
  Et quum vidisti puero donata, dolebas;
  Et si non aliqua nocuisses, mortuus esses._ VIRG. EC. iii. 12.

  The bow of Daphnis and the shafts you broke;
  When the fair boy receiv'd the gift of right;
  And but for mischief, you had dy'd for spite. DRYDEN.

It is impossible to mingle in conversation without observing the
difficulty with which a new name makes its way into the world. The first
appearance of excellence unites multitudes against it; unexpected
opposition rises up on every side; the celebrated and the obscure join
in the confederacy; subtlety furnishes arms to impudence, and invention
leads on credulity.

The strength and unanimity of this alliance is not easily conceived. It
might be expected that no man should suffer his heart to be inflamed
with malice, but by injuries; that none should busy himself in
contesting the pretensions of another, but when some right of his own
was involved in the question; that at least hostilities, commenced
without cause, should quickly cease; that the armies of malignity should
soon disperse, when no common interest could be found to hold them
together; and that the attack upon a rising character should be left to
those who had something to hope or fear from the event.

The hazards of those that aspire to eminence, would be much diminished
if they had none but acknowledged rivals to encounter. Their enemies
would then be few, and, what is yet of greater importance, would be
known. But what caution is sufficient to ward off the blows of invisible
assailants, or what force can stand against uninterrupted attacks, and a
continual succession of enemies? Yet such is the state of the world,
that no sooner can any man emerge from the crowd, and fix the eyes of
the publick upon him, than he stands as a mark to the arrows of lurking
calumny, and receives in the tumult of hostility, from distant and from
nameless hands, wounds not always easy to be cured.

It is probable that the onset against the candidates for renown, is
originally incited by those who imagine themselves in danger of
suffering by their success; but, when war is once declared, volunteers
flock to the standard, multitudes follow the camp only for want of
employment, and flying squadrons are dispersed to every part, so pleased
with an opportunity of mischief, that they toil without prospect of
praise, and pillage without hope of profit.

When any man has endeavoured to deserve distinction, he will be
surprised to hear himself censured where he could not expect to have
been named; he will find the utmost acrimony of malice among those whom
he never could have offended.

As there are to be found in the service of envy men of every diversity
of temper and degree of understanding, calumny is diffused by all arts
and methods of propagation. Nothing is too gross or too refined, too
cruel or too trifling, to be practised; very little regard is had to the
rules of honourable hostility, but every weapon is accounted lawful, and
those that cannot make a thrust at life are content to keep themselves
in play with petty malevolence, to tease with feeble blows and impotent
disturbance.

But as the industry of observation has divided the most miscellaneous
and confused assemblages into proper classes, and ranged the insects of
the summer, that torment us with their drones or stings, by their
several tribes; the persecutors of merit, notwithstanding their numbers,
may be likewise commodiously distinguished into Roarers, Whisperers, and
Moderators.

The Roarer is an enemy rather terrible than dangerous. He has no other
qualification for a champion of controversy than a hardened front and
strong voice. Having seldom so much desire to confute as to silence, he
depends rather upon vociferation than argument, and has very little care
to adjust one part of his accusation to another, to preserve decency in
his language, or probability in his narratives.

He has always a store of reproachful epithets and contemptuous
appellations, ready to be produced as occasion may require, which by
constant use he pours out with resistless volubility. If the wealth of a
trader is mentioned, he without hesitation devotes him to bankruptcy; if
the beauty and elegance of a lady be commended, he wonders how the town
can fall in love with rustick deformity; if a new performance of genius
happens to be celebrated, he pronounces the writer a hopeless idiot,
without knowledge of books or life, and without the understanding by
which it must be acquired. His exaggerations are generally without
effect upon those whom he compels to hear them; and though it will
sometimes happen that the timorous are awed by his violence, and the
credulous mistake his confidence for knowledge, yet the opinions which
he endeavours to suppress soon recover their former strength, as the
trees that bend to the tempest erect themselves again when its force is
past.

The Whisperer is more dangerous. He easily gains attention by a soft
address, and excites curiosity by an air of importance. As secrets are
not to be made cheap by promiscuous publication, he calls a select
audience about him, and gratifies their vanity with an appearance of
trust by communicating his intelligence in a low voice. Of the trader he
can tell that, though he seems to manage an extensive commerce, and
talks in high terms of the funds, yet his wealth is not equal to his
reputation; he has lately suffered much by an expensive project, and had
a greater share than is acknowledged in the rich ship that perished by
the storm. Of the beauty he has little to say, but that they who see her
in a morning do not discover all those graces which are admired in the
Park. Of the writer he affirms with great certainty, that though the
excellence of the work be incontestible, he can claim but a small part
of the reputation; that he owed most of the images and sentiments to a
secret friend; and that the accuracy and equality of the style was
produced by the successive correction of the chief criticks of the age.

As every one is pleased with imagining that he knows something not yet
commonly divulged, secret history easily gains credit; but it is for the
most part believed only while it circulates in whispers; and when once
it is openly told, is openly confuted.

The most pernicious enemy is the man of Moderation. Without interest in
the question, or any motive but honest curiosity, this impartial and
zealous inquirer after truth is ready to hear either side, and always
disposed to kind interpretations and favourable opinions. He hath heard
the trader's affairs reported with great variation, and, after a
diligent comparison of the evidence, concludes it probable that the
splendid superstructure of business being originally built upon a narrow
basis, has lately been found to totter; but between dilatory payment and
bankruptcy there is a great distance; many merchants have supported
themselves by expedients for a time, without any final injury to their
creditors; and what is lost by one adventure may be recovered by
another. He believes that a young lady pleased with admiration, and
desirous to make perfect what is already excellent, may heighten her
charms by artificial improvements, but surely most of her beauties must
be genuine, and who can say that he is wholly what he endeavours to
appear? The author he knows to be a man of diligence, who perhaps does
not sparkle with the fire of Homer, but has the judgment to discover his
own deficiencies, and to supply them by the help of others; and, in his
opinion, modesty is a quality so amiable and rare, that it ought to find
a patron wherever it appears, and may justly be preferred by the publick
suffrage to petulant wit and ostentatious literature.

He who thus discovers failings with unwillingness, and extenuates the
faults which cannot be denied, puts an end at once to doubt or
vindication; his hearers repose upon his candour and veracity, and admit
the charge without allowing the excuse.

Such are the arts by which the envious, the idle, the peevish, and the
thoughtless, obstruct that worth which they cannot equal, and, by
artifices thus easy, sordid, and detestable, is industry defeated,
beauty blasted, and genius depressed.



No. 145. TUESDAY, AUGUST 6, 1751.

  _Non, si priores Maeonius tenet
  Sedes Homerus, Pindaricae latent,
    Ceaeque, et Alcaei minaces,
      Stesichorique graves Camoenae_. HOR. Lib. iv. Od. ix. 5.

  What though the muse her Homer thrones
    High above all the immortal quire;
  Nor Pindar's raptures she disowns,
    Nor hides the plaintive Caean lyre;
  Alcaeus strikes the tyrant soul with dread,
  Nor yet is grave Stesichorus unread. FRANCIS.

It is allowed that vocations and employments of least dignity are of the
most apparent use; that the meanest artizan or manufacturer contributes
more to the accommodation of life, than the profound scholar and
argumentative theorist; and that the publick would suffer less present
inconvenience from the banishment of philosophers than from the
extinction of any common trade.

Some have been so forcibly struck with this observation, that they have,
in the first warmth of their discovery, thought it reasonable to alter
the common distribution of dignity, and ventured to condemn mankind of
universal ingratitude. For justice exacts, that those by whom we are
most benefited should be most honoured. And what labour can be more
useful than that which procures to families and communities those
necessaries which supply the wants of nature, or those conveniencies by
which ease, security, and elegance, are conferred?

This is one of the innumerable theories which the first attempt to
reduce them into practice certainly destroys. If we estimate dignity by
immediate usefulness, agriculture is undoubtedly the first and noblest
science; yet we see the plough driven, the clod broken, the manure
spread, the seeds scattered, and the harvest reaped, by men whom those
that feed upon their industry will never be persuaded to admit into the
same rank with heroes, or with sages; and who, after all the confessions
which truth may extort in favour of their occupation, must be content to
fill up the lowest class of the commonwealth, to form the base of the
pyramid of subordination, and lie buried in obscurity themselves, while
they support all that is splendid, conspicuous, or exalted.

It will be found upon a closer inspection, that this part of the conduct
of mankind is by no means contrary to reason or equity. Remuneratory
honours are proportioned at once to the usefulness and difficulty of
performances, and are properly adjusted by comparison of the mental and
corporeal abilities, which they appear to employ. That work, however
necessary, which is carried on only by muscular strength and manual
dexterity, is not of equal esteem, in the consideration of rational
beings, with the tasks that exercise the intellectual powers, and
require the active vigour of imagination or the gradual and laborious
investigations of reason.

The merit of all manual occupations seems to terminate in the inventor;
and surely the first ages cannot be charged with ingratitude; since
those who civilized barbarians, and taught them how to secure themselves
from cold and hunger, were numbered amongst their deities. But these
arts once discovered by philosophy, and facilitated by experience, are
afterwards practised with very little assistance from the faculties of
the soul; nor is any thing necessary to the regular discharge of these
inferior duties, beyond that rude observation which the most sluggish
intellect may practise, and that industry which the stimulations of
necessity naturally enforce.

Yet though the refusal of statues and panegyrick to those who employ
only their hands and feet in the service of mankind may be easily
justified, I am far from intending to incite the petulance of pride, to
justify the superciliousness of grandeur, or to intercept any part of
that tenderness and benevolence which, by the privilege of their common
nature, one may claim from another.

That it would be neither wise nor equitable to discourage the
husbandman, the labourer, the miner, or the smith, is generally granted;
but there is another race of beings equally obscure and equally
indigent, who, because their usefulness is less obvious to vulgar
apprehensions, live unrewarded and die unpitied, and who have been long
exposed to insult without a defender, and to censure without an
apologist.

The authors of London were formerly computed by Swift at several
thousands, and there is not any reason for suspecting that their number
has decreased. Of these only a very few can be said to produce, or
endeavour to produce, new ideas, to extend any principle of science, or
gratify the imagination with any uncommon train of images or contexture
of events; the rest, however laborious, however arrogant, can only be
considered as the drudges of the pen, the manufacturers of literature,
who have set up for authors, either with or without a regular
initiation, and, like other artificers, have no other care than to
deliver their tale of wares at the stated time.

It has been formerly imagined, that he who intends the entertainment or
instruction of others, must feel in himself some peculiar impulse of
genius; that he must watch the happy minute in which his natural fire is
excited, in which his mind is elevated with nobler sentiments,
enlightened with clearer views, and invigorated with stronger
comprehension; that he must carefully select his thoughts and polish his
expressions; and animate his efforts with the hope of raising a monument
of learning, which neither time nor envy shall be able to destroy.

But the authors whom I am now endeavouring to recommend have been too
long _hackneyed in the ways of men_ to indulge the chimerical ambition
of immortality; they have seldom any claim to the trade of writing, but
that they have tried some other without success; they perceive no
particular summons to composition, except the sound of the clock; they
have no other rule than the law or the fashion for admitting their
thoughts or rejecting them; and about the opinion of posterity they have
little solicitude, for their productions are seldom intended to remain
in the world longer than a week.

That such authors are not to be rewarded with praise is evident, since
nothing can be admired when it ceases to exist; but surely, though they
cannot aspire to honour, they may be exempted from ignominy, and adopted
in that order of men which deserves our kindness, though not our
reverence. These papers of the day, the _Ephemerae_ of learning, have
uses more adequate to the purposes of common life than more pompous and
durable volumes. If it is necessary for every man to be more acquainted
with his contemporaries than with past generations, and to rather know
the events which may immediately affect his fortune or quiet, than the
revolutions of ancient kingdoms, in which he has neither possessions nor
expectations; if it be pleasing to hear of the preferment and dismission
of statesmen, the birth of heirs, and the marriage of beauties, the
humble author of journals and gazettes must be considered as a liberal
dispenser of beneficial knowledge.

Even the abridger, compiler, and translator, though their labours cannot
be ranked with those of the diurnal historiographer, yet must not be
rashly doomed to annihilation. Every size of readers requires a genius
of correspondent capacity; some delight in abstracts and epitomes,
because they want room in their memory for long details, and content
themselves with effects, without inquiry after causes; some minds are
overpowered by splendour of sentiment, as some eyes are offended by a
glaring light; such will gladly contemplate an author in an humble
imitation, as we look without pain upon the sun in the water.

As every writer has his use, every writer ought to have his patrons; and
since no man, however high he may now stand, can be certain that he
shall not be soon thrown down from his elevation by criticism or
caprice, the common interest of learning requires that her sons should
cease from intestine hostilities, and, instead of sacrificing each other
to malice and contempt, endeavour to avert persecution from the meanest
of their fraternity.



No. 146. SATURDAY, AUGUST 10, 1751.

  _Sunt illic duo, tresve, qui revolvant
  Nostrarum tineas ineptiarum;
  Sed cum sponsio, fabultaeque lassae
  De scarpo fuerint incitato_. MART.

  'Tis possible that one or two
  These fooleries of mine may view;
  But then the bettings must be o'er,
  Nor Crab or Childers talk'd of more. F. LEWIS.

None of the projects or designs which exercise the mind of man are
equally subject to obstructions and disappointments with the pursuit of
fame. Riches cannot easily be denied to them who have something of
greater value to offer in exchange; he whose fortune is endangered by
litigation, will not refuse to augment the wealth of the lawyer; he
whose days are darkened by langour, or whose nerves are excruciated by
pain, is compelled to pay tribute to the science of healing. But praise
may be always omitted without inconvenience. When once a man has made
celebrity necessary to his happiness, he has put it in the power of the
weakest and most timorous malignity, if not to take away his
satisfaction, at least to withhold it. His enemies may indulge their
pride by airy negligence, and gratify their malice by quiet neutrality.
They that could never have injured a character by invectives, may
combine to annihilate it by silence; as the women of Rome threatened to
put an end to conquest and dominion, by supplying no children to the
commonwealth.

When a writer has with long toil produced a work intended to burst upon
mankind with unexpected lustre, and withdraw the attention of the
learned world from every other controversy or inquiry, he is seldom
contented to wait long without the enjoyment of his new praises. With an
imagination full of his own importance, he walks out like a monarch in
disguise to learn the various opinions of his readers. Prepared to feast
upon admiration; composed to encounter censures without emotion; and
determined not to suffer his quiet to be injured by a sensibility too
exquisite of praise or blame, but to laugh with equal contempt at vain
objections and injudicious commendations, he enters the places of
mingled conversation, sits down to his tea in an obscure corner, and,
while he appears to examine a file of antiquated journals, catches the
conversation of the whole room. He listens, but hears no mention of his
book, and therefore supposes that he has disappointed his curiosity by
delay; and that as men of learning would naturally begin their
conversation with such a wonderful novelty, they had digressed to other
subjects before his arrival. The company disperses, and their places are
supplied by others equally ignorant, or equally careless. The same
expectation hurries him to another place, from which the same
disappointment drives him soon away. His impatience then grows violent
and tumultuous; he ranges over the town with restless curiosity, and
hears in one quarter of a cricket-match, in another of a pick-pocket; is
told by some of an unexpected bankruptcy; by others of a turtle feast;
is sometimes provoked by importunate inquiries after the white bear, and
sometimes with praises of the dancing dog; he is afterwards entreated to
give his judgment upon a wager about the height of the Monument; invited
to see a foot-race in the adjacent villages; desired to read a ludicrous
advertisement; or consulted about the most effectual method of making
inquiry after a favourite cat. The whole world is busied in affairs
which he thinks below the notice of reasonable creatures, and which are
nevertheless sufficient to withdraw all regard from his labours and his
merits.

He resolves at last to violate his own modesty, and to recall the
talkers from their folly by an inquiry after himself. He finds every one
provided with an answer; one has seen the work advertised, but never met
with any that had read it; another has been so often imposed upon by
specious titles, that he never buys a book till its character is
established; a third wonders what any man can hope to produce after so
many writers of greater eminence; the next has inquired after the
author, but can hear no account of him, and therefore suspects the name
to be fictitious; and another knows him to be a man condemned by
indigence to write too frequently what he does not understand.

Many are the consolations with which the unhappy author endeavours to
allay his vexation, and fortify his patience. He has written with too
little indulgence to the understanding of common readers; he has fallen
upon an age in which solid knowledge, and delicate refinement, have
given way to a low merriment, and idle buffoonery, and therefore no
writer can hope for distinction, who has any higher purpose than to
raise laughter. He finds that his enemies, such as superiority will
always raise, have been industrious, while his performance was in the
press, to vilify and blast it; and that the bookseller, whom he had
resolved to enrich, has rivals that obstruct the circulation of the
copies. He at last reposes upon the consideration, that the noblest
works of learning and genius have always made their way slowly against
ignorance and prejudice; and that reputation, which is never to be lost,
must be gradually obtained, as animals of longest life are observed not
soon to attain their full stature and strength.

By such arts of voluntary delusion does every man endeavour to conceal
his own unimportance from himself. It is long before we are convinced of
the small proportion which every individual bears to the collective body
of mankind; or learn how few can be interested in the fortune of any
single man; how little vacancy is left in the world for any new object
of attention; to how small extent the brightest blaze of merit can be
spread amidst the mists of business and of folly; and how soon it is
clouded by the intervention of other novelties. Not only the writer of
books, but the commander of armies, and the deliverer of nations, will
easily outlive all noisy and popular reputation; he may be celebrated
for a time by the publick voice, but his actions and his name will soon
be considered as remote and unaffecting, and be rarely mentioned but by
those whose alliance gives them some vanity to gratify by frequent
commemoration.

It seems not to be sufficiently considered how little renown can be
admitted in the world. Mankind are kept perpetually busy by their fears
or desires, and have not more leisure from their own affairs, than to
acquaint themselves with the accidents of the current day. Engaged in
contriving some refuge from calamity, or in shortening the way to some
new possession, they seldom suffer their thoughts to wander to the past
or future; none but a few solitary students have leisure to inquire into
the claims of ancient heroes or sages; and names which hoped to range
over kingdoms and continents, shrink at last into cloisters or colleges.

Nor is it certain, that even of these dark and narrow habitations, these
last retreats of fame, the possession will be long kept. Of men devoted
to literature, very few extend their views beyond some particular
science, and the greater part seldom inquire, even in their own
profession, for any authors but those whom the present mode of study
happens to force upon their notice; they desire not to fill their minds
with unfashionable knowledge, but contentedly resign to oblivion those
books which they now find censured or neglected.

The hope of fame is necessarily connected with such considerations as
must abate the ardour of confidence, and repress the vigour of pursuit.
Whoever claims renown from any kind of excellence, expects to fill the
place which is now possessed by another; for there are already names of
every class sufficient to employ all that will desire to remember them;
and surely he that is pushing his predecessors into the gulph of
obscurity, cannot but sometimes suspect, that he must himself sink in
like manner, and, as he stands upon the same precipice, be swept away
with the same violence.

It sometimes happens, that fame begins when life is at an end; but far
the greater number of candidates for applause have owed their reception
in the world to some favourable casualties, and have therefore
immediately sunk into neglect, when death stripped them of their casual
influence, and neither fortune nor patronage operated in their favour.
Among those who have better claims to regard, the honour paid to their
memory is commonly proportionate to the reputation which they enjoyed in
their lives, though still growing fainter, as it is at a greater
distance from the first emission; and since it is so difficult to obtain
the notice of contemporaries, how little is to be hoped from future
times? What can merit effect by its own force, when the help of art or
friendship can scarcely support it?



No. 147. TUESDAY, AUGUST 13, 1751.

  Tu nihil invitâ dices faciesve Minervâ. Hon. Ar. Poet. 385.

  --You are of too quick a sight,
  Not to discern which way your talent lies. ROSCOMMON.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

As little things grow great by continual accumulation, I hope you will
not think the dignity of your character impaired by an account of a
ludicrous persecution, which, though it produced no scenes of horrour or
of ruin, yet, by incessant importunity of vexation, wears away my
happiness, and consumes those years which nature seems particularly to
have assigned to cheerfulness, in silent anxiety and helpless
resentment.

I am the eldest son of a gentleman, who having inherited a large estate
from his ancestors, and feeling no desire either to increase or lessen
it, has from the time of his marriage generally resided at his own seat;
where, by dividing his time among the duties of a father, a master, and
a magistrate, the study of literature, and the offices of civility, he
finds means to rid himself of the day, without any of those amusements,
which all those with whom my residence in this place has made me
acquainted, think necessary to lighten the burthen of existence.

When my age made me capable of instruction, my father prevailed upon a
gentleman, long known at Oxford for the extent of his learning and the
purity of his manners, to undertake my education. The regard with which
I saw him treated, disposed me to consider his instructions as
important, and I therefore soon formed a habit of attention, by which I
made very quick advances in different kinds of learning, and heard,
perhaps too often, very flattering comparisons of my own proficiency
with that of others, either less docile by nature, or less happily
forwarded by instruction. I was caressed by all that exchanged visits
with my father; and as young men are with little difficulty taught to
judge favourably of themselves, began to think that close application
was no longer necessary, and that the time was now come when I was at
liberty to read only for amusement, and was to receive the reward of my
fatigues in praise and admiration.

While I was thus banqueting upon my own perfections, and longing in
secret to escape from tutorage, my father's brother came from London to
pass a summer at his native place. A lucrative employment which he
possessed, and a fondness for the conversation and diversions of the gay
part of mankind, had so long kept him from rural excursions, that I had
never seen him since my infancy. My curiosity was therefore strongly
excited by the hope of observing a character more nearly, which I had
hitherto reverenced only at a distance.

From all private and intimate conversation, I was long withheld by the
perpetual confluence of visitants with whom the first news of my uncle's
arrival crowded the house; but was amply recompensed by seeing an exact
and punctilious practice of the arts of a courtier, in all the
stratagems of endearment, the gradations of respect, and variations of
courtesy. I remarked with what justice of distribution he divided his
talk to a wide circle; with what address he offered to every man an
occasion of indulging some favourite topick, or displaying some
particular attainment; the judgment with which he regulated his
inquiries after the absent; and the care with which he shewed all the
companions of his early years how strongly they were infixed in his
memory, by the mention of past incidents and the recital of puerile
kindnesses, dangers, and frolicks. I soon discovered that he possessed
some science of graciousness and attraction which books had not taught,
and of which neither I nor my father had any knowledge; that he had the
power of obliging those whom he did not benefit; that he diffused, upon
his cursory behaviour and most trifling actions, a gloss of softness and
delicacy by which every one was dazzled; and that, by some occult method
of captivation, he animated the timorous, softened the supercilious, and
opened the reserved. I could not but repine at the inelegance of my own
manners, which left me no hopes but not to offend, and at the inefficacy
of rustick benevolence, which gained no friends but by real service.

My uncle saw the veneration with which I caught every accent of his
voice, and watched every motion of his hand; and the awkward diligence
with which I endeavoured to imitate his embrace of fondness, and his bow
of respect. He was, like others, easily flattered by an imitator by whom
he could not fear ever to be rivalled, and repaid my assiduities with
compliments and professions. Our fondness was so increased by a mutual
endeavour to please each other, that when he returned to London, he
declared himself unable to leave a nephew so amiable and so accomplished
behind him; and obtained my father's permission to enjoy my company for
a few months, by a promise to initiate me in the arts of politeness, and
introduce me into publick life.

The courtier had little inclination to fatigue, and therefore, by
travelling very slowly, afforded me time for more loose and familiar
conversation; but I soon found, that by a few inquiries which he was not
well prepared to satisfy, I had made him weary of his young companion.
His element was a mixed assembly, where ceremony and healths,
compliments and common topicks, kept the tongue employed with very
little assistance from memory or reflection; but in the chariot, where
he was necessitated to support a regular tenour of conversation, without
any relief from a new comer, or any power of starting into gay
digressions, or destroying argument by a jest, he soon discovered that
poverty of ideas which had been hitherto concealed under the tinsel of
politeness. The first day he entertained me with the novelties and
wonders with which I should be astonished at my entrance into London,
and cautioned me with apparent admiration of his own wisdom against the
arts by which rusticity is frequently deluded. The same detail and the
same advice he would have repeated on the second day; but as I every
moment diverted the discourse to the history of the towns by which we
passed, or some other subject of learning or of reason, he soon lost his
vivacity, grew peevish and silent, wrapped his cloak about him, composed
himself to slumber, and reserved his gaiety for fitter auditors.

At length I entered London, and my uncle was reinstated in his
superiority. He awaked at once to loquacity as soon as our wheels
rattled on the pavement, and told me the name of every street as we
crossed it, and owner of every house as we passed by. He presented me to
my aunt, a lady of great eminence for the number of her acquaintances,
and splendour of her assemblies, and either in kindness or revenge
consulted with her, in my presence, how I might be most advantageously
dressed for my first appearance, and most expeditiously disencumbered
from my villatick bashfulness. My indignation at familiarity thus
contemptuous flushed in my face; they mistook anger for shame, and
alternately exerted their eloquence upon the benefits of publick
education, and the happiness of an assurance early acquired.

Assurance is, indeed, the only qualification to which they seem to have
annexed merit, and assurance, therefore, is perpetually recommended to
me as the supply of every defect, and the ornament of every excellence.
I never sit silent in company when secret history is circulating, but I
am reproached for want of assurance. If I fail to return the stated
answer to a compliment; if I am disconcerted by unexpected raillery; if
I blush when I am discovered gazing on a beauty, or hesitate when I find
myself embarrassed in an argument; if I am unwilling to talk of what I
do not understand, or timorous in undertaking offices which I cannot
gracefully perform; if I suffer a more lively tatler to recount the
casualties of a game, or a nimbler fop to pick up a fan, I am censured
between pity and contempt, as a wretch doomed to grovel in obscurity for
want of assurance.

I have found many young persons harassed in the same manner, by those to
whom age has given nothing but the assurance which they recommend; and
therefore cannot but think it useful to inform them, that cowardice and
delicacy are not to be confounded; and that he whose stupidity has armed
him against the shafts of ridicule, will always act and speak with
greater audacity, than they whose sensibility represses their ardour,
and who dare never let their confidence outgrow their abilities.



No. 148. SATURDAY, AUGUST 17, 1751.

  _Me pater saevis oneret catenis,
  Quod viro clemens misero peperci:
  Me vel extremis Numidarum in agros
         Classe releget._ HOR. Lib. iii. Od. xi. 45.

    Me let my father load with chains,
  Or banish to Numidia's farthest plains!
    My crime, that I, a loyal wife,
  In kind compassion sav'd my husband's life. FRANCIS.

Politicians remark, that no oppression is so heavy or lasting as that
which is inflicted by the perversion and exorbitance of legal authority.
The robber may be seized, and the invader repelled, whenever they are
found; they who pretend no right but that of force, may by force be
punished or suppressed. But when plunder bears the name of impost, and
murder is perpetrated by a judicial sentence, fortitude is intimidated,
and wisdom confounded: resistance shrinks from an alliance with
rebellion, and the villain remains secure in the robes of the
magistrate.

Equally dangerous and equally detestable are the cruelties often
exercised in private families, under the venerable sanction of parental
authority; the power which we are taught to honour from the first
moments of reason; which is guarded from insult and violation by all
that can impress awe upon the mind of man; and which therefore may
wanton in cruelty without control, and trample the bounds of right with
innumerable transgressions, before duty and piety will dare to seek
redress, or think themselves at liberty to recur to any other means of
deliverance than supplications by which insolence is elated, and tears
by which cruelty is gratified.

It was for a long time imagined by the Romans, that no son could be the
murderer of his father; and they had therefore no punishment
appropriated to parricide. They seem likewise to have believed with
equal confidence, that no father could be cruel to his child; and
therefore they allowed every man the supreme judicature in his own
house, and put the lives of his offspring into his hands. But experience
informed them by degrees, that they determined too hastily in favour of
human nature; they found that instinct and habit were not able to
contend with avarice or malice; that the nearest relation might be
violated; and that power, to whomsoever intrusted, might be ill
employed. They were therefore obliged to supply and to change their
institutions; to deter the parricide by a new law, and to transfer
capital punishments from the parent to the magistrate.

There are indeed many houses which it is impossible to enter familiarly,
without discovering that parents are by no means exempt from the
intoxications of dominion; and that he who is in no danger of hearing
remonstrances but from his own conscience, will seldom be long without
the art of controling his convictions, and modifying justice by his own
will.

If in any situation the heart were inaccessible to malignity, it might
be supposed to be sufficiently secured by parental relation. To have
voluntarily become to any being the occasion of its existence, produces
an obligation to make that existence happy. To see helpless infancy
stretching out her hands, and pouring out her cries in testimony of
dependence, without any powers to alarm jealousy, or any guilt to
alienate affection, must surely awaken tenderness in every human mind;
and tenderness once excited will be hourly increased by the natural
contagion of felicity, by the repercussion of communicated pleasure, by
the consciousness of the dignity of benefaction. I believe no generous
or benevolent man can see the vilest animal courting his regard, and
shrinking at his anger, playing his gambols of delight before him,
calling on him in distress, and flying to him in danger, without more
kindness than he can persuade himself to feel for the wild and unsocial
inhabitants of the air and water. We naturally endear to ourselves those
to whom we impart any kind of pleasure, because we imagine their
affection and esteem secured to us by the benefits which they receive.

There is, indeed, another method by which the pride of superiority may
be likewise gratified. He that has extinguished all the sensations of
humanity, and has no longer any satisfaction in the reflection that he
is loved as the distributor of happiness, may please himself with
exciting terrour as the inflictor of pain: he may delight his solitude
with contemplating the extent of his power and the force of his
commands; in imagining the desires that flutter on the tongue which is
forbidden to utter them, or the discontent which preys on the heart in
which fear confines it: he may amuse himself with new contrivances of
detection, multiplications of prohibition, and varieties of punishment;
and swell with exultation when he considers how little of the homage
that he receives he owes to choice.

That princes of this character have been known, the history of all
absolute kingdoms will inform us; and since, as Aristotle observes,
_[Greek: hae oikonomikae monarchia], the government of a family is
naturally monarchical_, it is, like other monarchies, too often
arbitrarily administered. The regal and parental tyrant differ only in
the extent of their dominions, and the number of their slaves. The same
passions cause the same miseries; except that seldom any prince, however
despotick, has so far shaken off all awe of the publick eye, as to
venture upon those freaks of injustice, which are sometimes indulged
under the secrecy of a private dwelling. Capricious injunctions, partial
decisions, unequal allotments, distributions of reward, not by merit,
but by fancy, and punishments, regulated not by the degree of the
offence, but by the humour of the judge, are too frequent where no power
is known but that of a father.

That he delights in the misery of others, no man will confess, and yet
what other motive can make a father cruel? The king may be instigated by
one man to the destruction of another; he may sometimes think himself
endangered by the virtues of a subject; he may dread the successful
general or the popular orator; his avarice may point out golden
confiscations; and his guilt may whisper that he can only be secure by
cutting off all power of revenge.

But what can a parent hope from the oppression of those who were born to
his protection, of those who can disturb him with no competition, who
can enrich him with no spoils? Why cowards are cruel may be easily
discovered; but for what reason, not more infamous than cowardice, can
that man delight in oppression who has nothing to fear?

The unjustifiable severity of a parent is loaded with this aggravation,
that those whom he injures are always in his sight. The injustice of a
prince is often exercised upon those of whom he never had any personal
or particular knowledge; and the sentence which he pronounces, whether
of banishment, imprisonment, or death, removes from his view the man
whom he condemns. But the domestick oppressor dooms himself to gaze upon
those faces which he clouds with terrour and with sorrow; and beholds
every moment the effects of his own barbarities. He that can bear to
give continual pain to those who surround him, and can walk with
satisfaction in the gloom of his own presence; he that can see
submissive misery without relenting, and meet without emotion the eye
that implores mercy, or demands justice, will scarcely be amended by
remonstrance or admonition; he has found means of stopping the avenues
of tenderness, and arming his heart against the force of reason.

Even though no consideration should be paid to the great law of social
beings, by which every individual is commanded to consult the happiness
of others, yet the harsh parent is less to be vindicated than any other
criminal, because he less provides for the happiness of himself. Every
man, however little he loves others, would willingly be loved; every man
hopes to live long, and therefore hopes for that time at which he shall
sink back to imbecility, and must depend for ease and cheerfulness upon
the officiousness of others. But how has he obviated the inconveniencies
of old age, who alienates from him the assistance of his children, and
whose bed must be surrounded in the last hours, in the hours of languor
and dejection, of impatience and of pain, by strangers to whom his life
is indifferent, or by enemies to whom his death is desirable?

Piety will, indeed, in good minds overcome provocation, and those who
have been harassed by brutality will forget the injuries which they have
suffered, so far as to perform the last duties with alacrity and zeal.
But surely no resentment can be equally painful with kindness thus
undeserved, nor can severer punishment be imprecated upon a man not
wholly lost in meanness and stupidity, than, through the tediousness of
decrepitude, to be reproached by the kindness of his own children, to
receive not the tribute but the alms of attendance, and to owe every
relief of his miseries, not to gratitude but to mercy.



No. 149. TUESDAY, AUGUST 20, 1751.

  _Quod non sit Pylades hoc tempore, non sit Orestes,
    Miraris? Pylades, Marce, bibebat idem.
  Nec melior panis, turdusve dabatur Oresti:
    Sed par, atque eadem coena duobus erat.--
  Te Cadmea Tyrus, me pinguis Gallia vestit:
    Vis te purpureum, Marce, sagatus amem?
  Ut praestem Pyladen, aliquis mihi praestet Orestem.
    Hoc non fit verbis, Marce: ut ameris, ama_. MART. Lib. vi. Ep. xi.

  You wonder now that no man sees
  Such friends as those of ancient Greece.
  Here lay the point--Orestes' meat
  Was just the same his friend did eat;
  Nor can it yet be found, his wine
  Was better, Pylades, than thine.
  In home-spun russet, I am drest,
  Your cloth is always of the best;
  But, honest Marcus, if you please
  To chuse me for your Pylades,
  Remember, words alone are vain;
  Love--if you would be lov'd again. F. LEWIS.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

No depravity of the mind has been more frequently or justly censured
than ingratitude. There is indeed sufficient reason for looking on those
that can return evil for good, and repay kindness and assistance with
hatred or neglect, as corrupted beyond the common degrees of wickedness;
nor will he, who has once been clearly detected in acts of injury to his
benefactor, deserve to be numbered among social beings; he has
endeavoured to destroy confidence, to intercept sympathy, and to turn
every man's attention wholly on himself.

There is always danger lest the honest abhorrence of a crime should
raise the passions with too much violence against the man to whom it is
imputed. In proportion as guilt is more enormous, it ought to be
ascertained by stronger evidence. The charge against ingratitude is very
general; almost every man can tell what favours he has conferred upon
insensibility, and how much happiness he has bestowed without return;
but perhaps, if these patrons and protectors were confronted with any
whom they boast of having befriended, it would often appear that they
consulted only their pleasure or vanity, and repaid themselves their
petty donatives by gratifications of insolence and indulgence of
contempt.

It has happened that much of my time has been passed in a dependent
state, and consequently I have received many favours in the opinion of
those at whose expense I have been maintained; yet I do not feel in my
heart any burning gratitude or tumultuous affection; and, as I would not
willingly suppose myself less susceptible of virtuous passions than the
rest of mankind, I shall lay the history of my life before you, that you
may, by your judgment of my conduct, either reform, or confirm, my
present sentiments. My father was the second son of a very ancient and
wealthy family. He married a lady of equal birth, whose fortune, joined
to his own, might have supported his posterity in honour; but being gay
and ambitious, he prevailed on his friends to procure him a post, which
gave him an opportunity of displaying his elegance and politeness. My
mother was equally pleased with splendour, and equally careless of
expense; they both justified their profusion to themselves, by
endeavouring to believe it necessary to the extension of their
acquaintance, and improvement of their interest; and whenever any place
became vacant, they expected to be repaid. In the midst of these hopes
my father was snatched away by an apoplexy; and my mother, who had no
pleasure but in dress, equipage, assemblies, and compliments, finding
that she could live no longer in her accustomed rank, sunk into
dejection, and in two years wore out her life with envy and discontent.

I was sent with a sister, one year younger than myself, to the elder
brother of my father. We were not yet capable of observing how much
fortune influences affection, but flattered ourselves on the road with
the tenderness and regard with which we should be treated by our uncle.
Our reception was rather frigid than malignant; we were introduced to
our young cousins, and for the first month more frequently consoled than
upbraided; but in a short time we found our prattle repressed, our dress
neglected, our endearments unregarded, and our requests referred to the
housekeeper.

The forms of decency were now violated, and every day produced new
insults. We were soon brought to the necessity of receding from our
imagined equality with our cousins, to whom we sunk into humble
companions without choice or influence, expected only to echo their
opinions, facilitate their desires, and accompany their rambles. It was
unfortunate that our early introduction into polite company, and
habitual knowledge of the arts of civility, had given us such an
appearance of superiority to the awkward bashfulness of our relations,
as naturally drew respect and preference from every stranger; and my
aunt was forced to assert the dignity of her own children, while they
were sculking in corners for fear of notice, and hanging down their
heads in silent confusion, by relating the indiscretion of our father,
displaying her own kindness, lamenting the misery of birth without
estate, and declaring her anxiety for our future provision, and the
expedients which she had formed to secure us from those follies or
crimes, to which the conjunction of pride and want often gives occasion.
In a short time care was taken to prevent such vexatious mistakes; we
were told, that fine clothes would only fill our heads with false
expectations, and our dress was therefore accommodated to our fortune.

Childhood is not easily dejected or mortified. We felt no lasting pain
from insolence or neglect; but finding that we were favoured and
commended by all whose interest did not prompt them to discountenance
us, preserved our vivacity and spirit to years of greater sensibility.
It then became irksome and disgusting to live without any principle of
action but the will of another, and we often met privately in the garden
to lament our condition, and to ease our hearts with mutual narratives
of caprice, peevishness, and affront.

There are innumerable modes of insult and tokens of contempt, for which
it is not easy to find a name, which vanish to nothing in an attempt to
describe them, and yet may, by continual repetition, make day pass after
day in sorrow and in terrour. Phrases of cursory compliment and
established salutation may, by a different modulation of the voice, or
cast of the countenance, convey contrary meanings, and be changed from
indications of respect to expressions of scorn. The dependant who
cultivates delicacy in himself, very little consults his own
tranquillity. My unhappy vigilance is every moment discovering some
petulance of accent, or arrogance of mien, some vehemence of
interrogation, or quickness of reply, that recals my poverty to my mind,
and which I feel more acutely, as I know not how to resent it.

You are not, however, to imagine, that I think myself discharged from
the duties of gratitude, only because my relations do not adjust their
looks, or tune their voices to my expectation. The insolence of
benefaction terminates not in negative rudeness or obliquities of
insult. I am often told in express terms of the miseries from which
charity has snatched me, while multitudes are suffered by relations
equally near to devolve upon the parish; and have more than once heard
it numbered among other favours, that I am admitted to the same table
with my cousins.

That I sit at the first table I must acknowledge, but I sit there only
that I may feel the stings of inferiority. My inquiries are neglected,
my opinion is overborne, my assertions are controverted, and, as
insolence always propagates itself, the servants overlook me, in
imitation of their master; if I call modestly, I am not heard; if
loudly, my usurpation of authority is checked by a general frown. I am
often obliged to look uninvited upon delicacies, and sometimes desired
to rise upon very slight pretences.

The incivilities to which I am exposed would give me less pain, were
they not aggravated by the tears of my sister, whom the young ladies are
hourly tormenting with every art of feminine persecution. As it is said
of the supreme magistrate of Venice, that he is a prince in one place
and a slave in another, my sister is a servant to her cousins in their
apartments, and a companion only at the table. Her wit and beauty drew
so much regard away from them, that they never suffer her to appear with
them in any place where they solicit notice, or expect admiration; and
when they are visited by neighbouring ladies and pass their hours in
domestick amusements, she is sometimes called to fill a vacancy,
insulted with contemptuous freedoms, and dismissed to her needle, when
her place is supplied. The heir has of late, by the instigation of his
sisters, begun to harass her with clownish jocularity; he seems inclined
to make his first rude essays of waggery upon her; and by the
connivance, if not encouragement, of his father, treats her with such
licentious brutality, as I cannot bear, though I cannot punish it.

I beg to be informed, Mr. Rambler, how much we can be supposed to owe to
beneficence, exerted on terms like these? to beneficence which pollutes
its gifts with contumely, and may be truly said to pander to pride? I
would willingly be told, whether insolence does not reward its own
liberalities, and whether he that exacts servility can, with justice, at
the same time, expect affection?

I am, Sir, &c.

HYPERDULUS.



No. 150. SATURDAY, AUGUST 24, 1751.

  --_O munera nondum
  Intellecta Deum!_ LUCAN.

  --Thou chiefest good!
  Bestow'd by Heav'n, but seldom understood. ROWE.

As daily experience makes it evident that misfortunes are unavoidably
incident to human life, that calamity will neither be repelled by
fortitude, nor escaped by flight; neither awed by greatness, nor eluded
by obscurity; philosophers have endeavoured to reconcile us to that
condition which they cannot teach us to mend, by persuading us that most
of our evils are made afflictive only by ignorance or perverseness, and
that nature has annexed to every vicissitude of external circumstances
some advantage sufficient to over-balance all its inconveniencies.

This attempt may, perhaps, be justly suspected of resemblance to the
practice of physicians, who, when they cannot mitigate pain, destroy
sensibility, and endeavour to conceal, by opiates, the inefficacy of
their other medicines. The panegyrists of calamity have more frequently
gained applause to their wit, than acquiescence to their arguments; nor
has it appeared that the most musical oratory, or subtle ratiocination,
has been able long to overpower the anguish of oppression, the
tediousness of languor, or the longings of want.

Yet, it may be generally remarked, that, where much has been attempted,
something has been performed; though the discoveries or acquisitions of
man are not always adequate to the expectations of his pride, they are
at least sufficient to animate his industry. The antidotes with which
philosophy has medicated the cup of life, though they cannot give it
salubrity and sweetness, have at least allayed its bitterness, and
contempered its malignity; the balm which she drops upon the wounds of
the mind abates their pain, though it cannot heal them.

By suffering willingly what we cannot avoid, we secure ourselves from
vain and immoderate disquiet; we preserve for better purposes that
strength which would be unprofitably wasted in wild efforts of
desperation, and maintain that circumspection which may enable us to
seize every support, and improve every alleviation. This calmness will
be more easily obtained, as the attention is more powerfully withdrawn
from the contemplation of unmingled unabated evil, and diverted to those
accidental benefits which prudence may confer on every state.

Seneca has attempted, not only to pacify us in misfortune, but almost to
allure us to it, by representing it as necessary to the pleasures of the
mind. _He that never was acquainted with adversity_, says he, _has seen
the world but on one side, and is ignorant of half the scenes of
nature_. He invites his pupil to calamity, as the Syrens allured the
passenger to their coasts, by promising that he shall return [Greek:
pleiona eidos], with increase of knowledge, with enlarged views, and
multiplied ideas.

Curiosity is, in great and generous minds, the first passion and the
last; and perhaps always predominates in proportion to the strength of
the contemplative faculties. He who easily comprehends all that is
before him, and soon exhausts any single subject, is always eager for
new inquiries; and, in proportion as the intellectual eye takes in a
wider prospect, it must be gratified with variety by more rapid flights,
and bolder excursions; nor perhaps can there be proposed to those who
have been accustomed to the pleasures of thought, a more powerful
incitement to any undertaking, than the hope of filling their fancy with
new images, of clearing their doubts, and enlightening their reason.

When Jason, in Valerius Flaccus, would incline the young prince Acastus
to accompany him in the first essay of navigation, he disperses his
apprehensions of danger by representations of the new tracts of earth
and heaven, which the expedition would spread before their eyes; and
tells him with what grief he will hear, at their return, of the
countries which they shall have seen, and the toils which they have
surmounted:

  _O quantum terrae, quantum cognoscere coeli
  Permissum est! pelagus quantos aperimus in usus!
  Nunc forsan grave reris opus: sed laeta recurret
  Cum ratis, et caram cum jam mihi reddet Iolcon;
  Quis pudor heu nostros tibi tunc audire labores!
  Quam referam visas tua per suspiria gentes!_    ARG. Lib. i. 168.

  Led by our stars, what tracts immense we trace!
  From seas remote, what funds of science raise!
  A pain to thought! but when the heroick band
  Returns applauded to their native land,
  A life domestick you will then deplore,
  And sigh while I describe the various, shore.     EDW. CAVE.

Acastus was soon prevailed upon by his curiosity to set rocks and
hardships at defiance, and commit his life to the winds; and the same
motives have in all ages had the same effect upon those whom the desire
of fame or wisdom has distinguished from the lower orders of mankind.

If, therefore, it can be proved that distress is necessary to the
attainment of knowledge, and that a happy situation hides from us so
large a part of the field of meditation, the envy of many who repine at
the sight of affluence and splendour will be much diminished; for such
is the delight of mental superiority, that none on whom nature or study
have conferred it, would purchase the gifts of fortune by its loss.

It is certain, that however the rhetorick of Seneca may have dressed
adversity with extrinsick ornaments, he has justly represented it as
affording some opportunities of observation, which cannot be found in
continual success; he has truly asserted, that to escape misfortune is
to want instruction, and that to live at ease is to live in ignorance.

As no man can enjoy happiness without thinking that he enjoys it, the
experience of calamity is necessary to a just sense of better fortune:
for the good of our present state is merely comparative, and the evil
which every man feels will be sufficient to disturb and harass him, if
he does not know how much he escapes. The lustre of diamonds is
invigorated by the interposition of darker bodies; the lights of a
picture are created by the shades. The highest pleasure which nature has
indulged to sensitive perception, is that of rest after fatigue; yet,
that state which labour heightens into delight, is of itself only ease,
and is incapable of satisfying the mind without the superaddition of
diversified amusements.

Prosperity, as is truly asserted by Seneca, very much obstructs the
knowledge of ourselves. No man can form a just estimate of his own
powers by unactive speculation. That fortitude which has encountered no
dangers, that prudence which has surmounted no difficulties, that
integrity which has been attacked by no temptations, can at best be
considered but as gold not yet brought to the test, of which therefore
the true value cannot be assigned. _He that traverses the lists without
an adversary, may receive_, says the philosopher, _the reward of
victory, but he has no pretensions to the honour_. If it be the highest
happiness of man to contemplate himself with satisfaction, and to
receive the gratulations of his own conscience; he whose courage has
made way amidst the turbulence of opposition, and whose vigour has
broken through the snares of distress, has many advantages over those
that have slept in the shades of indolence, and whose retrospect of time
can entertain them with nothing but day rising upon day, and year
gliding after year.

Equally necessary is some variety of fortune to a nearer inspection of
the manners, principles, and affections of mankind. Princes, when they
would know the opinions or grievances of their subjects, find it
necessary to steal away from guards and attendants, and mingle on equal
terms among the people. To him who is known to have the power of doing
good or harm, nothing is shewn in its natural form. The behaviour of all
that approach him is regulated by his humour, their narratives are
adapted to his inclination, and their reasonings determined by his
opinions; whatever can alarm suspicion, or excite resentment, is
carefully suppressed, and nothing appears but uniformity of sentiments,
and ardour of affection. It may be observed, that the unvaried
complaisance which ladies have the right of exacting, keeps them
generally unskilled in human nature; prosperity will always enjoy the
female prerogatives, and therefore must be always in danger of female
ignorance. Truth is scarcely to be heard, but by those from whom it can
serve no interest to conceal it.



No. 151. TUESDAY, AUGUST 27, 1751.

  [Greek:--Amphi d anthro-
  pon phresin amplakiai
  Anarithmatoi kremantai
  Touto d amachanon eurein,
  O ti nun, kai en teleu-
  ta, phertaton andri tuchein.] PINDAR, Ol. vii. 43.
[Transcriber's note: line breaks and hyphenation in original.]

  But wrapt in error is the human mind,
    And human bliss is ever insecure:
  Know we what fortune yet remains behind?
    Know we how long the present shall endure? WEST.

The writers of medicine and physiology have traced, with great
appearance of accuracy, the effects of time upon the human body, by
marking the various periods of the constitution, and the several stages
by which animal life makes its progress from infancy to decrepitude.
Though their observations have not enabled them to discover how manhood
may be accelerated, or old age retarded, yet surely, if they be
considered only as the amusements of curiosity, they are of equal
importance with conjectures on things more remote, with catalogues of
the fixed stars, and calculations of the bulk of planets.

It had been a task worthy of the moral philosophers to have considered
with equal care the climactericks of the mind; to have pointed out the
time at which every passion begins and ceases to predominate, and noted
the regular variations of desire, and the succession of one appetite to
another.

The periods of mental change are not to be stated with equal certainty;
our bodies grow up under the care of nature, and depend so little on our
own management, that something more than negligence is necessary to
discompose their structure, or impede their vigour. But our minds are
committed in a great measure first to the direction of others, and
afterwards of ourselves. It would be difficult to protract the weakness
of infancy beyond the usual time, but the mind may be very easily
hindered from its share of improvement, and the bulk and strength of
manhood must, without the assistance of education and instruction, be
informed only with the understanding of a child.

Yet, amidst all the disorder and inequality which variety of discipline,
example, conversation, and employment, produce in the intellectual
advances of different men, there is still discovered, by a vigilant
spectator, such a general and remote similitude, as may be expected in
the same common nature affected by external circumstances indefinitely
varied. We all enter the world in equal ignorance, gaze round about us
on the same objects, and have our first pains and pleasures, our first
hopes and fears, our first aversions and desires, from the same causes;
and though, as we proceed farther, life opens wider prospects to our
view, and accidental impulses determine us to different paths, yet as
every mind, however vigorous or abstracted, is necessitated, in its
present state of union, to receive its informations, and execute its
purposes, by the intervention of the body, the uniformity of our
corporeal nature communicates itself to our intellectual operations; and
those whose abilities or knowledge incline them most to deviate from the
general round of life, are recalled from eccentricity by the laws of
their existence.

If we consider the exercises of the mind, it will be found that in each
part of life some particular faculty is more eminently employed. When
the treasures of knowledge are first opened before us, while novelty
blooms alike on either hand, and every thing equally unknown and
unexamined seems of equal value, the power of the soul is principally
exerted in a vivacious and desultory curiosity. She applies by turns to
every object, enjoys it for a short time, and flies with equal ardour to
another. She delights to catch up loose and unconnected ideas, but
starts away from systems and complications, which would obstruct the
rapidity of her transitions, and detain her long in the same pursuit.

When a number of distinct images are collected by these erratick and
hasty surveys, the fancy is busied in arranging them; and combines them
into pleasing pictures with more resemblance to the realities of life as
experience advances, and new observations rectify the former. While the
judgment is yet uninformed, and unable to compare the draughts of
fiction with their originals, we are delighted with improbable
adventures, impracticable virtues, and inimitable characters: but, in
proportion as we have more opportunities of acquainting ourselves with
living nature, we are sooner disgusted with copies in which there
appears no resemblance. We first discard absurdity and impossibility,
then exact greater and greater degrees of probability, but at last
become cold and insensible to the charms of falsehood, however specious,
and, from the imitations of truth, which are never perfect, transfer our
affection to truth itself.

Now commences the reign of judgment or reason; we begin to find little
pleasure but in comparing arguments, stating propositions, disentangling
perplexities, clearing ambiguities, and deducing consequences. The
painted vales of imagination are deserted, and our intellectual activity
is exercised in winding through the labyrinths of fallacy, and toiling
with firm and cautious steps up the narrow tracks of demonstration.
Whatever may lull vigilance, or mislead attention, is contemptuously
rejected, and every disguise in which errour may be concealed, is
carefully observed, till, by degrees, a certain number of incontestable
or unsuspected propositions are established, and at last concatenated
into arguments, or compacted into systems.

At length weariness succeeds to labour, and the mind lies at ease in the
contemplation of her own attainments, without any desire of new
conquests or excursions. This is the age of recollection and narrative;
the opinions are settled, and the avenues of apprehension shut against
any new intelligence; the days that are to follow must pass in the
inculcation of precepts already collected, and assertion of tenets
already received; nothing is henceforward so odious as opposition, so
insolent as doubt, or so dangerous as novelty.

In like manner the passions usurp the separate command of the successive
periods of life. To the happiness of our first years nothing more seems
necessary than freedom from restraint: every man may remember that if he
was left to himself, and indulged in the disposal of his own time, he
was once content without the superaddition of any actual pleasure. The
new world is itself a banquet; and, till we have exhausted the freshness
of life, we have always about us sufficient gratifications: the sunshine
quickens us to play, and the shade invites us to sleep.

But we soon become unsatisfied with negative felicity, and are solicited
by our senses and appetites to more powerful delights, as the taste of
him who has satisfied his hunger must be excited by artificial
stimulations. The simplicity of natural amusement is now past, and art
and contrivance must improve our pleasures; but, in time, art, like
nature, is exhausted, and the senses can no longer supply the cravings
of the intellect.

The attention is then transferred from pleasure to interest, in which
pleasure is perhaps included, though diffused to a wider extent, and
protracted through new gradations. Nothing now dances before the eyes
but wealth and power, nor rings in the ear, but the voice of fame;
wealth, to which, however variously denominated, every man at some time
or other aspires; power, which all wish to obtain within their circle of
action; and fame, which no man, however high or mean, however wise or
ignorant, was yet able to despise. Now prudence and foresight exert
their influence: no hour is devoted wholly to any present enjoyment, no
act or purpose terminates in itself, but every motion is referred to
some distant end; the accomplishment of one design begins another, and
the ultimate wish is always pushed off to its former distance.

At length fame is observed to be uncertain, and power to be dangerous;
the man whose vigour and alacrity begin to forsake him, by degrees
contracts his designs, remits his former multiplicity of pursuits, and
extends no longer his regard to any other honour than the reputation of
wealth, or any other influence than his power. Avarice is generally the
last passion of those lives of which the first part has been squandered
in pleasure, and the second devoted to ambition. He that sinks under the
fatigue of getting wealth, lulls his age with the milder business of
saving it.

I have in this view of life considered man as actuated only by natural
desires, and yielding to their own inclinations, without regard to
superior principles, by which the force of external agents may be
counteracted, and the temporary prevalence of passions restrained.
Nature will indeed always operate, human desires will be always ranging;
but these motions, though very powerful, are not resistless; nature may
be regulated, and desires governed; and, to contend with the
predominance of successive passions, to be endangered first by one
affection, and then by another, is the condition upon which we are to
pass our time, the time of our preparation for that state which shall
put an end to experiment, to disappointment, and to change.



No. 152. SATURDAY, AUGUST 31, 1751.

  --Tristia maestum
  Vullum verba decent, iratum plena minarum. HOR. De Ar. Poet. 105.

  Disastrous words can best disaster shew;
  In angry phrase the angry passions glow. ELPHINSTON.

"It was the wisdom," says Seneca, "of ancient times, to consider what is
most useful as most illustrious." If this rule be applied to works of
genius, scarcely any species of composition deserves more to be
cultivated than the epistolary style, since none is of more various or
frequent use through the whole subordination of human life.

It has yet happened that, among the numerous writers which our nation
has produced, equal, perhaps, always in force and genius, and of late in
elegance and accuracy, to those of any other country, very few have
endeavoured to distinguish themselves by the publication of letters,
except such as were written in the discharge of publick trusts, and
during the transaction of great affairs; which, though they afford
precedents to the minister, and memorials to the historian, are of no
use as examples of the familiar style, or models of private
correspondence.

If it be inquired by foreigners, how this deficiency has happened in the
literature of a country, where all indulge themselves with so little
danger in speaking and writing, may we not without either bigotry or
arrogance inform them, that it must be imputed to our contempt of
trifles, and our due sense of the dignity of the publick? We do not
think it reasonable to fill the world with volumes from which nothing
can be learned, nor expect that the employments of the busy, or the
amusements of the gay, should give way to narratives of our private
affairs, complaints of absence, expressions of fondness, or declarations
of fidelity.

A slight perusal of the innumerable letters by which the wits of France
have signalized their names, will prove that other nations need not be
discouraged from the like attempts by the consciousness of inability;
for surely it is not very difficult to aggravate trifling misfortunes,
to magnify familiar incidents, repeat adulatory professions, accumulate
servile hyperboles, and produce all that can be found in the despicable
remains of Voiture and Scarron.

Yet, as much of life must be passed in affairs considerable only by
their frequent occurrence, and much of the pleasure which our condition
allows, must be produced by giving elegance to trifles, it is necessary
to learn how to become little without becoming mean, to maintain the
necessary intercourse of civility, and fill up the vacuities of actions
by agreeable appearances. It had therefore been of advantage, if such of
our writers as have excelled in the art of decorating insignificance,
had supplied us with a few sallies of innocent gaiety, effusions of
honest tenderness, or exclamations of unimportant hurry.

Precept has generally been posterior to performance. The art of
composing works of genius has never been taught but by the example of
those who performed it by natural vigour of imagination, and rectitude
of judgment. As we have few letters, we have likewise few criticisms
upon the epistolary style. The observations with which Walsh has
introduced his pages of inanity, are such as give him little claim to
the rank assigned him by Dryden among the criticks. _Letters_, says he,
_are intended as resemblances of conversation, and the chief
excellencies of conversation are good humour and good breeding_. This
remark, equally valuable for its novelty and propriety, he dilates and
enforces with an appearance of complete acquiescence in his own
discovery.

No man was ever in doubt about the moral qualities of a letter. It has
been always known that he who endeavours to please must appear pleased,
and he who would not provoke rudeness must not practise it. But the
question among those who establish rules for an epistolary performance
is how gaiety or civility may be properly expressed; as among the
criticks in history it is not contested whether truth ought to be
preserved, but by what mode of diction it is best adorned.

As letters are written on all subjects, in all states of mind, they
cannot be properly reduced to settled rules, or described by any single
characteristick; and we may safely disentangle our minds from critical
embarrassments, by determining that a letter has no peculiarity but its
form, and that nothing is to be refused admission, which would be proper
in any other method of treating the same subject. The qualities of the
epistolary style most frequently required, are ease and simplicity, an
even flow of unlaboured diction, and an artless arrangement of obvious
sentiments. But these directions are no sooner applied to use, than
their scantiness and imperfection become evident. Letters are written to
the great and to the mean, to the learned and the ignorant, at rest and
in distress, in sport and in passion. Nothing can be more improper than
ease and laxity of expression, when the importance of the subject
impresses solicitude, or the dignity of the person exacts reverence.

That letters should be written with strict conformity to nature is true,
because nothing but conformity to nature can make any composition
beautiful or just. But it is natural to depart from familiarity of
language upon occasions not familiar. Whatever elevates the sentiments
will consequently raise the expression; whatever fills us with hope or
terrour, will produce some perturbation of images and some figurative
distortions of phrase. Wherever we are studious to please, we are afraid
of trusting our first thoughts, and endeavour to recommend our opinion
by studied ornaments, accuracy of method, and elegance of style.

If the personages of the comick scene be allowed by Horace to raise
their language in the transports of anger to the turgid vehemence of
tragedy, the epistolary writer may likewise without censure comply with
the varieties of his matter. If great events are to be related, he may
with all the solemnity of an historian deduce them from their causes,
connect them with their concomitants, and trace them to their
consequences. If a disputed position is to be established, or a remote
principle to be investigated, he may detail his reasonings with all the
nicety of syllogistick method. If a menace is to be averted, or a
benefit implored, he may, without any violation of the edicts of
criticism, call every power of rhetorick to his assistance, and try
every inlet at which love or pity enters the heart.

Letters that have no other end than the entertainment of the
correspondents are more properly regulated by critical precepts, because
the matter and style are equally arbitrary, and rules are more
necessary, as there is a larger power of choice. In letters of this
kind, some conceive art graceful, and others think negligence amiable;
some model them by the sonnet, and will allow them no means of
delighting but the soft lapse of calm mellifluence; others adjust them
by the epigram, and expect pointed sentences and forcible periods. The
one party considers exemption from faults as the height of excellence,
the other looks upon neglect of excellence as the most disgusting fault;
one avoids censure, the other aspires to praise; one is always in danger
of insipidity, the other continually on the brink of affectation.

When the subject has no intrinsick dignity, it must necessarily owe its
attractions to artificial embellishments, and may catch at all
advantages which the art of writing can supply. He that, like Pliny,
sends his friend a portion for his daughter, will, without Pliny's
eloquence or address, find means of exciting gratitude, and securing
acceptance; but he that has no present to make but a garland, a riband,
or some petty curiosity, must endeavour to recommend it by his manner of
giving it.

The purpose for which letters are written when no intelligence is
communicated, or business transacted, is to preserve in the minds of the
absent either love or esteem: to excite love we must impart pleasure,
and to raise esteem we must discover abilities. Pleasure will generally
be given, as abilities are displayed by scenes of imagery, points of
conceit, unexpected sallies, and artful compliments. Trifles always
require exuberance of ornament; the building which has no strength can
be valued only for the grace of its decorations. The pebble must be
polished with care, which hopes to be valued as a diamond; and words
ought surely to be laboured, when they are intended to stand for things.



No. 153. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 1751

  _Turba Remi? Sequitur Fortunam, ut semper, et odit
  Damnatos_. JUV. Sat. x. 73.

  The fickle crowd with fortune comes and goes;
  Wealth still finds followers, and misfortune foes.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

There are occasions on which all apology is rudeness. He that has an
unwelcome message to deliver, may give some proof of tenderness and
delicacy, by a ceremonial introduction and gradual discovery, because
the mind, upon which the weight of sorrow is to fall, gains time for the
collection of its powers; but nothing is more absurd than to delay the
communication of pleasure, to torment curiosity by impatience, and to
delude hope by anticipation.

I shall therefore forbear the arts by which correspondents generally
secure admission, for I have too long remarked the power of vanity, to
doubt that I shall be read by you with a disposition to approve, when I
declare that my narrative has no other tendency than to illustrate and
corroborate your own observations.

I was the second son of a gentleman, whose patrimony had been wasted by
a long succession of squanderers, till he was unable to support any of
his children, except his heir, in the hereditary dignity of idleness.
Being therefore obliged to employ that part of life in study which my
progenitors had devoted to the hawk and hound, I was in my eighteenth
year despatched to the university, without any rural honours. I had
never killed a single woodcock, nor partaken one triumph over a
conquered fox.

At the university I continued to enlarge my acquisitions with little
envy of the noisy happiness which my elder brother had the fortune to
enjoy; and, having obtained my degree, retired to consider at leisure to
what profession I should confine that application which had hitherto
been dissipated in general knowledge. To deliberate upon a choice which
custom and honour forbid to be retracted, is certainly reasonable; yet
to let loose the attention equally to the advantages and inconveniencies
of every employment is not without danger; new motives are every moment
operating on every side; and mechanicks have long ago discovered, that
contrariety of equal attractions is equivalent to rest.

While I was thus trifling in uncertainty, an old adventurer, who had
been once the intimate friend of my father, arrived from the Indies with
a large fortune; which he had so much harassed himself in obtaining,
that sickness and infirmity left him no other desire than to die in his
native country. His wealth easily procured him an invitation to pass his
life with us; and, being incapable of any amusement but conversation, he
necessarily became familiarized to me, whom he found studious and
domestick. Pleased with an opportunity of imparting my knowledge, and
eager of any intelligence that might increase it, I delighted his
curiosity with historical narratives and explications of nature, and
gratified his vanity by inquiries after the products of distant
countries, and the customs of their inhabitants.

My brother saw how much I advanced in the favour of our guest, who,
being without heirs, was naturally expected to enrich the family of his
friend, but never attempted to alienate me, nor to ingratiate himself.
He was, indeed, little qualified to solicit the affection of a
traveller, for the remissness of his education had left him without any
rule of action but his present humour. He often forsook the old
gentleman in the midst of an adventure, because the horn sounded in the
court-yard, and would have lost an opportunity, not only of knowing the
history, but sharing the wealth of the mogul, for the trial of a new
pointer, or the sight of a horse-race.

It was therefore not long before our new friend declared his intention
of bequeathing to me the profits of his commerce, as the only man in the
family by whom he could expect them to be rationally enjoyed. This
distinction drew upon me the envy not only of my brother but my father.

As no man is willing to believe that he suffers by his own fault, they
imputed the preference which I had obtained to adulatory compliances, or
malignant calumnies. To no purpose did I call upon my patron to attest
my innocence, for who will believe what he wishes to be false? In the
heat of disappointment they forced their inmate by repeated insults to
depart from the house, and I was soon, by the same treatment, obliged to
follow him.

He chose his residence in the confines of London, where rest,
tranquillity, and medicine, restored him to part of the health which he
had lost. I pleased myself with perceiving that I was not likely to
obtain the immediate possession of wealth which no labour of mine had
contributed to acquire; and that he, who had thus distinguished me,
might hope to end his life without a total frustration of those
blessings, which, whatever be their real value, he had sought with so
much diligence, and purchased with so many vicissitudes of danger and
fatigue.

He, indeed, left me no reason to repine at his recovery, for he was
willing to accustom me early to the use of money, and set apart for my
expenses such a revenue as I had scarcely dared to image. I can yet
congratulate myself that fortune has seen her golden cup once tasted
without inebriation. Neither my modesty nor prudence was overwhelmed by
affluence; my elevation was without insolence, and my expense without
profusion. Employing the influence which money always confers, to the
improvement of my understanding, I mingled in parties of gaiety, and in
conferences of learning, appeared in every place where instruction was
to be found, and imagined that, by ranging through all the diversities
of life, I had acquainted myself fully with human nature, and learned
all that was to be known of the ways of men.

It happened, however, that I soon discovered how much was wanted to the
completion of my knowledge, and found that, according to Seneca's
remark, I had hitherto seen the world but on one side. My patron's
confidence in his increase of strength tempted him to carelessness and
irregularity; he caught a fever by riding in the rain, of which he died
delirious on the third day. I buried him without any of the heir's
affected grief or secret exultation; then preparing to take a legal
possession of his fortune, I opened his closet, where I found a will,
made at his first arrival, by which my father was appointed the chief
inheritor, and nothing was left me but a legacy sufficient to support me
in the prosecution of my studies.

I had not yet found such charms in prosperity as to continue it by any
acts of forgery or injustice, and made haste to inform my father of the
riches which had been given him, not by the preference of kindness, but
by the delays of indolence and cowardice of age. The hungry family flew
like vultures on their prey, and soon made my disappointment publick, by
the tumult of their claims, and the splendour of their sorrow.

It was now my part to consider how I should repair the disappointment. I
could not but triumph in my long list of friends, which comprised almost
every name that power or knowledge entitled to eminence; and, in the
prospect of the innumerable roads to honour and preferment, which I had
laid open to myself by the wise use of temporary riches, I believed
nothing necessary but that I should continue that acquaintance to which
I had been so readily admitted, and which had hitherto been cultivated
on both sides with equal ardour.

Full of these expectations, I one morning ordered a chair, with an
intention to make my usual circle of morning visits. Where I first
stopped I saw two footmen lolling at the door, who told me without any
change of posture, or collection of countenance, that their master was
at home, and suffered me to open the inner door without assistance. I
found my friend standing, and, as I was tattling with my former freedom,
was formally entreated to sit down; but did not stay to be favoured with
any further condescensions.

My next experiment was made at the levee of a statesman, who received me
with an embrace of tenderness, that he might with more decency publish
my change of fortune to the sycophants about him. After he had enjoyed
the triumph of condolence, he turned to a wealthy stockjobber, and left
me exposed to the scorn of those who had lately courted my notice, and
solicited my interest.

I was then set down at the door of another, who, upon my entrance,
advised me, with great solemnity, to think of some settled provision for
life. I left him, and hurried away to an old friend, who professed
himself unsusceptible of any impressions from prosperity or misfortune,
and begged that he might see me when he was more at leisure.

Of sixty-seven doors, at which I knocked in the first week after my
appearance in a mourning dress, I was denied admission at forty-six; was
suffered at fourteen to wait in the outer room till business was
despatched; at four, was entertained with a few questions about the
weather; at one, heard the footman rated for bringing my name; and at
two was informed, in the flow of casual conversation, how much a man of
rank degrades himself by mean company.

My curiosity now led me to try what reception I should find among the
ladies; but I found that my patron had carried all my powers of pleasing
to the grave. I had formerly been celebrated as a wit, and not
perceiving any languor in my imagination, I essayed to revive that
gaiety which had hitherto broken out involuntarily before my sentences
were finished. My remarks were now heard with a steady countenance, and
if a girl happened to give way to habitual merriment, her forwardness
was repressed with a frown by her mother or her aunt.

Wherever I come I scatter infirmity and disease; every lady whom I meet
in the Mall is too weary to walk; all whom I entreat to sing are
troubled with colds: if I propose cards, they are afflicted with the
head-ach; [Transcriber's note: sic] if I invite them to the gardens,
they cannot bear a crowd.

All this might be endured; but there is a class of mortals who think my
understanding impaired with my fortune, exalt themselves to the dignity
of advice, and, whenever we happen to meet, presume to prescribe my
conduct, regulate my economy, and direct my pursuits. Another race,
equally impertinent and equally despicable, are every moment
recommending to me an attention to my interest, and think themselves
entitled, by their superior prudence, to reproach me if I speak or move
without regard to profit.

Such, Mr. Rambler, is the power of wealth, that it commands the ear of
greatness and the eye of beauty, gives spirit to the dull, and authority
to the timorous, and leaves him from whom it departs, without virtue and
without understanding, the sport of caprice, the scoff of insolence, the
slave of meanness, and the pupil of ignorance.

I am, &c.



No. 154. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 1751.

  _--Tibi res antiquae laudis et artis
  Ingredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes_. VIR. Geo. ii. 174.

  For thee my tuneful accents will I raise,
  And treat of arts disclos'd in ancient days;
  Once more unlock for thee the sacred spring. DRYDEN.

The direction of Aristotle to those that study politicks, is first to
examine and understand what has been written by the ancients upon
government; then to cast their eyes round upon the world, and consider
by what causes the prosperity of communities is visibly influenced, and
why some are worse, and others better administered.

The same method must be pursued by him who hopes to become eminent in
any other part of knowledge. The first task is to search books, the next
to contemplate nature. He must first possess himself of the intellectual
treasures which the diligence of former ages has accumulated, and then
endeavour to increase them by his own collections.

The mental disease of the present generation, is impatience of study,
contempt of the great masters of ancient wisdom, and a disposition to
rely wholly upon unassisted genius and natural sagacity. The wits of
these happy days have discovered a way to fame, which the dull caution
of our laborious ancestors durst never attempt; they cut the knots of
sophistry which it was formerly the business of years to untie, solve
difficulties by sudden irradiations of intelligence, and comprehend long
processes of argument by immediate intuition.

Men who have flattered themselves into this opinion of their own
abilities, look down on all who waste their lives over books, as a race
of inferior beings, condemned by nature to perpetual pupilage, and
fruitlessly endeavouring to remedy their barrenness by incessant
cultivation, or succour their feebleness by subsidiary strength. They
presume that none would be more industrious than they, if they were not
more sensible of deficiencies; and readily conclude, that he who places
no confidence in his own powers, owes his modesty only to his weakness.

It is however certain, that no estimate is more in danger of erroneous
calculations than those by which a man computes the force of his own
genius. It generally happens at our entrance into the world, that, by
the natural attraction of similitude, we associate with men like
ourselves, young, sprightly, and ignorant, and rate our accomplishments
by comparison with theirs; when we have once obtained an acknowledged
superiority over our acquaintances, imagination and desire easily extend
it over the rest of mankind, and if no accident forces us into new
emulations, we grow old, and die in admiration of ourselves.

Vanity, thus confirmed in her dominion, readily listens to the voice of
idleness, and sooths the slumber of life with continual dreams of
excellence and greatness. A man, elated by confidence in his natural
vigour of fancy and sagacity of conjecture, soon concludes that he
already possesses whatever toil and inquiry can confer. He then listens
with eagerness to the wild objections which folly has raised against the
common means of improvement; talks of the dark chaos of indigested
knowledge; describes the mischievous effects of heterogeneous sciences
fermenting in the mind; relates the blunders of lettered ignorance;
expatiates on the heroick merit of those who deviate from prescription,
or shake off authority; and gives vent to the inflations of his heart by
declaring that he owes nothing to pedants and universities.

All these pretensions, however confident, are very often vain. The
laurels which superficial acuteness gains in triumphs over ignorance
unsupported by vivacity, are observed by Locke to be lost, whenever real
learning and rational diligence appear against her; the sallies of
gaiety are soon repressed by calm confidence; and the artifices of
subtilty are readily detected by those, who, having carefully studied
the question, are not easily confounded or surprised.

But, though the contemner of books had neither been deceived by others
nor himself, and was really born with a genius surpassing the ordinary
abilities of mankind; yet surely such gifts of Providence may be more
properly urged as incitements to labour, than encouragements to
negligence. He that neglects the culture of ground naturally fertile, is
more shamefully culpable, than he whose field would scarcely recompense
his husbandry.

Cicero remarks, that not to know what has been transacted in former
times, is to continue always a child. If no use is made of the labours
of past ages, the world must remain always in the infancy of knowledge.
The discoveries of every man must terminate in his own advantage, and
the studies of every age be employed on questions which the past
generation had discussed and determined. We may with as little reproach
borrow science as manufactures from our ancestors; and it is as rational
to live in caves till our own hands have erected a palace, as to reject
all knowledge of architecture which our understandings will not supply.

To the strongest and quickest mind it is far easier to learn than to
invent. The principles of arithmetick and geometry may be comprehended
by a close attention in a few days; yet who can flatter himself that the
study of a long life would have enabled him to discover them, when he
sees them yet unknown to so many nations, whom he cannot suppose less
liberally endowed with natural reason, than the Grecians or Egyptians?

Every science was thus far advanced towards perfection, by the emulous
diligence of contemporary students, and the gradual discoveries of one
age improving on another. Sometimes unexpected flashes of instruction
were struck out by the fortuitous collision of happy incidents, or an
involuntary concurrence of ideas, in which the philosopher to whom they
happened had no other merit than that of knowing their value, and
transmitting, unclouded, to posterity, that light which had been kindled
by causes out of his power. The happiness of these casual illuminations
no man can promise to himself, because no endeavours can procure them;
and therefore whatever be our abilities or application, we must submit
to learn from others what perhaps would have lain hid for ever from
human penetration, had not some remote inquiry brought it to view; as
treasures are thrown up by the ploughman and the digger in the rude
exercise of their common occupations. The man whose genius qualifies him
for great undertakings, must at least be content to learn from books the
present state of human knowledge; that he may not ascribe to himself the
invention of arts generally known; weary his attention with experiments
of which the event has been long registered; and waste, in attempts
which have already succeeded or miscarried, that time which might have
been spent with usefulness and honour upon new undertakings.

But, though the study of books is necessary, it is not sufficient to
constitute literary eminence. He that wishes to be counted among the
benefactors of posterity, must add by his own toil to the acquisitions
of his ancestors, and secure his memory from neglect by some valuable
improvement. This can only be effected by looking out upon the wastes of
the intellectual world, and extending the power of learning over regions
yet undisciplined and barbarous; or by surveying more exactly our
ancient dominions, and driving ignorance from the fortresses and
retreats where she skulks undetected and undisturbed. Every science has
its difficulties, which yet call for solution before we attempt new
systems of knowledge; as every country has its forests and marshes,
which it would be wise to cultivate and drain, before distant colonies
are projected as a necessary discharge of the exuberance of inhabitants.

No man ever yet became great by imitation. Whatever hopes for the
veneration of mankind must have invention in the design or the
execution; either the effect must itself be new, or the means by which
it is produced. Either truths hitherto unknown must be discovered, or
those which are already known enforced by stronger evidence, facilitated
by clearer method, or elucidated by brighter illustrations.

Fame cannot spread wide or endure long that is not rooted in nature, and
matured by art. That which hopes to resist the blast of malignity, and
stand firm against the attacks of time, must contain in itself some
original principle of growth. The reputation which arises from the
detail or transposition of borrowed sentiments, may spread for awhile,
like ivy on the rind of antiquity, but will be torn away by accident or
contempt, and suffered to rot unheeded on the ground.



No. 155. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 1751.

  _--Steriles transmisimus annos,
  Haec aevi mihi prima dies, haec limina vitae_. STAT. i. 362.

  --Our barren years are past;
  Be this of life the first, of sloth the last. ELPHINSTON.

No weakness of the human mind has more frequently incurred
animadversion, than the negligence with which men overlook their own
faults, however flagrant, and the easiness with which they pardon them,
however frequently repeated.

It seems generally believed, that as the eye cannot see itself, the mind
has no faculties by which it can contemplate its own state, and that
therefore we have not means of becoming acquainted with our real
characters; an opinion which, like innumerable other postulates, an
inquirer finds himself inclined to admit upon very little evidence,
because it affords a ready solution of many difficulties. It will
explain why the greatest abilities frequently fail to promote the
happiness of those who possess them; why those who can distinguish with
the utmost nicety the boundaries of vice and virtue, suffer them to be
confounded in their own conduct; why the active and vigilant resign
their affairs implicitly to the management of others; and why the
cautious and fearful make hourly approaches towards ruin, without one
sigh of solicitude or struggle for escape.

When a position teems thus with commodious consequences, who can without
regret confess it to be false? Yet it is certain that declaimers have
indulged a disposition to describe the dominion of the passions as
extended beyond the limits that nature assigned. Self-love is often
rather arrogant than blind; it does not hide our faults from ourselves,
but persuades us that they escape the notice of others, and disposes us
to resent censures lest we should confess them to be just. We are
secretly conscious of defects and vices, which we hope to conceal from
the publick eye, and please ourselves with innumerable impostures, by
which, in reality, nobody is deceived.

In proof of the dimness of our internal sight, or the general inability
of man to determine rightly concerning his own character, it is common
to urge the success of the most absurd and incredible flattery, and the
resentment always raised by advice, however soft, benevolent, and
reasonable. But flattery, if its operation be nearly examined, will be
found to owe its acceptance, not to our ignorance, but knowledge of our
failures, and to delight us rather as it consoles our wants than
displays our possessions. He that shall solicit the favour of his patron
by praising him for qualities which he can find in himself, will be
defeated by the more daring panegyrist who enriches him with
adscititious excellence. Just praise is only a debt, but flattery is a
present. The acknowledgment of those virtues on which conscience
congratulates us, is a tribute that we can at any time exact with
confidence; but the celebration of those which we only feign, or desire
without any vigorous endeavours to attain them, is received as a
confession of sovereignty over regions never conquered, as a favourable
decision of disputable claims, and is more welcome as it is more
gratuitous.

Advice is offensive, not because it lays us open to unexpected regret,
or convicts us of any fault which had escaped our notice, but because it
shews us that we are known to others as well as to ourselves; and the
officious monitor is persecuted with hatred, not because his accusation
is false, but because he assumes that superiority which we are not
willing to grant him, and has dared to detect what we desired to
conceal.

For this reason advice is commonly ineffectual. If those who follow the
call of their desires, without inquiry whither they are going, had
deviated ignorantly from the paths of wisdom, and were rushing upon
dangers unforeseen, they would readily listen to information that recals
them from their errours, and catch the first alarm by which destruction
or infamy is denounced. Few that wander in the wrong way mistake it for
the right, they only find it more smooth and flowery, and indulge their
own choice rather than approve it: therefore few are persuaded to quit
it by admonition or reproof, since it impresses no new conviction, nor
confers any powers of action or resistance. He that is gravely informed
how soon profusion will annihilate his fortune, hears with little
advantage what he knew before, and catches at the next occasion of
expense, because advice has no force to suppress his vanity. He that is
told how certainly intemperance will hurry him to the grave, runs with
his usual speed to a new course of luxury, because his reason is not
invigorated, nor his appetite weakened.

The mischief of flattery is, not that it persuades any man that he is
what he is not, but that it suppresses the influence of honest ambition,
by raising an opinion that honour may be gained without the toil of
merit; and the benefit of advice arises commonly not from any new light
imparted to the mind, but from the discovery which it affords of the
publick suffrages. He that could withstand conscience is frighted at
infamy, and shame prevails when reason is defeated.

As we all know our own faults, and know them commonly with many
aggravations which human perspicacity cannot discover, there is,
perhaps, no man, however hardened by impudence or dissipated by levity,
sheltered by hypocrisy or blasted by disgrace, who does not intend some
time to review his conduct, and to regulate the remainder of his life by
the laws of virtue. New temptations indeed attack him, new invitations
are offered by pleasure and interest, and the hour of reformation is
always delayed; every delay gives vice another opportunity of fortifying
itself by habit; and the change of manners, though sincerely intended
and rationally planned, is referred to the time when some craving
passion shall be fully gratified, or some powerful allurement cease its
importunity.

Thus procrastination is accumulated on procrastination, and one
impediment succeeds another, till age shatters our resolution, or death
intercepts the project of amendment. Such is often the end of salutary
purposes, after they have long delighted the imagination, and appeased
that disquiet which every mind feels from known misconduct, when the
attention is not diverted by business or by pleasure.

Nothing surely can be more unworthy of a reasonable nature, than to
continue in a state so opposite to real happiness, as that all the peace
of solitude, and felicity of meditation, must arise from resolutions of
forsaking it. Yet the world will often afford examples of men, who pass
months and years in a continual war with their own convictions, and are
daily dragged by habit, or betrayed by passion, into practices which
they closed and opened their eyes with purposes to avoid; purposes
which, though settled on conviction, the first impulse of momentary
desire totally overthrows.

The influence of custom is indeed such, that to conquer it will require
the utmost efforts of fortitude and virtue; nor can I think any man more
worthy of veneration and renown, than those who have burst the shackles
of habitual vice. This victory, however, has different degrees of glory
as of difficulty; it is more, heroick as the objects of guilty
gratification are more familiar, and the recurrence of solicitation more
frequent. He that, from experience of the folly of ambition, resigns his
offices, may set himself free at once from temptation to squander his
life in courts, because he cannot regain his former station. He who is
enslaved by an amorous passion, may quit his tyrant in disgust, and
absence will, without the help of reason, overcome by degrees the desire
of returning. But those appetites to which every place affords their
proper object, and which require no preparatory measures or gradual
advances, are more tenaciously adhesive; the wish is so near the
enjoyment, that compliance often precedes consideration, and, before the
powers of reason can be summoned, the time for employing them is past.

Indolence is therefore one of the vices from which those whom it once
infects are seldom reformed. Every other species of luxury operates upon
some appetite that is quickly satiated, and requires some concurrence of
art or accident which every place will not supply; but the desire of
ease acts equally at all hours, and the longer it is indulged is the
more increased. To do nothing is in every man's power; we can never want
an opportunity of omitting duties. The lapse to indolence is soft and
imperceptible, because it is only a mere cessation of activity; but the
return to diligence is difficult, because it implies a change from rest
to motion, from privation to reality:

  --_Facilis descensus Averni:
  Noctes atque dies patet atri junua ditis;
  Sed revocare gradum, saperasque evadere ad auras,
  Hoc opus, hic labor est_.--VIR. Aen. Lib. vi. 126.

  The gates of Hell are open night and day;
  Smooth the descent, and easy is the way;
  But to return, and view the cheerful skies,
  In this the task and mighty labour lies. DRYDEN.

Of this vice, as of all others, every man who indulges it is conscious:
we all know our own state, if we could be induced to consider it, and it
might perhaps be useful to the conquest of all these ensnarers of the
mind, if, at certain stated days, life was reviewed. Many things
necessary are omitted, because we vainly imagine that they may be always
performed; and what cannot be done without pain will for ever be
delayed, if the time of doing it be left unsettled. No corruption is
great but by long negligence, which can scarcely prevail in a mind
regularly and frequently awakened by periodical remorse. He that thus
breaks his life into parts, will find in himself a desire to distinguish
every stage of his existence by some improvement, and delight himself
with the approach of the day of recollection, as of the time which is to
begin a new series of virtue and felicity.



No. 156. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 1751.

  _Nunquam aliud Natura, aliud Sapientia dicit_. Juv. Sat. xiv. 321.

  For Wisdom ever echoes Nature's voice.

Every government, say the politicians, is perpetually degenerating
towards corruption, from which it must be rescued at certain periods by
the resuscitation of its first principles, and the re-establishment of
its original constitution. Every animal body, according to the methodick
physicians, is, by the predominance of some exuberant quality,
continually declining towards disease and death, which must be obviated
by a seasonable reduction of the peccant humour to the just equipoise
which health requires.

In the same manner the studies of mankind, all at least which, not being
subject to rigorous demonstration, admit the influence of fancy and
caprice, are perpetually tending to errour and confusion. Of the great
principles of truth which the first speculatists discovered, the
simplicity is embarrassed by ambitious additions, or the evidence
obscured by inaccurate argumentation; and as they descend from one
succession of writers to another, like light transmitted from room to
room, they lose their strength and splendour, and fade at last in total
evanescence.

The systems of learning therefore must be sometimes reviewed,
complications analyzed into principles, and knowledge disentangled from
opinion. It is not always possible, without a close inspection, to
separate the genuine shoots of consequential reasoning, which grow out
of some radical postulate, from the branches which art has ingrafted on
it. The accidental prescriptions of authority, when time has procured
them veneration, are often confounded with the laws of nature, and those
rules are supposed coëval with reason, of which the first rise cannot be
discovered.

Criticism has sometimes permitted fancy to dictate the laws by which
fancy ought to be restrained, and fallacy to perplex the principles by
which fallacy is to be detected; her superintendence of others has
betrayed her to negligence of herself; and, like the ancient Scythians,
by extending her conquests over distant regions, she has left her throne
vacant to her slaves.

Among the laws of which the desire of extending authority, or ardour of
promoting knowledge, has prompted the prescription, all which writers
have received, had not the same original right to our regard. Some are
to be considered as fundamental and indispensable, others only as useful
and convenient; some as dictated by reason and necessity, others as
enacted by despotick antiquity; some as invincibly supported by their
conformity to the order of nature and operations of the intellect;
others as formed by accident, or instituted by example, and therefore
always liable to dispute and alteration.

That many rules have been advanced without consulting nature or reason,
we cannot but suspect, when we find it peremptorily decreed by the
ancient masters, that only three speaking personages should appear at
once upon the stage; a law, which, as the variety and intricacy of
modern plays has made it impossible to be observed, we now violate
without scruple, and, as experience proves, without inconvenience.

The original of this precept was merely accidental. Tragedy was a
monody, or solitary song in honour of Bacchus, improved afterwards into
a dialogue by the addition of another speaker; but the ancients,
remembering that the tragedy was at first pronounced only by one, durst
not for some time venture beyond two; at last, when custom and impunity
had made them daring, they extended their liberty to the admission of
three, but restrained themselves by a critical edict from further
exorbitance.

By what accident the number of acts was limited to five, I know not that
any author has informed us; but certainly it is not determined by any
necessity arising either from the nature of action, or propriety of
exhibition. An act is only the representation of such a part of the
business of the play as proceeds in an unbroken tenour, or without any
intermediate pause. Nothing is more evident than that of every real, and
by consequence of every dramatick action, the intervals may be more or
fewer than five; and indeed the rule is upon the English stage every day
broken in effect, without any other mischief than that which arises from
an absurd endeavour to observe it in appearance. Whenever the scene is
shifted the act ceases, since some time is necessarily supposed to
elapse while the personages of the drama change their place.

With no greater right to our obedience have the criticks confined the
dramatick action to a certain number of hours. Probability requires that
the time of action should approach somewhat nearly to that of
exhibition, and those plays will always be thought most happily
conducted which crowd the greatest, variety into the least space. But
since it will frequently happen that some delusion must be admitted, I
know not where the limits of imagination can be fixed. It is rarely
observed that minds, not prepossessed by mechanical criticism, feel any
offence from the extension of the intervals between the acts; nor can I
conceive it absurd or impossible, that he who can multiply three hours
into twelve or twenty-four, might imagine with equal ease a greater
number.

I know not whether he that professes to regard no other laws than those
of nature, will not be inclined to receive tragi-comedy to his
protection, whom, however generally condemned, her own laurels have
hitherto shaded from the fulminations of criticism. For what is there in
the mingled drama which impartial reason can condemn? The connexion of
important with trivial incidents, since it is not only common but
perpetual in the world, may surely be allowed upon the stage, which
pretends only to be the mirror of life. The impropriety of suppressing
passions before we have raised them to the intended agitation, and of
diverting the expectation from an event which we keep suspended only to
raise it, may be speciously urged. But will not experience shew this
objection to be rather subtle than just? Is it not certain that the
tragick and comick affections have been moved alternately with equal
force, and that no plays have oftener filled the eye with tears, and the
breast with palpitation, than those which are variegated with interludes
of mirth?

I do not however think it safe to judge of works of genius merely by the
event. The resistless vicissitudes of the heart, this alternate
prevalence of merriment and solemnity, may sometimes be more properly
ascribed to the vigour of the writer than the justness of the design:
and, instead of vindicating tragi-comedy by the success of Shakspeare,
we ought, perhaps, to pay new honours to that transcendent and unbounded
genius that could preside over the passions in sport; who, to actuate
the affections, needed not the slow gradation of common means, but could
fill the heart with instantaneous jollity or sorrow, and vary our
disposition as he changed his scenes. Perhaps the effects even of
Shakspeare's poetry might have been yet greater, had he not counteracted
himself; and we might have been more interested in the distresses of his
heroes, had we not been so frequently diverted by the jokes of his
buffoons.

There are other rules more fixed and obligatory. It is necessary that of
every play the chief action should be single; for since a play
represents some transaction, through its regular maturation to its final
event, two actions equally important must evidently constitute two
plays.

As the design of tragedy is to instruct by moving the passions, it must
always have a hero, a personage apparently and incontestably superior to
the rest, upon whom the attention may be fixed, and the anxiety
suspended. For though, of two persons opposing each other with equal
abilities and equal virtue, the auditor will inevitably, in time, choose
his favourite, yet as that choice must be without any cogency of
conviction, the hopes or fears which it raises will be faint and
languid. Of two heroes acting in confederacy against a common enemy, the
virtues or dangers will give little emotion, because each claims our
concern with the same right, and the heart lies at rest between equal
motives.

It ought to be the first endeavour of a writer to distinguish nature
from custom; or that which is established because it is right, from that
which is right only because it is established; that he may neither
violate essential principles by a desire of novelty, nor debar himself
from the attainment of beauties within his view, by a needless fear of
breaking rules which no literary dictator had authority to enact.



No. 157. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 1751.

  [Greek:--Oi aidos
  Ginetai ae t' andras mega sinetai aed' oninaesi.]
  HOM. Il. [Greek: O.] 44.

  Shame greatly hurts or greatly helps mankind. ELPHINSTON.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Though one of your correspondents has presumed to mention with some
contempt that presence of attention and easiness of address, which the
polite have long agreed to celebrate and esteem, yet I cannot be
persuaded to think them unworthy of regard or cultivation; but am
inclined to believe that, as we seldom value rightly what we have never
known the misery of wanting, his judgment has been vitiated by his
happiness; and that a natural exuberance of assurance has hindered him
from discovering its excellence and use.

This felicity, whether bestowed by constitution, or obtained by early
habitudes, I can scarcely contemplate without envy. I was bred under a
man of learning in the country, who inculcated nothing but the dignity
of knowledge, and the happiness of virtue. By frequency of admonition,
and confidence of assertion, he prevailed upon me to believe, that the
splendour of literature would always attract reverence, if not darkened
by corruption. I therefore pursued my studies with incessant industry,
and avoided every thing which I had been taught to consider either as
vicious or tending to vice, because I regarded guilt and reproach as
inseparably united, and thought a tainted reputation the greatest
calamity.

At the university, I found no reason for changing my opinion; for though
many among my fellow-students took the opportunity of a more remiss
discipline to gratify their passions; yet virtue preserved her natural
superiority, and those who ventured to neglect, were not suffered to
insult her. The ambition of petty accomplishments found its way into the
receptacles of learning, but was observed to seize commonly on those who
either neglected the sciences or could not attain them; and I was
therefore confirmed in the doctrines of my old master, and thought
nothing worthy of my care but the means of gaining or imparting
knowledge.

This purity of manners, and intenseness of application, soon extended my
renown, and I was applauded by those, whose opinion I then thought
unlikely to deceive me, as a young man that gave uncommon hopes of
future eminence. My performances in time reached my native province, and
my relations congratulated themselves upon the new honours that were
added to their family.

I returned home covered with academical laurels, and fraught with
criticism and philosophy. The wit and the scholar excited curiosity, and
my acquaintance was solicited by innumerable invitations. To please will
always be the wish of benevolence, to be admired must be the constant
aim of ambition; and I therefore considered myself as about to receive
the reward of my honest labours, and to find the efficacy of learning
and of virtue.

The third day after my arrival I dined at the house of a gentleman who
had summoned a multitude of his friends to the annual celebration of his
wedding-day. I set forward with great exultation, and thought myself
happy that I had an opportunity of displaying my knowledge to so
numerous an assembly. I felt no sense of my own insufficiency, till,
going up stairs to the dining-room, I heard the mingled roar of
obstreperous merriment. I was, however, disgusted rather than terrified,
and went forward without dejection. The whole company rose at my
entrance; but when I saw so many eyes fixed at once upon me, I was
blasted with a sudden imbecility, I was quelled by some nameless power
which I found impossible to be resisted. My sight was dazzled, my cheeks
glowed, my perceptions were confounded; I was harassed by the multitude
of eager salutations, and returned the common civilities with hesitation
and impropriety; the sense of my own blunders increased my confusion,
and, before the exchange of ceremonies allowed me to sit down, I was
ready to sink under the oppression of surprise; my voice grew weak, and
my knees trembled.

The assembly then resumed their places, and I sat with my eyes fixed
upon the ground. To the questions of curiosity, or the appeals of
complaisance, I could seldom answer but with negative monosyllables, or
professions of ignorance; for the subjects on which they conversed, were
such as are seldom discussed in books, and were therefore out of my
range of knowledge. At length an old clergyman, who rightly conjectured
the reason of my conciseness, relieved me by some questions about the
present state of natural knowledge, and engaged me, by an appearance of
doubt and opposition, in the explication and defence of the Newtonian
philosophy.

The consciousness of my own abilities roused me from depression, and
long familiarity with my subject enabled me to discourse with ease and
volubility; but, however I might please myself, I found very little
added by my demonstrations to the satisfaction of the company; and my
antagonist, who knew the laws of conversation too well to detain their
attention long upon an unpleasing topick, after he had commended my
acuteness and comprehension, dismissed the controversy, and resigned me
to my former insignificance and perplexity.

After dinner, I received from the ladies, who had heard that I was a
wit, an invitation to the tea-table. I congratulated myself upon an
opportunity to escape from the company, whose gaiety began to be
tumultuous, and among whom several hints had been dropped of the
uselessness of universities, the folly of book-learning, and the
awkwardness of scholars. To the ladies, therefore, I flew, as to a
refuge from clamour, insult, and rusticity; but found my heart sink as I
approached their apartment, and was again disconcerted by the ceremonies
of entrance, and confounded by the necessity of encountering so many
eyes at once.

When I sat down I considered that, something pretty was always said to
ladies, and resolved to recover my credit by some elegant observation or
graceful compliment. I applied myself to the recollection of all that I
had read or heard in praise of beauty, and endeavoured to accommodate
some classical compliment to the present occasion. I sunk into profound
meditation, revolved the characters of the heroines of old, considered
whatever the poets have sung in their praise, and, after having borrowed
and invented, chosen and rejected a thousand sentiments, which, if I had
uttered them, would not have been understood, I was awakened from my
dream of learned gallantry, by the servant who distributed the tea.

There are not many situations more incessantly uneasy than that in which
the man is placed who is watching an opportunity to speak, without
courage to take it when it is offered, and who, though he resolves to
give a specimen of his abilities, always finds some reason or other for
delaying it to the next minute. I was ashamed of silence, yet could find
nothing to say of elegance or importance equal to my wishes. The ladies,
afraid of my learning, thought themselves not qualified to propose any
subject of prattle to a man so famous for dispute, and there was nothing
on either side but impatience and vexation.

In this conflict of shame, as I was re-assembling my scattered
sentiments, and, resolving to force my imagination to some sprightly
sally, had just found a very happy compliment, by too much attention to
my own meditations, I suffered the saucer to drop from my hand. The cup
was broken, the lap-dog was scalded, a brocaded petticoat was stained,
and the whole assembly was thrown into disorder. I now considered all
hopes of reputation at an end, and while they were consoling and
assisting one another, stole away in silence.

The misadventures of this unhappy day are not yet at an end; I am afraid
of meeting the meanest of them that triumphed over me in this state of
stupidity and contempt, and feel the same terrours encroaching upon my
heart at the sight of those who have once impressed them. Shame, above
any other passion, propagates itself. Before those who have seen me
confused, I can never appear without new confusion, and the remembrance
of the weakness which I formerly discovered, hinders me from acting or
speaking with my natural force.

But is this misery, Mr. Rambler, never to cease; have I spent my life in
study only to become the sport of the ignorant, and debarred myself from
all the common enjoyments of youth to collect ideas which must sleep in
silence, and form opinions which I must not divulge? Inform me, dear
Sir, by what means I may rescue my faculties from these shackles of
cowardice, how I may rise to a level with my fellow-beings, recall
myself from this langour of involuntary subjection to the free exertion
of my intellects, and add to the power of reasoning the liberty of
speech.

I am, Sir, &c.

VERECUNDULUS.



No. 158. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1751.

  Grammatici certunt, et adhuc sub judice lis est. HOR. Ar. Poet. 78.

  --Criticks yet contend,
  And of their vain disputings find no end. FRANCIS.

Criticism, though dignified from the earliest ages by the labours of men
eminent for knowledge and sagacity, and, since the revival of polite
literature, the favourite study of European scholars, has not yet
attained the certainty and stability of science. The rules hitherto
received are seldom drawn from any settled principle or self-evident
postulate, or adapted to the natural and invariable constitution of
things; but will be found, upon examination, the arbitrary edicts of
legislators, authorised only by themselves, who, out of various means by
which the same end may be attained, selected such as happened to occur
to their own reflection, and then, by a law which idleness and timidity
were too willing to obey, prohibited new experiments of wit, restrained
fancy from the indulgence of her innate inclination to hazard and
adventure, and condemned all future flights of genius to pursue the path
of the Meonian eagle.

This authority may be more justly opposed, as it is apparently derived
from them whom they endeavour to control; for we owe few of the rules of
writing to the acuteness of criticks, who have generally no other merit
than that, having read the works of great authors with attention, they
have observed the arrangement of their matter, or the graces of their
expression, and then expected honour and reverence for precepts which
they never could have invented; so that practice has introduced rules,
rather than rules have directed practice.

For this reason the laws of every species of writing have been settled
by the ideas of him who first raised it to reputation, without inquiry
whether his performances were not yet susceptible of improvement. The
excellencies and faults of celebrated writers have been equally
recommended to posterity; and, so far has blind reverence prevailed,
that even the number of their books has been thought worthy of
imitation.

The imagination of the first authors of lyrick poetry was vehement and
rapid, and their knowledge various and extensive. Living in an age when
science had been little cultivated, and when the minds of their
auditors, not being accustomed to accurate inspection, were easily
dazzled by glaring ideas, they applied themselves to instruct, rather by
short sentences and striking thoughts, than by regular argumentation;
and, finding attention more successfully excited by sudden sallies and
unexpected exclamations, than by the more artful and placid beauties of
methodical deduction, they loosed their genius to its own course, passed
from one sentiment to another without expressing the intermediate ideas,
and roved at large over the ideal world with such lightness and agility,
that their footsteps are scarcely to be traced.

From this accidental peculiarity of the ancient writers the criticks
deduce the rules of lyrick poetry, which they have set free from all the
laws by which other compositions are confined, and allow to neglect the
niceties of transition, to start into remote digressions, and to wander
without restraint from one scene of imagery to another.

A writer of later times has, by the vivacity of his essays, reconciled
mankind to the same licentiousness in short dissertations; and he
therefore who wants skill to form a plan, or diligence to pursue it,
needs only entitle his performance an essay, to acquire the right of
heaping together the collections of half his life without order,
coherence, or propriety.

In writing, as in life, faults are endured without disgust when they are
associated with transcendent merit, and may be sometimes recommended to
weak judgments by the lustre which they obtain from their union with
excellence; but it is the business of those who presume to superintend
the taste or morals of mankind, to separate delusive combinations and
distinguish that which may be praised from that which can only be
excused. As vices never promote happiness, though, when overpowered by
more active and more numerous virtues, they cannot totally destroy it;
so confusion and irregularity produce no beauty, though they cannot
always obstruct the brightness of genius and learning. To proceed from
one truth to another, and connect distant propositions by regular
consequences, is the great prerogative of man. Independent and
unconnected sentiments flashing upon the mind in quick succession, may,
for a time, delight by their novelty, but they differ from systematical
reasoning, as single notes from harmony, as glances of lightning from
the radiance of the sun.

When rules are thus drawn, rather from precedents than reason, there is
danger not only from the faults of an author, but from the errours of
those who criticise his works; since they may often mislead their pupils
by false representations, as the Ciceronians of the sixteenth century
were betrayed into barbarisms by corrupt copies of their darling writer.

It is established at present, that the proemial lines of a poem, in
which the general subject is proposed, must be void of glitter and
embellishment. "The first lines of Paradise Lost," says Addison, "are
perhaps as plain, simple, and unadorned, as any of the whole poem, in
which particular the author has conformed himself to the example of
Homer, and the precept of Horace."

This observation seems to have been made by an implicit adoption of the
common opinion, without consideration either of the precept or example.
Had Horace been consulted, he would have been found to direct only what
should be comprised in the proposition, not how it should be expressed;
and to have commended Homer in opposition to a meaner poet, not for the
gradual elevation of his diction, but the judicious expansion of his
plan; for displaying unpromised events, not for producing unexpected
elegancies.

  --Specivsa dehinc miracula prouiat;
  Antiphaten, Scyllamque, et cum Cyclope Charybdim.  Hon. Ar. Poet. 146.

  But from a cloud of smoke he breaks to light,
  And pours his specious miracles to sight;
  Antiphates his hideous feast devours,
  Charybdis barks, and Polyphemus roars.     FRANCIS.

If the exordial verses of Homer be compared with the rest of the poem,
they will not appear remarkable for plainness or simplicity, but rather
eminently adorned and illuminated:

  [Greek:
  Andra moi ennepe, Mousa, polutropon, os mala polla
  Plagchthae, epei Troiaes ieron ptoliethron eperse;
  Pollon d anthropon iden astea, kai noon egno;
  Polla d og en pontps pathen algea on kata thumon,
  Arnumenos aen te psuchaen kai noston etairon;
  All oud os etarous errusato, iemenos per;
  Auton gar spheteraesin atasthaliaesin olonto.
  Naepioi, oi kata bous uperionos Aeelioio
  Aesthion; autar o toisin apheileto vostimon aemao;
  Ton amothen ge, thea, thugater Dios, eipe kai eamin.]

  The man, for wisdom's various arts renown'd,
  Long exercised in woes, O muse! resound.
  Who, when his arms had wrought the destin'd fall
  Of sacred Troy, and raz'd her heav'n-built wall,
  Wandering from clime to clime, observant stray'd,
  The manners noted, and their states survey'd.
  On stormy seas unnumber'd toils he bore,
  Safe with his friends to gain his natal shore:
  Vain toils! their impious folly dar'd to prey
  On herds devoted to the god of day;
  The god vindictive doom'd them never more
  (Ah! men unbless'd) to touch that natal shore.
  O snatch some portion of these acts from fate,
  Celestial muse! and to our world relate.   POPE.

The first verses of the Iliad are in like manner particularly splendid,
and the proposition of the Aeneid closes with dignity and magnificence
not often to be found even in the poetry of Virgil.

The intent of the introduction is to raise expectation, and suspend it;
something therefore must be discovered, and something concealed; and the
poet, while the fertility of his invention is yet unknown, may properly
recommend himself by the grace of his language.

He that reveals too much, or promises too little; he that never
irritates the intellectual appetite, or that immediately satiates it,
equally defeats his own purpose. It is necessary to the pleasure of the
reader, that the events should not be anticipated, and how then can his
attention be invited, but by grandeur of expression?



No. 159. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1751.

  _Sunt verba et voces, quibus hunc lenire dolorem
  Possis, et magnuum morbi deponere partem_. HOR. Ep. Lib. i. 34.

  The power of words, and soothing sounds, appease
  The raging pain, and lessen the disease. FRANCIS.

The imbecility with which Verecundulus complains that the presence of a
numerous assembly freezes his faculties, is particularly incident to the
studious part of mankind, whose education necessarily secludes them in
their earlier years from mingled converse, till, at their dismission
from schools and academies, they plunge at once into the tumult of the
world, and, coming forth from the gloom of solitude, are overpowered by
the blaze of publick life.

It is, perhaps, kindly provided by nature, that as the feathers and
strength of a bird grow together, and her wings are not completed till
she is able to fly, so some proportion should be preserved in the human
kind between judgment and courage; the precipitation of inexperience is
therefore restrained by shame, and we remain shackled by timidity, till
we have learned to speak and act with propriety.  I believe few can
review the days of their youth without recollecting temptations, which
shame, rather than virtue, enabled them to resist; and opinions which,
however erroneous in their principles, and dangerous in their
consequences, they have panted to advance at the hazard of contempt and
hatred, when they found themselves irresistibly depressed by a languid
anxiety, which seized them at the moment of utterance, and still
gathered strength from their endeavours to resist it.

It generally happens that assurance keeps an even pace with ability, and
the fear of miscarriage, which hinders Our first attempts, is gradually
dissipated as our skill advances towards certainty of success. That
bashfulness, therefore, which prevents disgrace, that short and
temporary shame which secures us from the danger of lasting reproach,
cannot be properly counted among our misfortunes.

Bashfulness, however it may incommode for a moment, scarcely ever
produces evils of long continuance; it may flush the cheek, flutter in
the heart, deject the eyes, and enchain the tongue, but its mischiefs
soon pass off without remembrance. It may sometimes exclude pleasure,
but seldom opens any avenue to sorrow or remorse. It is observed
somewhere that _few have repented of having forborne to speak_.

To excite opposition, and inflame malevolence, is the unhappy privilege
of courage made arrogant by consciousness of strength. No man finds in
himself any inclination to attack or oppose him who confesses his
superiority by blushing in his presence. Qualities exerted with apparent
fearfulness, receive applause from every voice, and support from every
hand. Diffidence may check resolution and obstruct performance, but
compensates its embarrassments by more important advantages; it
conciliates the proud, and softens the severe, averts envy from
excellence, and censure from miscarriage.

It may indeed happen that knowledge and virtue remain too long congealed
by this frigorifick power, as the principles of vegetation are sometimes
obstructed by lingering frosts. He that enters late into a public
station, though with all the abilities requisite to the discharge of his
duty, will find his powers at first impeded by a timidity which he
himself knows to be vicious, and must struggle long against dejection
and reluctance, before he obtains the full command of his own attention,
and adds the gracefulness of ease to the dignity of merit.

For this disease of the mind I know not whether any remedies of much
efficacy can be found. To advise a man unaccustomed to the eyes of
multitudes to mount a tribunal without perturbation, to tell him whose
life was passed in the shades of contemplation, that he must not be
disconcerted or perplexed in receiving and returning the compliments of
a splendid assembly, is to advise an inhabitant of Brasil or Sumatra not
to shiver at an English winter, or him who has always lived upon a plain
to look from a precipice without emotion. It is to suppose custom
instantaneously controllable by reason, and to endeavour to communicate,
by precept, that which only time and habit can bestow.

He that hopes by philosophy and contemplation alone to fortify himself
against that awe which all, at their first appearance on the stage of
life, must feel from the spectators, will, at the hour of need, be
mocked by his resolution; and I doubt whether the preservatives which
Plato relates Alcibiades to have received from Socrates, when he was
about to speak in publick, proved sufficient to secure him from the
powerful fascination.

Yet, as the effects of time may by art and industry be accelerated or
retarded, it cannot be improper to consider how this troublesome
instinct may be opposed when it exceeds its just proportion, and instead
of repressing petulance and temerity, silences eloquence, and
debilitates force; since, though it cannot be hoped that anxiety should
be immediately dissipated, it may be at least somewhat abated; and the
passions will operate with less violence, when reason rises against
them, than while she either slumbers in neutrality, or, mistaking her
interest, lends them her assistance.

No cause more frequently produces bashfulness than too high an opinion
of our own importance. He that imagines an assembly filled with his
merit, panting with expectation, and hushed with attention, easily
terrifies himself with the dread of disappointing them, and strains his
imagination in pursuit of something that may vindicate the veracity of
fame, and shew that his reputation was not gained by chance. He
considers that what he shall say or do will never be forgotten; that
renown or infamy is suspended upon every syllable, and that nothing
ought to fall from him which will not bear the test of time. Under such
solicitude, who can wonder that the mind is overwhelmed, and, by
struggling with attempts above her strength, quickly sinks into
languishment and despondency?

The most useful medicines are often unpleasing to the taste. Those who
are oppressed by their own reputation, will, perhaps, not be comforted
by hearing that their cares are unnecessary. But the truth is, that no
man is much regarded by the rest of the world. He that considers how
little he dwells upon the condition of others, will learn how little the
attention of others is attracted by himself. While we see multitudes
passing before us, of whom, perhaps, not one appears to deserve our
notice, or excite our sympathy, we should remember, that we likewise are
lost in the same throng; that the eye which happens to glance upon us is
turned in a moment on him that follows us, and that the utmost which we
can reasonably hope or fear is, to fill a vacant hour with prattle, and
be forgotten.



No. 160. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 1751

  --Inter se convenit ursis. JUV. Sat. xv. 164.

  Beasts of each kind their fellows spare;
  Bear lives in amity with bear.

"The world," says Locke, "has people of all sorts." As in the general
hurry produced by the superfluities of some, and necessities of others,
no man needs to stand still for want of employment, so in the
innumerable gradations of ability, and endless varieties of study and
inclination, no employment can be vacant for want of a man qualified to
discharge it.

Such is probably the natural state of the universe; but it is so much
deformed by interest and passion, that the benefit of this adaptation of
men to things is not always perceived. The folly or indigence of those
who set their services to sale, inclines them to boast of qualifications
which they do not possess, and attempt business which they do not
understand; and they who have the power of assigning to others the task
of life, are seldom honest or seldom happy in their nomination. Patrons
are corrupted by avarice, cheated by credulity, or overpowered by
resistless solicitation. They are sometimes too strongly influenced by
honest prejudices of friendship, or the prevalence of virtuous
compassion. For, whatever cool reason may direct, it is not easy for a
man of tender and scrupulous goodness to overlook the immediate effect
of his own actions, by turning his eyes upon remoter consequences, and
to do that which must give present pain, for the sake of obviating evil
yet unfelt, or securing advantage in time to come. What is distant is in
itself obscure, and, when we have no wish to see it, easily escapes our
notice, or takes such a form as desire or imagination bestows upon it.

Every man might, for the same reason, in the multitudes that swarm about
him, find some kindred mind with which he could unite in confidence and
friendship; yet we see many straggling single about the world, unhappy
for want of an associate, and pining with the necessity of confining
their sentiments to their own bosoms.

This inconvenience arises, in like manner, from struggles of the will
against the understanding. It is not often difficult to find a suitable
companion, if every man would be content with such as he is qualified to
please. But if vanity tempts him to forsake his rank, and post himself
among those with whom no common interest or mutual pleasure can ever
unite him, he must always live in a state of unsocial separation,
without tenderness and without trust.

There are many natures which can never approach within a certain
distance, and which, when any irregular motive impels them towards
contact, seem to start back from each other by some invincible
repulsion. There are others which immediately cohere whenever they come
into the reach of mutual attraction, and with very little formality of
preparation mingle intimately as soon as they meet. Every man, whom
either business or curiosity has thrown at large into the world, will
recollect many instances of fondness and dislike, which have forced
themselves upon him without the intervention of his judgment; of
dispositions to court some and avoid others, when he could assign no
reason for the preference, or none adequate to the violence of his
passions; of influence that acted instantaneously upon his mind, and
which no arguments or persuasions could ever overcome.

Among those with whom time and intercourse have made us familiar, we
feel our affections divided in different proportions without much regard
to moral or intellectual merit. Every man knows some whom he cannot
induce himself to trust, though he has no reason to suspect that they
would betray him; those to whom he cannot complain, though he never
observed them to want compassion; those in whose presence he never can
be gay, though excited by invitations to mirth and freedom; and those
from whom he cannot be content to receive instruction, though they never
insulted his ignorance by contempt or ostentation.

That much regard is to be had to those instincts of kindness and
dislike, or that reason should blindly follow them, I am far from
intending to inculcate: it is very certain, that by indulgence we may
give them strength which they have not from nature, and almost every
example of ingratitude and treachery proves, that by obeying them we may
commit our happiness to those who are very unworthy of so great a trust.
But it may deserve to be remarked, that since few contend much with
their inclinations, it is generally vain to solicit the good-will of
those whom we perceive thus involuntarily alienated from us; neither
knowledge nor virtue will reconcile antipathy, and though officiousness
may be for a time admitted, and diligence applauded, they will at last
be dismissed with coldness, or discouraged by neglect.

Some have indeed an occult power of stealing upon the affections, of
exciting universal benevolence, and disposing every heart to fondness
and friendship. But this is a felicity granted only to the favourites of
nature. The greater part of mankind find a different reception from
different dispositions; they sometimes obtain unexpected caresses from
those whom they never flattered with uncommon regard, and sometimes
exhaust all their arts of pleasing without effect. To these it is
necessary to look round, and attempt every breast in which they find
virtue sufficient for the foundation of friendship; to enter into the
crowd, and try whom chance will offer to their notice, till they fix on
some temper congenial to their own, as the magnet rolled in the dust
collects the fragments of its kindred metal from a thousand particles of
other substances.

Every man must have remarked the facility with which the kindness of
others is sometimes gained by those to whom he never could have imparted
his own. We are by our occupations, education, and habits of life,
divided almost into different species, which regard one another, for the
most part, with scorn and malignity. Each of these classes of the human
race has desires, fears, and conversation, vexations and merriment
peculiar to itself; cares which another cannot feel; pleasures which he
cannot partake; and modes of expressing every sensation which he cannot
understand. That frolick which shakes one man with laughter, will
convulse another with indignation; the strain of jocularity which in one
place obtains treats and patronage, would in another be heard with
indifference, and in a third with abhorrence.

To raise esteem we must benefit others, to procure love we must please
them. Aristotle observes, that old men do not readily form friendships,
because they are not easily susceptible of pleasure. He that can
contribute to the hilarity of the vacant hour, or partake with equal
gust the favourite amusement; he whose mind is employed on the same
objects, and who therefore never harasses the understanding with
unaccustomed ideas, will be welcomed with ardour, and left with regret,
unless he destroys those recommendations by faults with which peace and
security cannot consist.

It were happy, if, in forming friendships, virtue could concur with
pleasure; but the greatest part of human gratifications approach so
nearly to vice, that few who make the delight of others their rule of
conduct, can avoid disingenuous compliances; yet certainly he that
suffers himself to be driven or allured from virtue, mistakes his own
interest, since he gains succour by means, for which his friend, if ever
he becomes wise, must scorn him, and for which at last he must scorn
himself.



No. 161. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 1, 1751.

  [Greek: Oiae gar phullon geneae, toiaede kai Andron.]
  HOM. Il. [Greek: T.]

  Frail as the leaves that quiver on the sprays,
  Like them man flourishes, like them decays.

MR. RAMBLER.

SIR,

You have formerly observed that curiosity often terminates in barren
knowledge, and that the mind is prompted to study and inquiry rather by
the uneasiness of ignorance, than the hope of profit. Nothing can be of
less importance to any present interest, than the fortune of those who
have been long lost in the grave, and from whom nothing now can be hoped
or feared. Yet, to rouse the zeal of a true antiquary, little more is
necessary than to mention a name which mankind have conspired to forget;
he will make his way to remote scenes of action through obscurity and
contradiction, as Tully sought amidst bushes and brambles the tomb of
Archimedes.

It is not easy to discover how it concerns him that gathers the produce,
or receives the rent of an estate, to know through what families the
land has passed, who is registered in the Conqueror's survey as its
possessor, how often it has been forfeited by treason, or how often sold
by prodigality. The power or wealth of the present inhabitants of a
country cannot be much increased by an inquiry after the names of those
barbarians, who destroyed one another twenty centuries ago, in contests
for the shelter of woods, or convenience of pasturage. Yet we see that
no man can be at rest in the enjoyment of a new purchase till he has
learned the history of his grounds from the ancient inhabitants of the
parish, and that no nation omits to record the actions of their
ancestors, however bloody, savage, and rapacious.

The same disposition, as different opportunities call it forth,
discovers itself in great or little things. I have always thought it
unworthy of a wise man to slumber in total inactivity, only because he
happens to have no employment equal to his ambition or genius; it is
therefore my custom to apply my attention to the objects before me, and
as I cannot think any place wholly unworthy of notice that affords a
habitation to a man of letters, I have collected the history and
antiquities of the several garrets in which I have resided.

  Quantulacunque estis, vos ego magna voco.

  How small to others, but how great to me!

Many of these narratives my industry has been able to extend to a
considerable length; but the woman with whom I now lodge has lived only
eighteen months in the house, and can give no account of its ancient
revolutions; the plaisterer having, at her entrance, obliterated, by his
white-wash, all the smoky memorials which former tenants had left upon
the ceiling, and perhaps drawn the veil of oblivion over politicians,
philosophers, and poets.

When I first, cheapened my lodgings, the landlady told me, that she
hoped I was not an author, for the lodgers on the first floor had
stipulated that the upper rooms should not be occupied by a noisy trade.
I very readily promised to give no disturbance to her family, and soon
despatched a bargain on the usual terms.

I had not slept many nights in my new apartment before I began to
inquire after my predecessors, and found my landlady, whose imagination
is filled chiefly with her own affairs, very ready to give me
information.

Curiosity, like all other desires, produces pain as wel as pleasure.
Before she began her narrative, I had heated my head with expectations
of adventures and discoveries, of elegance in disguise, and learning in
distress; and was somewhat mortified when I heard that the first tenant
was a tailor, of whom nothing was remembered but that he complained of
his room for want of light; and, after having lodged in it a month, and
paid only a week's rent, pawned a piece of cloth which he was trusted,
to cut out, and was forced to make a precipitate retreat from this
quarter of the town.

The next was a young woman newly arrived from the country, who lived for
five weeks with great regularity, and became by frequent treats very
much the favourite of the family, but at last received visits so
frequently from a cousin in Cheapside, that she brought the reputation
of the house into danger, and was therefore dismissed with good advice.

The room then stood empty for a fortnight; my landlady began to think
that she had judged hardly, and often wished for such another lodger. At
last, an elderly man of a grave aspect read the bill, and bargained for
the room at the very first price that was asked. He lived in close
retirement, seldom went out till evening, and then returned early,
sometimes cheerful, and at other times dejected. It was remarkable, that
whatever he purchased, he never had small money in his pocket; and,
though cool and temperate on other occasions, was always vehement and
stormy, till he received his change. He paid his rent with great
exactness, and seldom failed once a week to requite my landlady's
civility with a supper. At last, such is the fate of human felicity, the
house was alarmed at midnight by the constable, who demanded to search
the garrets. My landlady assuring him that he had mistaken the door,
conducted him up stairs, where he found the tools of a coiner; but the
tenant had crawled along the roof to an empty house, and escaped; much
to the joy of my landlady, who declares him a very honest man, and
wonders why any body should be hanged for making money when such numbers
are in want of it. She however confesses that she shall, for the future,
always question the character of those who take her garret without
beating down the price.

The bill was then placed again in the window, and the poor woman was
teased for seven weeks by innumerable passengers, who obliged her to
climb with them every hour up five stories, and then disliked the
prospect, hated the noise of a publick street, thought the stairs
narrow, objected to a low ceiling, required the walls to be hung with
fresher paper, asked questions about the neighbourhood, could not think
of living so far from their acquaintance, wished the windows had looked
to the south rather than the west, told how the door and chimney might
have been better disposed, bid her half the price that she asked, or
promised to give her earnest the next day, and came no more.

At last, a short meagre man, in a tarnished waistcoat, desired to see
the garret, and when he had stipulated for two long shelves, and a
larger table, hired it at a low rate. When the affair was completed, he
looked round him with great satisfaction, and repeated some words which
the woman did not understand. In two days he brought a great box of
books, took possession of his room, and lived very inoffensively, except
that he frequently disturbed the inhabitants of the next floor by
unseasonable noises. He was generally in bed at noon, but from evening
to midnight he sometimes talked aloud with great vehemence, sometimes
stamped as in rage, sometimes threw down his poker, then clattered his
chairs, then sat down in deep thought, and again burst out into loud
vociferations; sometimes he would sigh as oppressed with misery, and
sometimes shaked with convulsive laughter. When he encountered any of
the family, he gave way or bowed, but rarely spoke, except that as he
went up stairs he often repeated,

  [Greek:--Hos hupertata domata naiei].

  This habitant th' aerial regions boast;

hard words, to which his neighbours listened so often, that they learned
them without understanding them. What was his employment she did not
venture to ask him, but at last heard a printer's boy inquire for the
author.

My landlady was very often advised to beware of this strange man, who,
though he was quiet for the present, might perhaps become outrageous in
the hot months; but, as she was punctually paid, she could not find any
sufficient reason for dismissing him, till one night he convinced her,
by setting fire to his curtains, that it was not safe to have an author
for her inmate.

She had then for six weeks a succession of tenants, who left the house
on Saturday, and, instead of paying their rent, stormed at their
landlady. At last she took in two sisters, one of whom had spent her
little fortune in procuring remedies for a lingering disease, and was
now supported and attended by the other: she climbed with difficulty to
the apartment, where she languished eight weeks without impatience, or
lamentation, except for the expense and fatigue which her sister
suffered, and then calmly and contentedly expired. The sister followed
her to the grave, paid the few debts which they had contracted, wiped
away the tears of useless sorrow, and, returning to the business of
common life, resigned to me the vacant habitation.

Such, Mr. Rambler, are the changes which have happened in the narrow
space where my present fortune has fixed my residence. So true it is
that amusement and instruction are always at hand for those who have
skill and willingness to find them; and, so just is the observation of
Juvenal, that a single house will shew whatever is done or suffered in
the world.

I am, Sir, &c.



No. 162. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 5, 1751.

  Orbus es, et locuples, et Bruto consule natus,
    Esse tibi veras credis amicitias?
  Sunt veræ: sed quas juvenis, quas pauper habebas:
    Qui novus est, mortem diligit ille tuam. MART. Lib. xi. Ep. 44.

  What! old, and rich, and childless too,
  And yet believe your friends are true?
  Truth might perhaps to those belong,
  To those who lov'd you poor and young;
  But, trust me, for the new you have,
  They'll love you dearly--in your grave. F. LEWIS.

One of the complaints uttered by Milton's Samson, in the anguish of
blindness, is, that he shall pass his life under the direction of
others; that he cannot regulate his conduct by his own knowledge, but
must lie at the mercy of those who undertake to guide him.

There is no state more contrary to the dignity of wisdom than perpetual
and unlimited dependance, in which the understanding lies useless, and
every motion is received from external impulse. Reason is the great
distinction of human nature, the faculty by which we approach to some
degree of association with celestial intelligences; but as the
excellence of every power appears only in its operations, not to have
reason, and to have it useless and unemployed, is nearly the same.

Such is the weakness of man, that the essence of things is seldom so
much regarded as external and accidental appendages. A small variation
of trifling circumstances, a slight change of form by an artificial
dress, or a casual difference of appearance, by a new light and
situation, will conciliate affection or excite abhorrence, and determine
us to pursue or to avoid. Every man considers a necessity of compliance
with any will but his own, as the lowest state of ignominy and meanness;
few are so far lost in cowardice or negligence, as not to rouse at the
first insult of tyranny, and exert all their force against him who
usurps their property, or invades any privilege of speech or action. Yet
we see often those who never wanted spirit to repel encroachment or
oppose violence, at last, by a gradual relaxation of vigilance,
delivering up, without capitulation, the fortress which they defended
against assault, and laying down unbidden the weapons which they grasp
the harder for every attempt to wrest them from their hands. Men eminent
for spirit and wisdom often resign themselves to voluntary pupilage, and
suffer their lives to be modelled by officious ignorance, and their
choice to be regulated by presumptuous stupidity.

This unresisting acquiescence in the determination of others, may be the
consequence of application to some study remote from the beaten track of
life, some employment which does not allow leisure for sufficient
inspection of those petty affairs, by which nature has decreed a great
part of our duration to be filled. To a mind thus withdrawn from common
objects, it is more eligible to repose on the prudence of another, than
to be exposed every moment to slight interruptions. The submission which
such confidence requires, is paid without pain, because it implies no
confession of inferiority. The business from which we withdraw our
cognizance, is not above our abilities, but below our notice. We please
our pride with the effects of our influence thus weakly exerted, and
fancy ourselves placed in a higher orb, for which we regulate
subordinate agents by a slight and distant superintendance. But,
whatever vanity or abstraction may suggest, no man can safely do that by
others which might be done by himself; he that indulges negligence will
quickly become ignorant of his own affairs; and he that trusts without
reserve will at last be deceived.

It is, however, impossible but that, as the attention tends strongly
towards one thing, it must retire from another; and he that omits the
care of domestick business, because he is engrossed by inquiries of more
importance to mankind, has, at least, the merit of suffering in a good
cause. But there are many who can plead no such extenuation of their
folly; who shake off the burden of their situation, not that they may
soar with less incumbrance to the heights of knowledge or virtue, but
that they may loiter at ease and sleep in quiet; and who select for
friendship and confidence not the faithful and the virtuous, but the
soft, the civil, and compliant.

This openness to flattery is the common disgrace of declining life. When
men feel weakness increasing on them, they naturally desire to rest from
the struggles of contradiction, the fatigue of reasoning, the anxiety of
circumspection; when they are hourly tormented with pains and diseases,
they are unable to bear any new disturbance, and consider all opposition
as an addition to misery, of which they feel already more than they can
patiently endure. Thus desirous of peace, and thus fearful of pain, the
old man seldom inquires after any other qualities in those whom he
caresses, than quickness in conjecturing his desires, activity in
supplying his wants, dexterity in intercepting complaints before they
approach near enough to disturb him, flexibility to his present humour,
submission to hasty petulance, and attention to wearisome narrations. By
these arts alone many have been able to defeat the claims of kindred and
of merit, and to enrich themselves with presents and legacies.

Thrasybulus inherited a large fortune, and augmented it by the revenues
of several lucrative employments, which he discharged with honour and
dexterity. He was at last wise enough to consider, that life should not
be devoted wholly to accumulation, and therefore retiring to his estate,
applied himself to the education of his children, and the cultivation of
domestick happiness.

He passed several years in this pleasing amusement, and saw his care
amply recompensed; his daughters were celebrated for modesty and
elegance, and his sons for learning, prudence, and spirit. In time the
eagerness with which the neighbouring gentlemen courted his alliance,
obliged him to resign his daughters to other families; the vivacity and
curiosity of his sons hurried them out of rural privacy into the open
world, from whence they had not soon an inclination to return. This,
however, he had always hoped; he pleased himself with the success of his
schemes, and felt no inconvenience from solitude till an apoplexy
deprived him of his wife.

Thrasybulus had now no companion; and the maladies of increasing years
having taken from him much of the power of procuring amusement for
himself, he thought it necessary to procure some inferior friend, who
might ease him of his economical solicitudes, and divert him by cheerful
conversation. All these qualities he soon recollected in Vafer, a clerk
in one of the offices over which he had formerly presided. Vafer was
invited to visit his old patron, and being by his station acquainted
with the present modes of life, and by constant practice dexterous in
business, entertained him with so many novelties, and so readily
disentangled his affairs, that he was desired to resign his clerkship,
and accept a liberal salary in the house of Thrasybulus.

Vafer, having always lived in a state of dependance, was well versed in
the arts by which favour is obtained, and could, without repugnance or
hesitation, accommodate himself to every caprice, and echo every
opinion. He never doubted but to be convinced, nor attempted opposition
but to flatter Thrasybulus with the pleasure of a victory. By this
practice he found his way into his patron's heart, and, having first
made himself agreeable, soon became important. His insidious diligence,
by which the laziness of age was gratified, engrossed the management of
affairs; and his petty offices of civility, and occasional
intercessions, persuaded the tenants to consider him as their friend and
benefactor, and to entreat his enforcement of their representations of
hard years, and his countenance to petitions for abatement of rent.

Thrasybulus had now banqueted on flattery, till he could no longer bear
the harshness of remonstrance or the insipidity of truth. All
contrariety to his own opinion shocked him like a violation of some
natural right, and all recommendation of his affairs to his own
inspection was dreaded by him as a summons to torture. His children were
alarmed by the sudden riches of Vafer, but their complaints were heard
by their father with impatience, as the result of a conspiracy against
his quiet, and a design to condemn him, for their own advantage, to
groan out his last hours in perplexity and drudgery. The daughters
retired with tears in their eyes, but the son continued his
importunities till he found his inheritance hazarded by his obstinacy.

Vafer triumphed over all their efforts, and, continuing to confirm
himself in authority, at the death of his master, purchased an estate,
and bade defiance to inquiry and justice.



No. 163. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 8, 1751.

  Mitte superba pati fastidia, spemque caducam
    Despice; vive tibi, nam moriere tibi. SENECA.

  Bow to no patron's insolence; rely
  On no frail hopes, in freedom live and die. F. LEWIS.

None of the cruelties exercised by wealth and power upon indigence and
dependance is more mischievous in its consequences, or more frequently
practised with wanton negligence, than the encouragement of expectations
which are never to be gratified, and the elation and depression of the
heart by needless vicissitudes of hope and disappointment.

Every man is rich or poor, according to the proportion between his
desires and enjoyments; any enlargement of wishes is therefore equally
destructive to happiness with the diminution of possession; and he that
teaches another to long for what he never shall obtain, is no less an
enemy to his quiet, than if he had robbed him of part of his patrimony.

But representations thus refined exhibit no adequate idea of the guilt
of pretended friendship; of artifices by which followers are attracted
only to decorate the retinue of pomp, and swell the shout of popularity,
and to be dismissed with contempt and ignominy, when their leader has
succeeded or miscarried, when he is sick of show, and weary of noise.
While a man infatuated with the promises of greatness, wastes his hours
and days in attendance and solicitation, the honest opportunities of
improving his condition pass by without his notice; he neglects to
cultivate his own barren soil, because he expects every moment to be
placed in regions of spontaneous fertility, and is seldom roused from
his delusion, but by the gripe of distress which he cannot resist, and
the sense of evils which cannot be remedied.

The punishment of Tantalus in the infernal regions affords a just image
of hungry servility, flattered with the approach of advantage, doomed to
lose it before it comes into his reach, always within a few days of
felicity, and always sinking back to his former wants:

 [Greek:
  Kai maen Tantalon eiseidon, chalep alge echonta,
  Estaot en limnae hae de proseplaze geneio.
  Steuto de dipsaon, pieein d ouk eichen elesthai.
  Ossaki gar kupsei ho geron pieein meneainon,
  Tossach hudor apolesket anabrochen. amphi de possi
  Gaia melaina phaneske katazaenaske de daimon,
  Dendrea d hupsipeteala katakoeathen chee kaopon
  Onchnai, kai roiai, kai maeleai aglaokarpoi,
  Sukai te glukeoai, kai elaiai taelethoosai.
  Ton opot ithusei o geoon epi cheosi masasthai,
  Tasd anemos riptaske poti nephea skioenta.]
  HOM. Od. [Greek: A'.] 581.

"I saw," says Homer's Ulysses, "the severe punishment of Tantalus. In a
lake, whose waters approached to his lips, he stood burning with thirst,
without the power to drink. Whenever he inclined his head to the stream,
some deity commanded it to be dry, and the dark earth appeared at his
feet. Around him lofty trees spread their fruits to view; the pear, the
pomegranate and the apple, the green olive and the luscious fig quivered
before him, which, whenever he extended his hand to seize them, were
snatched by the winds into clouds and obscurity."

This image of misery was perhaps originally suggested to some poet by
the conduct of his patron, by the daily contemplation of splendour which
he never must partake, by fruitless attempts to catch at interdicted
happiness, and by the sudden evanescence of his reward, when he thought
his labours almost at an end. To groan with poverty, when all about him
was opulence, riot, and superfluity, and to find the favours which he
had long been encouraged to hope, and had long endeavoured to deserve,
squandered at last on nameless ignorance, was to thirst with water
flowing before him, and to see the fruits, to which his hunger was
hastening, scattered by the wind. Nor can my correspondent, whatever he
may have suffered, express with more justness or force the vexations of
dependance.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

I am one of those mortals who have been courted and envied as the
favourites of the great. Having often gained the prize of composition at
the university, I began to hope that I should obtain the same
distinction in every other place, and determined to forsake the
profession to which I was destined by my parents, and in which the
interest of my family would have procured me a very advantageous
settlement. The pride of wit fluttered in my heart, and when I prepared
to leave the college, nothing entered my imagination but honours,
caresses, and rewards, riches without labour, and luxury without
expense.

I however delayed my departure for a time, to finish the performance by
which I was to draw the first notice of mankind upon me. When it was
completed I hurried to London, and considered every moment that passed
before its publication, as lost in a kind of neutral existence, and cut
off from the golden hours of happiness and fame. The piece was at last
printed and disseminated by a rapid sale; I wandered from one place of
concourse to another, feasted from morning to night on the repetition of
my own praises, and enjoyed the various conjectures of criticks, the
mistaken candour of my friends, and the impotent malice of my enemies.
Some had read the manuscript, and rectified its inaccuracies; others had
seen it in a state so imperfect, that they could not forbear to wonder
at its present excellence; some had conversed with the author at the
coffeehouse; and others gave hints that they had lent him money.

I knew that no performance is so favourably read as that of a writer who
suppresses his name, and therefore resolved to remain concealed, till
those by whom literary reputation is established had given their
suffrages too publickly to retract them. At length my bookseller
informed me that Aurantius, the standing patron of merit, had sent
inquiries after me, and invited me to his acquaintance.

The time which I had long expected was now arrived. I went to Aurantius
with a beating heart, for I looked upon our interview as the critical
moment of my destiny. I was received with civilities which my academick
rudeness made me unable to repay; but when I had recovered from my
confusion, I prosecuted the conversation with such liveliness and
propriety, that I confirmed my new friend in his esteem of my abilities,
and was dismissed with the utmost ardour of profession, and raptures of
fondness.

I was soon summoned to dine with Aurantius, who had assembled the most
judicious of his friends to partake of the entertainment. Again I
exerted my powers of sentiment and expression, and again found every eye
sparkling with delight, and every tongue silent with attention. I now
became familiar at the table of Aurantius, but could never, in his most
private or jocund hours, obtain more from him than general declarations
of esteem, or endearments of tenderness, which included no particular
promise, and therefore conferred no claim. This frigid reserve somewhat
disgusted me, and when he complained of three days absence, I took care
to inform him with how much importunity of kindness I had been detained
by his rival Pollio.

Aurantius now considered his honour as endangered by the desertion of a
wit, and, lest I should have an inclination to wander, told me that I
could never find a friend more constant and zealous than himself; that
indeed he had made no promises, because he hoped to surprise me with
advancement, but had been silently promoting my interest, and should
continue his good offices, unless he found the kindness of others more
desired.

If you, Mr. Rambler, have ever ventured your philosophy within the
attraction of greatness, you know the force of such language introduced
with a smile of gracious tenderness, and impressed at the conclusion
with an air of solemn sincerity. From that instant I gave myself up
wholly to Aurantius, and, as he immediately resumed his former gaiety,
expected every morning a summons to some employment of dignity and
profit. One month succeeded another, and, in defiance of appearances, I
still fancied myself nearer to my wishes, and continued to dream of
success, and wake to disappointment. At last the failure of my little
fortune compelled me to abate the finery which I hitherto thought
necessary to the company with whom I associated, and the rank to which I
should be raised. Aurantius, from the moment in which he discovered my
poverty, considered me as fully in his power, and afterwards rather
permitted my attendance than invited it; thought himself at liberty to
refuse my visits, whenever he had other amusements within reach, and
often suffered me to wait, without pretending any necessary business.
When I was admitted to his table, if any man of rank equal to his own
was present, he took occasion to mention my writings, and commend my
ingenuity, by which he intended to apologize for the confusion of
distinctions, and the improper assortment of his company; and often
called upon me to entertain his friends with my productions, as a
sportsman delights the squires of his neighbourhood with the curvets of
his horse, or the obedience of his spaniels.

To complete my mortification, it was his practice to impose tasks upon
me, by requiring me to write upon such subjects as he thought
susceptible of ornament and illustration. With these extorted
performances he was little satisfied, because he rarely found in them
the ideas which his own imagination had suggested, and which he
therefore thought more natural than mine.

When the pale of ceremony is broken, rudeness and insult soon enter the
breach. He now found that he might safely harass me with vexation, that
he had fixed the shackles of patronage upon me, and that I could neither
resist him nor escape. At last, in the eighth year of my servitude, when
the clamour of creditors was vehement, and my necessity known to be
extreme, he offered me a small office, but hinted his expectation, that
I should marry a young woman with whom he had been acquainted.

I was not so far depressed by my calamities as to comply with this
proposal; but, knowing that complaints and expostulations would but
gratify his insolence, I turned away with that contempt with which I
shall never want spirit to treat the wretch who can outgo the guilt of a
robber without the temptation of his profit, and who lures the credulous
and thoughtless to maintain the show of his levee, and the mirth of his
table, at the expense of honour, happiness, and life.

I am, Sir, &c.

LIBERALIS.



No. 164. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 12, 1751.

  _--Vitium, Gaure, Catonis habes_. MART. Lib. ii. Ep. lxxxix. 2.

  Gaurus pretends to Cato's fame;
  And proves--by Cato's vice, his claim.

Distinction is so pleasing to the pride of man, that a great part of the
pain and pleasure of life arises from the gratification or
disappointment of an incessant wish for superiority, from the success or
miscarriage of secret competitions, from victories and defeats, of
which, though they appear to us of great importance, in reality none are
conscious except ourselves.

Proportionate to the prevalence of this love of praise is the variety of
means by which its attainment is attempted. Every man however hopeless
his pretensions may appear to all but himself, has some project by which
he hopes to rise to reputation; some art by which he imagines that the
notice of the world will be attracted; some quality, good or bad, which
discriminates him from the common herd of mortals, and by which others
maybe persuaded to love, or compelled to fear him. The ascents of
honour, however steep, never appear inaccessible; he that despairs to
scale the precipices by which learning and valour have conducted their
favourites, discovers some by-bath, or easier acclivity, which, though
it cannot bring him to the summit, will yet enable him to overlook those
with whom he is now contending for eminence; and we seldom require more
to the happiness of the present hour, than to surpass him that stands
next before us.

As the greater part of human kind speak and act wholly by imitation,
most of those who aspire to honour and applause propose to themselves
some example which serves as the model of their conduct, and the limit
of their hopes. Almost every man, if closely examined, will be found to
have enlisted himself under some leader whom he expects to conduct him
to renown; to have some hero or other, living or dead, in his view,
whose character he endeavours to assume, and whose performances he
labours to equal.

When the original is well chosen, and judiciously copied, the imitator
often arrives at excellence, which he could never have attained without
direction; for few are formed with abilities to discover new
possibilities of excellence, and to distinguish themselves by means
never tried before.

But folly and idleness often contrive to gratify pride at a cheaper
rate: not the qualities which are most illustrious, but those which are
of easiest attainment, are selected for imitation; and the honours and
rewards which publick gratitude has paid to the benefactors of mankind,
are expected by wretches who can only imitate them in their vices and
defects, or adopt some petty singularities of which those from whom they
are borrowed were secretly ashamed.

No man rises to such a height as to become conspicuous, but he is on one
side censured by undiscerning malice, which reproaches him for his best
actions, and slanders his apparent and incontestable excellencies; and
idolized on the other by ignorant admiration, which exalts his faults
and follies into virtues. It may be observed, that he by whose intimacy
his acquaintances imagine themselves dignified, generally diffuses among
them his mien and his habits; and indeed, without more vigilance than is
generally applied to the regulation of the minuter parts of behaviour,
it is not easy, when we converse much with one whose general character
excites our veneration, to escape all contagion of his peculiarities,
even when we do not deliberately think them worthy of our notice, and
when they would have excited laughter or disgust, had they not been
protected by their alliance to nobler qualities, and accidentally
consorted with knowledge or with virtue.

The faults of a man loved or honoured, sometimes steal secretly and
imperceptibly upon the wise and virtuous, but, by injudicious fondness
or thoughtless vanity, are adopted with design. There is scarce any
failing of mind or body, any errour of opinion, or depravity of
practice, which instead of producing shame and discontent, its natural
effects, has not at one time or other gladdened vanity with the hopes of
praise, and been displayed with ostentatious industry by those who
sought kindred minds among the wits or heroes, and could prove their
relation only by similitude of deformity.

In consequence of this perverse ambition, every habit which reason
condemns may be indulged and avowed. When a man is upbraided with his
faults, he may indeed be pardoned if he endeavours to run for shelter to
some celebrated name; but it is not to be suffered that, from the
retreats to which he fled from infamy, he should issue again with the
confidence of conquests, and call upon mankind for praise. Yet we see
men that waste their patrimony in luxury, destroy their health with
debauchery, and enervate their minds with idleness, because there have
been some whom luxury never could sink into contempt, nor idleness
hinder from the praise of genius.

This general inclination of mankind to copy characters in the gross, and
the force which the recommendation of illustrious examples adds to the
allurements of vice, ought to be considered by all whose character
excludes them from the shades of secrecy, as incitements to scrupulous
caution and universal purity of manners. No man, however enslaved to his
appetites, or hurried by his passions, can, while he preserves his
intellects unimpaired, please himself with promoting the corruption of
others. He whose merit has enlarged his influence, would surely wish to
exert it for the benefit of mankind. Yet such will be the effect of his
reputation, while he suffers himself to indulge in any favourite fault,
that they who have no hope to reach his excellence will catch at his
failings, and his virtues will be cited to justify the copiers of his
vices.

It is particularly the duty of those who consign illustrious names to
posterity, to take care lest their readers be misled by ambiguous
examples. That writer may be justly condemned as an enemy to goodness,
who suffers fondness or interest to confound right with wrong, or to
shelter the faults which even the wisest and the best have committed
from that ignominy which guilt ought always to suffer, and with which it
should be more deeply stigmatized when dignified by its neighbourhood to
uncommon worth, since we shall be in danger of beholding it without
abhorrence, unless its turpitude be laid open, and the eye secured from
the deception of surrounding splendour.



No. 165. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 15, 1751.

  [Greek: Aen neos, alla penaes nun gaeron, plousios eimi
    O monos ek panton oiktros en amphoterois,
  Os tote men chraesthai dunamaen, hopot oud' en eichon.
    Nun d' opote chraesthai mae dunamai, tot echo.] ANTIPHILUS.

  Young was I once and poor, now rich and old;
  A harder case than mine was never told;
  Blest with the power to use them--I had none;
  Loaded with _riches_ now, the power is gone. F. LEWIS.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

The writers who have undertaken the unpromising task of moderating
desire, exert all the power of their eloquence, to shew that happiness
is not the lot of man, and have, by many arguments and examples, proved
the instability of every condition by which envy or ambition are
excited. They have set before our eyes all the calamities to which we
are exposed from the frailty of nature, the influence of accident, or
the stratagems of malice; they have terrified greatness with
conspiracies, and riches with anxieties, wit with criticism, and beauty
with disease.

All the force of reason, and all the charms of language, are indeed
necessary to support positions which every man hears with a wish to
confute them. Truth finds an easy entrance into the mind when she is
introduced by desire, and attended by pleasure; but when she intrudes
uncalled, and brings only fear and sorrow in her train, the passes of
the intellect are barred against her by prejudice and passion; if she
sometimes forces her way by the batteries of argument, she seldom long
keeps possession of her conquests, but is ejected by some favoured
enemy, or at best obtains only a nominal sovereignty, without influence
and without authority.

That life is short we are all convinced, and yet suffer not that
conviction to repress our projects or limit our expectations; that life
is miserable we all feel, and yet we believe that the time is near when
we shall feel it no longer. But to hope happiness and immortality is
equally vain. Our state may indeed be more or less embittered as our
duration may be more or less contracted; yet the utmost felicity which
we can ever attain will be little better than alleviation of misery, and
we shall always feel more pain from our wants than pleasure from our
enjoyments. The incident which I am going to relate will shew, that to
destroy the effect of all our success, it is not necessary that any
signal calamity should fall upon us, that we should be harassed by
implacable persecution, or excruciated by irremediable pains: the
brightest hours of prosperity have their clouds, and the stream of life,
if it is not ruffled by obstructions, will grow putrid by stagnation.

My father, resolving not to imitate the folly of his ancestors, who had
hitherto left the younger sons encumbrances on the eldest, destined me
to a lucrative profession; and I, being careful to lose no opportunity
of improvement, was, at the usual time in which young men enter the
world, well qualified for the exercise of the business which I had
chosen.

My eagerness to distinguish myself in publick, and my impatience of the
narrow scheme of life to which my indigence confined me, did not suffer
me to continue long in the town where I was born. I went away as from a
place of confinement, with a resolution to return no more, till I should
be able to dazzle with my splendour those who now looked upon me with
contempt, to reward those who had paid honours to my dawning merit, and
to shew all who had suffered me to glide by them unknown and neglected,
how much they mistook their interest in omitting to propitiate a genius
like mine.

Such were my intentions when I sallied forth into the unknown world, in
quest of riches and honours, which I expected to procure in a very short
time; for what could withhold them from industry and knowledge? He that
indulges hope will always be disappointed. Reputation I very soon
obtained; but as merit is much more cheaply acknowledged than rewarded,
I did not find myself yet enriched in proportion to my celebrity.

I had, however, in time, surmounted the obstacles by which envy and
competition obstruct the first attempts of a new claimant, and saw my
opponents and censurers tacitly confessing their despair of success, by
courting my friendship and yielding to my influence. They who once
pursued me, were now satisfied to escape from me; and they who had
before thought me presumptuous in hoping to overtake them, had now their
utmost wish, if they were permitted, at no great distance, quietly to
follow me.

My wants were not madly multiplied as my acquisitions increased, and the
time came, at length, when I thought myself enabled to gratify all
reasonable desires, and when, therefore, I resolved to enjoy that plenty
and serenity which I had been hitherto labouring to procure, to enjoy
them while I was yet neither crushed by age into infirmity, nor so
habituated to a particular manner of life as to be unqualified for new
studies or entertainments.

I now quitted my profession, and, to set myself at once free from all
importunities to resume it, changed my residence, and devoted the
remaining part of my time to quiet and amusement. Amidst innumerable
projects of pleasure, which restless idleness incited me to form, and of
which most, when they came to the moment of execution, were rejected for
others of no longer continuance, some accident revived in my imagination
the pleasing ideas of my native place. It was now in my power to visit
those from whom I had been so long absent, in such a manner as was
consistent with my former resolution, and I wondered how it could happen
that I had so long delayed my own happiness.

Full of the admiration which I should excite, and the homage which I
should receive, I dressed my servants in a more ostentatious livery,
purchased a magnificent chariot, and resolved to dazzle the inhabitants
of the little town with an unexpected blaze of greatness.

While the preparations that vanity required were made for my departure,
which, as workmen will not easily be hurried beyond their ordinary rate,
I thought very tedious, I solaced my impatience with imaging the various
censures that my appearance would produce; the hopes which some would
feel from my bounty; the terrour which my power would strike on others;
the awkward respect with which I should be accosted by timorous
officiousness; and the distant reverence with which others, less
familiar to splendour and dignity, would be contented to gaze upon me. I
deliberated a long time, whether I should immediately descend to a level
with my former acquaintances; or make my condescension more grateful by
a gentle transition from haughtiness and reserve. At length I determined
to forget some of my companions, till they discovered themselves by some
indubitable token, and to receive the congratulations of others upon my
good fortune with indifference, to shew that I always expected what I
had now obtained. The acclamations of the populace I purposed to reward
with six hogsheads of ale, and a roasted ox, and then recommend to them
to return to their work.

At last all the trappings of grandeur were fitted, and I began the
journey of triumph, which I could have wished to have ended in the same
moment; but my horses felt none of their master's ardour, and I was
shaken four days upon rugged roads. I then entered the town, and, having
graciously let fall the glasses, that my person might be seen, passed
slowly through the street. The noise of the wheels brought the
inhabitants to their doors, but I could not perceive that I was known by
them. At last I alighted, and my name, I suppose, was told by my
servants, for the barber stepped from the opposite house, and seized me
by the hand with honest joy in his countenance, which, according to the
rule that I had prescribed to myself, I repressed with a frigid
graciousness. The fellow, instead of sinking into dejection, turned away
with contempt, and left me to consider how the second salutation should
be received. The next fellow was better treated, for I soon found that I
must purchase by civility that regard which I had expected to enforce by
insolence.

There was yet no smoke of bonfires, no harmony of bells, no shout of
crowds, nor riot of joy; the business of the day went forward as before;
and, after having ordered a splendid supper, which no man came to
partake, and which my chagrin hindered me from tasting, I went to bed,
where the vexation of disappointment overpowered the fatigue of my
journey, and kept me from sleep.

I rose so much humbled by those mortifications, as to inquire after the
present state of the town, and found that I had been absent too long to
obtain the triumph which had flattered my expectation. Of the friends
whose compliments I expected, some had long ago moved to distant
provinces, some had lost in the maladies of age all sense of another's
prosperity, and some had forgotten our former intimacy amidst care and
distresses. Of three whom I had resolved to punish for their former
offences by a longer continuance of neglect, one was, by his own
industry, raised above my scorn, and two were sheltered from it in the
grave. All those whom I loved, feared, or hated, all whose envy or whose
kindness I had hopes of contemplating with pleasure, were swept away,
and their place was filled by a new generation with other views and
other competitions; and among many proofs of the impotence of wealth, I
found that it conferred upon me very few distinctions in my native
place.

I am, Sir, &c.

SEROTINUS.



No. 166. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 19, 1751.

  _Semper, eris pauper si pauper es, Aemiliane:
    Dantur opes nullis nunc nisi divitibus_. MART. Lib. v. Ep. xxxi.

  Once poor, my friend, still poor you must remain,
  The rich alone have all the means of gain. EDW. CAVF.
[Transcriber's note: Difficult to make out in original--possibly CAVE?]

No complaint has been more frequently repeated in all ages than that of
the neglect of merit associated with poverty, and the difficulty with
which valuable or pleasing qualities force themselves into view, when
they are obscured by indigence. It has been long observed, that native
beauty has little power to charm without the ornaments which fortune
bestows, and that to want the favour of others is often sufficient to
hinder us from obtaining it.

Every day discovers that mankind are not yet convinced of their errour,
or that their conviction is without power to influence their conduct;
for poverty still continues to produce contempt, and still obstructs the
claims of kindred and of virtue. The eye of wealth is elevated towards
higher stations, and seldom descends to examine the actions of those who
are placed below the level of its notice, and who in distant regions and
lower situations are struggling with distress, or toiling for bread.
Among the multitudes overwhelmed with insuperable calamity, it is common
to find those whom a very little assistance would enable to support
themselves with decency, and who yet cannot obtain from near relations,
what they see hourly lavished in ostentation, luxury, or frolick.

There are natural reasons why poverty does not easily conciliate
affection. He that has been confined from his infancy to the
conversation of the lowest classes of mankind, must necessarily want
those accomplishments which are the usual means of attracting favour;
and though truth, fortitude, and probity, give an indisputable right to
reverence and kindness, they will not be distinguished by common eyes,
unless they are brightened by elegance of manners, but are cast aside
like unpolished gems, of which none but the artist knows the intrinsick
value, till their asperities are smoothed, and their incrustations
rubbed away.

The grossness of vulgar habits obstructs the efficacy of virtue, as
impurity and harshness of style impair the force of reason, and rugged
numbers turn off the mind from artifice of disposition, and fertility of
invention. Few have strength of reason to over-rule the perceptions of
sense; and yet fewer have curiosity or benevolence to struggle long
against the first impression; he therefore who fails to please in his
salutation and address, is at once rejected, and never obtains an
opportunity of shewing his latent excellencies, or essential qualities.

It is, indeed, not easy to prescribe a successful manner of approach to
the distressed or necessitous, whose condition subjects every kind of
behaviour equally to miscarriage. He whose confidence of merit incites
him to meet, without any apparent sense of inferiority, the eyes of
those who flattered themselves with their own dignity, is considered as
an insolent leveller, impatient of the just prerogatives of rank and
wealth, eager to usurp the station to which he has no right, and to
confound the subordinations of society; and who would contribute to the
exaltation of that spirit which even want and calamity are not able to
restrain from rudeness and rebellion?

But no better success will commonly be found to attend servility and
dejection, which often give pride the confidence to treat them with
contempt. A request made with diffidence and timidity is easily denied,
because the petitioner himself seems to doubt its fitness.

Kindness is generally reciprocal; we are desirous of pleasing others,
because we receive pleasure from them; but by what means can the man
please, whose attention is engrossed by his distresses, and who has no
leisure to be officious; whose will is restrained by his necessities,
and who has no power to confer benefits; whose temper is perhaps
vitiated by misery, and whose understanding is impeded by ignorance?

It is yet a more offensive discouragement, that the same actions
performed by different hands produce different effects, and, instead of
rating the man by his performances, we rate too frequently the
performance by the man. It sometimes happens in the combinations of
life, that important services are performed by inferiors; but though
their zeal and activity may be paid by pecuniary rewards, they seldom
excite that flow of gratitude, or obtain that accumulation of
recompense, with which all think it their duty to acknowledge the favour
of those who descend to their assistance from a higher elevation. To be
obliged, is to be in some respect inferior to another[h]; and few
willingly indulge the memory of an action which raises one whom they
have always been accustomed to think below them, but satisfy themselves
with faint praise and penurious payment, and then drive it from their
own minds, and endeavour to conceal it from the knowledge of others.

It may be always objected to the services of those who can be supposed
to want a reward, that they were produced not by kindness but interest;
they are, therefore, when they are no longer wanted, easily disregarded
as arts of insinuation, or stratagems of selfishness. Benefits which are
received as gifts from wealth, are exacted as debts from indigence; and
he that in a high station is celebrated for superfluous goodness, would
in a meaner condition have barely been confessed to have done his duty.

It is scarcely possible for the utmost benevolence to oblige, when
exerted under the disadvantages of great inferiority; for, by the
habitual arrogance of wealth, such expectations are commonly formed as
no zeal or industry can satisfy; and what regard can he hope, who has
done less than was demanded from him?

There are indeed kindnesses conferred which were never purchased by
precedent favours, and there is an affection not arising from gratitude
or gross interest, by which similar natures, are attracted to each
other, without prospect of any other advantage than the pleasure of
exchanging sentiments, and the hope of confirming their esteem of
themselves by the approbation of each other. But this spontaneous
fondness seldom rises at the sight of poverty, which every one regards
with habitual contempt, and of which the applause is no more courted by
vanity, than the countenance is solicited by ambition. The most generous
and disinterested friendship must be resolved at last into the love of
ourselves; he therefore whose reputation or dignity inclines us to
consider his esteem as a testimonial of desert, will always find our
hearts open to his endearments. We every day see men of eminence
followed with all the obsequiousness of dependance, and courted with all
the blandishments of flattery, by those who want nothing from them but
professions of regard, and who think themselves liberally rewarded by a
bow, a smile, or an embrace.

But those prejudices which every mind feels more or less in favour of
riches, ought, like other opinions, which only custom and example have
impressed upon us, to be in time subjected to reason. We must learn how
to separate the real character from extraneous adhesions and casual
circumstances, to consider closely him whom we are about to adopt or to
reject; to regard his inclinations as well as his actions; to trace out
those virtues which lie torpid in the heart for want of opportunity, and
those vices that lurk unseen by the absence of temptation; that when we
find worth faintly shooting in the shades of obscurity, we may let in
light and sunshine upon it, and ripen barren volition into efficacy and
power.

[Footnote h: Sir Joshua Reynolds evinced great reach of mind and
intimate acquaintance with humanity, when he observed, on overhearing a
person condoling with some ladies on the death of one who had conferred
the greatest favours upon them, that at all events they were relieved
from the burden of gratitude.]



No. 167. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 22, 1751.

   Candida perpetuo reside, Concordia, lecto,
    Tamque pari semper sit Venus æqua jugo.
  Diligat illa senem quondam: sed et ipsa marito,
    Tum quoque cum fuerit, non videatur, anus. MART. Lib, w. xii. 7.

  Their nuptial bed may smiling concord dress,
  And Venus still the happy union bless!
  Wrinkled with age, may mutual love and truth
  To their dim eyes recal the bloom of youth. F. LEWIS.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

It is not common to envy those with whom we cannot easily be placed in
comparison. Every man sees without malevolence the progress of another
in the tracks of life, which he has himself no desire to tread, and
hears, without inclination to cavils or contradiction, the renown of
those whose distance will not suffer them to draw the attention of
mankind from his own merit. The sailor never thinks it necessary to
contest the lawyer's abilities; nor would the Rambler, however jealous
of his reputation, be much disturbed by the success of rival wits at
Agra or Ispahan.

We do not therefore ascribe to you any superlative degree of virtue,
when we believe that we may inform you of our change of condition
without danger of malignant fascination; and that when you read of the
marriage of your correspondents Hymenæus and Tranquilla, you will join
your wishes to those of their other friends for the happy event of an
union in which caprice and selfishness had so little part.

There is at least this reason why we should be less deceived in our
connubial hopes than many who enter into the same state, that we have
allowed our minds to form no unreasonable expectations, nor vitiated our
fancies in the soft hours of courtship, with visions of felicity which
human power cannot bestow, or of perfection which human virtue cannot
attain. That impartiality with which we endeavour to inspect the manners
of all whom we have known was never so much overpowered by our passion,
but that we discovered some faults and weaknesses in each other; and
joined our hands in conviction, that as there are advantages to be
enjoyed in marriage, there are inconveniencies likewise to be endured;
and that, together with confederate intellects and auxiliar virtues, we
must find different opinions and opposite inclinations.

We however flatter ourselves, for who is not flattered by himself as
well as by others on the day of marriage? that we are eminently
qualified to give mutual pleasure. Our birth is without any such
remarkable disparity as can give either an opportunity of insulting the
other with pompous names and splendid alliances, or of calling in, upon
any domestick controversy, the overbearing assistance of powerful
relations. Our fortune was equally suitable, so that we meet without any
of those obligations, which always produce reproach or suspicion of
reproach, which, though they may be forgotten in the gaities of the
first month, no delicacy will always suppress, or of which the
suppression must be considered as a new favour, to be repaid by tameness
and submission, till gratitude takes the place of love, and the desire
of pleasing degenerates by degrees into the fear of offending.

The settlements caused no delay; for we did not trust our affairs to the
negociation of wretches, who would have paid their court by multiplying
stipulations. Tranquilla scorned to detain any part of her fortune from
him into whose hands she delivered up her person; and Hymenæus thought
no act of baseness more criminal than his who enslaves his wife by her
own generosity, who by marrying without a jointure, condemns her to all
the dangers of accident and caprice, and at last boasts his liberality,
by granting what only the indiscretion of her kindness enabled him to
withhold. He therefore received on the common terms the portion which
any other woman might have brought him, and reserved all the exuberance
of acknowledgment for those excellencies which he has yet been able to
discover only in Tranquilla.

We did not pass the weeks of courtship like those who consider
themselves as taking the last draught of pleasure, and resolve not to
quit the bowl without a surfeit, or who know themselves about to set
happiness to hazard, and endeavour to lose their sense of danger in the
ebriety of perpetual amusement, and whirl round the gulph before they
sink. Hymenæus often repeated a medical axiom, that _the succours of
sickness ought not to be wasted in health_. We know that however our
eyes may yet sparkle, and our hearts bound at the presence of each
other, the time of listlessness and satiety, of peevishness and
discontent, must come at last, in which we shall be driven for relief to
shows and recreations; that the uniformity of life must be sometimes
diversified, and the vacuities of conversation sometimes supplied. We
rejoice in the reflection that we have stores of novelty yet
unexhausted, which may be opened when repletion shall call for change,
and gratifications yet untasted, by which life, when it shall become
vapid or bitter, may be restored to its former sweetness and
sprightliness, and again irritate the appetite, and again sparkle in the
cup.

Our time will probably be less tasteless than that of those whom the
authority and avarice of parents unite almost without their consent in
their early years, before they have accumulated any fund of reflection,
or collected materials for mutual entertainment. Such we have often seen
rising in the morning to cards, and retiring in the afternoon to doze,
whose happiness was celebrated by their neighbours, because they
happened to grow rich by parsimony, and to be kept quiet in
insensibility, and agreed to eat and to sleep together.

We have both mingled with the world, and are therefore no strangers to
the faults and virtues, the designs and competitions, the hopes and
fears of our contemporaries. We have both amused our leisure with books,
and can therefore recount the events of former times, or cite the
dictates of ancient wisdom. Every occurrence furnishes us with some hint
which one or the other can improve, and if it should happen that memory
or imagination fail us, we can retire to no idle or unimproving
solitude.

Though our characters, beheld at a distance, exhibit this general
resemblance, yet a nearer inspection discovers such a dissimilitude of
our habitudes and sentiments, as leaves each some peculiar advantages,
and affords that _concordia discors_, that suitable disagreement which
is always necessary to intellectual harmony. There may be a total
diversity of ideas which admits no participation of the same delight,
and there may likewise be such a conformity of notions as leaves neither
any thing to add to the decisions of the other. With such contrariety
there can be no peace, with such similarity there can be no pleasure.
Our reasonings, though often formed upon different views, terminate
generally in the same conclusion. Our thoughts, like rivulets issuing
from distant springs, are each impregnated in its course with various
mixtures, and tinged by infusions unknown to the other, yet, at last,
easily unite into one stream, and purify themselves by the gentle
effervescence of contrary qualities.

These benefits we receive in a greater degree as we converse without
reserve, because we have nothing to conceal. We have no debts to be paid
by imperceptible deductions from avowed expenses, no habits to be
indulged by the private subserviency of a favoured servant, no private
interviews with needy relations, no intelligence with spies placed upon
each other. We considered marriage as the most solemn league of
perpetual friendship, a state from which artifice and concealment are to
be banished for ever, and in which every act of dissimulation is a
breach of faith.

The impetuous vivacity of youth, and that ardour of desire, which the
first sight of pleasure naturally produces, have long ceased to hurry us
into irregularity and vehemence; and experience has shewn us that few
gratifications are too valuable to be sacrificed to complaisance.

We have thought it convenient to rest from the fatigue of pleasure, and
now only continue that course of life into which we had before entered,
confirmed in our choice by mutual approbation, supported in our
resolution by mutual encouragement, and assisted in our efforts by
mutual exhortation.

Such, Mr. Rambler, is our prospect of life, a prospect which, as it is
beheld with more attention, seems to open more extensive happiness, and
spreads, by degrees, into the boundless regions of eternity. But if all
our prudence has been vain, and we are doomed to give one instance more
of the uncertainty of human discernment, we shall comfort ourselves
amidst our disappointments, that we were not betrayed but by such
delusions as caution could not escape, since we sought happiness only in
the arms of virtue.

We are, Sir,
Your humble Servants,
HYMENÆUS.
TRANQUILLA.



No. 168. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 26, 1751.

  _--Decipit
  Frons prima multos: rara mens intelligit,
  Quod interiore condidit cura angulo_. PHÆDRUS, Lib. iv. Fab. i. 5.

  The tinsel glitter, and the specious mien,
  Delude the most; few pry behind the scene.

It has been observed by Boileau, that "a mean or common thought
expressed in pompous diction, generally pleases more than a new or noble
sentiment delivered in low and vulgar language; because the number is
greater of those whom custom has enabled to judge of words, than whom
study has qualified to examine things."  This solution might satisfy, if
such only were offended with meanness of expression as are unable to
distinguish propriety of thought, and to separate propositions or images
from the vehicles by which they are conveyed to the understanding. But
this kind of disgust is by no means confined to the ignorant or
superficial; it operates uniformly and universally upon readers of all
classes; every man, however profound or abstracted, perceives himself
irresistibly alienated by low terms; they who profess the most zealous
adherence to truth are forced to admit that she owes part of her charms
to her ornaments; and loses much of her power over the soul, when she
appears disgraced by a dress uncouth or ill-adjusted.

We are all offended by low terms, but are not disgusted alike by the
same compositions, because we do not all agree to censure the same terms
as low. No word is naturally or intrinsically meaner than another; our
opinion therefore of words, as of other things arbitrarily and
capriciously established, depends wholly upon accident and custom. The
cottager thinks those apartments splendid and spacious, which an
inhabitant of palaces will despise for their inelegance; and to him who
has passed most of his hours with the delicate and polite, many
expressions will seem sordid, which another, equally acute, may hear
without offence; but a mean term never fails to displease him to whom it
appears mean, as poverty is certainly and invariably despised, though he
who is poor in the eyes of some, may, by others, be envied for his
wealth.

Words become low by the occasions to which they are applied, or the
general character of them who use them; and the disgust which they
produce, arises from the revival of those images with which they are
commonly united. Thus if, in the most solemn discourse, a phrase happens
to occur which has been successfully employed in some ludicrous
narrative, the gravest auditor finds it difficult to refrain from
laughter, when they who are not prepossessed by the same accidental
association, are utterly unable to guess the reason of his merriment.
Words which convey ideas of dignity in one age, are banished from
elegant writing or conversation in another, because they are in time
debased by vulgar mouths, and can be no longer heard without the
involuntary recollection of unpleasing images.

When Macbeth is confirming himself in the horrid purpose of stabbing his
king, he breaks out amidst his emotions into a wish natural to a
murderer:

    --Come, thick night!
  And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,
  That my keen knife see not the wound it makes;
  Nor heav'n peep through the blanket of the dark,
  To cry, Hold! hold!--

In this passage is exerted all the force of poetry; that force which
calls new powers into being, which embodies sentiment, and animates
matter: yet, perhaps, scarce any man now peruses it without some
disturbance of his attention from the counteraction of the words to the
ideas. What can be more dreadful than to implore the presence of night,
invested, not in common obscurity, but in the smoke of hell? Yet the
efficacy of this invocation is destroyed by the insertion of an epithet
now seldom heard but in the stable, and _dun_ night may come or go
without any other notice than contempt.

If we start into raptures when some hero of the Iliad tells us that
[Greek: doru mainetai], his lance rages with eagerness to destroy; if we
are alarmed at the terrour of the soldiers commanded by Caesar to hew
down the sacred grove, who dreaded, says Lucan, lest the axe aimed at
the oak should fly back upon the striker:

  --_Si robora sacra ferirent,
  In sua credebaut redituras membra secures_;

  None dares with impious steel the grove to rend,
  Lest on himself the destin'd stroke descend;

we cannot surely but sympathise with the horrours of a wretch about to
murder his master, his friend, his benefactor, who suspects that the
weapon will refuse its office, and start back from the breast which he
is preparing to violate. Yet this sentiment is weakened by the name of
an instrument used by butchers and cooks in the meanest employments: we
do not immediately conceive that any crime of importance is to be
committed with a _knife_; or who does not, at last, from the long habit
of connecting a knife with sordid offices, feel aversion rather than
terrour?

Macbeth proceeds to wish, in the madness of guilt, that the inspection
of heaven may be intercepted, and that he may, in the involutions of
infernal darkness, escape the eye of Providence. This is the utmost
extravagance of determined wickedness; yet this is so debased by two
unfortunate words, that while I endeavour to impress on my reader the
energy of the sentiment, I can scarce check my risibility, when the
expression forces itself upon my mind; for who, without some relaxation
of his gravity, can hear of the avengers of guilt _peeping through a
blanket_?

These imperfections of diction are less obvious to the reader, as he is
less acquainted with common usages; they are therefore wholly
imperceptible to a foreigner, who learns our language from books, and
will strike a solitary academick less forcibly than a modish lady.

Among the numerous requisites that must concur to complete an author,
few are of more importance than an early entrance into the living world.
The seeds of knowledge may be planted in solitude, but must be
cultivated in publick. Argumentation may be taught in colleges, and
theories formed in retirement; but the artifice of embellishment, and
the powers of attraction, can be gained only by general converse.

An acquaintance with prevailing customs and fashionable elegance is
necessary likewise for other purposes. The injury that grand imagery
suffers from unsuitable language, personal merit may fear from rudeness
and indelicacy. When the success of Æneas depended on the favour of the
queen upon whose coasts he was driven, his celestial protectress thought
him not sufficiently secured against rejection by his piety or bravery,
but decorated him for the interview with preternatural beauty. Whoever
desires, for his writings or himself, what none can reasonably contemn,
the favour of mankind, must add grace to strength, and make his thoughts
agreeable as well as useful. Many complain of neglect who never tried to
attract regard. It cannot be expected that the patrons of science or
virtue should be solicitous to discover excellencies, which they who
possess them shade and disguise. Few have abilities so much needed by
the rest of the world as to be caressed on their own terms; and he that
will not condescend to recommend himself by external embellishments,
must submit to the fate of just sentiment meanly expressed, and be
ridiculed and forgotten before he is understood.



No. 169. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 29, 1751.

  _Nec pluteum cædit, nec demorsos sapit ungues_. PER. Sat. i. 106.

  No blood from bitten nails those poems drew;
  But churn'd, like spittle, from the lips they flew. DRYDEN.

Natural historians assert, that whatever is formed for long duration
arrives slowly to its maturity. Thus the firmest timber is of tardy
growth, and animals generally exceed each other in longevity, in
proportion to the time between their conception and their birth.

The same observation may be extended to the offspring of the mind. Hasty
compositions, however they please at first by flowery luxuriance, and
spread in the sunshine of temporary favour, can seldom endure the change
of seasons, but perish at the first blast of criticism, or frost of
neglect. When Apelles was reproached with the paucity of his
productions, and the incessant attention with which he retouched his
pieces, he condescended to make no other answer than that _he painted
for perpetuity_.

No vanity can more justly incur contempt and indignation than that which
boasts of negligence and hurry. For who can bear with patience the
writer who claims such superiority to the rest of his species, as to
imagine mankind are at leisure for attention to his extemporary sallies,
and that posterity will reposite his casual effusions among the
treasures of ancient wisdom?

Men have sometimes appeared of such transcendent abilities, that their
slightest and most cursory performances excel all that labour and study
can enable meaner intellects to compose; as there are regions of which
the spontaneous products cannot be equalled in other soils by care and
culture. But it is no less dangerous for any man to place himself in
this rank of understanding, and fancy that he is born to be illustrious
without labour, than to omit the cares of husbandry, and expect from his
ground the blossoms of Arabia.

The greatest part of those who congratulate themselves upon their
intellectual dignity, and usurp the privileges of genius, are men whom
only themselves would ever have marked out as enriched by uncommon
liberalities of nature, or entitled to veneration and immortality on
easy terms. This ardour of confidence is usually found among those who,
having not enlarged their notions by books or conversation, are
persuaded, by the partiality which we all feel in our own favour, that
they have reached the summit of excellence, because they discover none
higher than themselves; and who acquiesce in the first thoughts that
occur, because their scantiness of knowledge allows them little choice;
and the narrowness of their views affords them no glimpse of perfection,
of that sublime idea which human industry has from the first ages been
vainly toiling to approach. They see a little, and believe that there is
nothing beyond their sphere of vision, as the Patuecos of Spain, who
inhabited a small valley, conceived the surrounding mountains to be the
boundaries of the world. In proportion as perfection is more distinctly
conceived, the pleasure of contemplating our own performances will be
lessened; it may therefore be observed, that they who most deserve
praise are often afraid to decide in favour of their own performances;
they know how much is still wanting to their completion, and wait with
anxiety and terrour the determination of the publick. _I please every
one else_, says Tully, _but never satisfy myself_.

It has often been inquired, why, notwithstanding the advances of later
ages in science, and the assistance which the infusion of so many new
ideas has given us, we fall below the ancients in the art of
composition. Some part of their superiority may be justly ascribed to
the graces of their language, from which the most polished of the
present European tongues are nothing more than barbarous degenerations.
Some advantage they might gain merely by priority, which put them in
possession of the most natural sentiments, and left us nothing but
servile repetition or forced conceits. But the greater part of their
praise seems to have been the just reward of modesty and labour. Their
sense of human weakness confined them commonly to one study, which their
knowledge of the extent of every science engaged them to prosecute with
indefatigable diligence.

Among the writers of antiquity I remember none except Statius who
ventures to mention the speedy production of his writings, either as an
extenuation of his faults, or a proof of his facility. Nor did Statius,
when he considered himself as a candidate for lasting reputation, think
a closer attention unnecessary, but amidst all his pride and indigence,
the two great hasteners of modern poems, employed twelve years upon the
Thebaid, and thinks his claim to renown proportionate to his labour.

  _Thebais, multa cruciata lima,
  Tentat, audaci fide, Mantuanæ
    Gaudia famæ_.

  Polish'd with endless toil, my lays
  At length aspire to Mantuan praise.

Ovid indeed apologizes in his banishment for the imperfection of his
letters, but mentions his want of leisure to polish them as an addition
to his calamities; and was so far from imagining revisals and
corrections unnecessary, that at his departure from Rome, he threw his
Metamorphoses into the fire, lest he should be disgraced by a book which
he could not hope to finish.

It seems not often to have happened that the same writer aspired to
reputation in verse and prose; and of those few that attempted such
diversity of excellence, I know not that even one succeeded. Contrary
characters they never imagined a single mind able to support, and
therefore no man is recorded to have undertaken more than one kind of
dramatick poetry.

What they had written, they did not venture in their first fondness to
thrust into the world, but, considering the impropriety of sending forth
inconsiderately that which cannot be recalled, deferred the publication,
if not nine years, according to the direction of Horace, yet till their
fancy was cooled after the raptures of invention, and the glare of
novelty had ceased to dazzle the judgment.

There were in those days no weekly or diurnal writers; _multa dies et
multa litura_, much time, and many rasures, were considered as
indispensable requisites; and that no other method of attaining lasting
praise has been yet discovered, may be conjectured from the blotted
manuscripts of Milton now remaining, and from the tardy emission of
Pope's compositions, delayed more than once till the incidents to which
they alluded were forgotten, till his enemies were secure from his
satire, and, what to an honest mind must be more painful, his friends
were deaf to his encomiums.

To him, whose eagerness of praise hurries his productions soon into the
light, many imperfections are unavoidable, even where the mind furnishes
the materials, as well as regulates their disposition, and nothing
depends upon search or information. Delay opens new veins of thought,
the subject dismissed for a time appears with a new train of dependent
images, the accidents of reading or conversation supply new ornaments
or allusions, or mere intermission of the fatigue of thinking enables
the mind to collect new force, and make new excursions. But all those
benefits come too late for him, who, when he was weary with labour,
snatched at the recompense, and gave his work to his friends and his
enemies, as soon as impatience and pride persuaded him to conclude it.

One of the most pernicious effects of haste, is obscurity. He that teems
with a quick succession of ideas, and perceives how one sentiment
produces another, easily believes that he can clearly express what he so
strongly comprehends; he seldom suspects his thoughts of embarrassment,
while he preserves in his own memory the series of connection, or his
diction of ambiguity, while only one sense is present to his mind. Yet
if he has been employed on an abstruse, or complicated argument, he will
find, when he has awhile withdrawn his mind, and returns as a new reader
to his work, that he has only a conjectural glimpse of his own meaning,
and that to explain it to those whom he desires to instruct, he must
open his sentiments, disentangle his method, and alter his arrangement.

Authors and lovers always suffer some infatuation, from which only
absence can set them free; and every man ought to restore himself to the
full exercise of his judgment, before he does that which he cannot do
improperly, without injuring his honour and his quiet.



No. 170. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 1751.

  _Confiteor; si quid prodest delicta fateri_.
  OVID. Am. Lib. i. El. iv. 3.

  I grant the charge; forgive the fault confess'd.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

I am one of those beings from whom many, that melt at the sight of all
other misery, think it meritorious to withhold relief; one whom the
rigour of virtuous indignation dooms to suffer without complaint, and
perish without regard; and whom I myself have formerly insulted in the
pride of reputation and security of innocence.

I am of a good family, but my father was burthened with more children
than he could decently support. A wealthy relation, as he travelled from
London to his country-seat, condescending to make him a visit, was
touched with compassion of his narrow fortune, and resolved to ease him
of part of his charge, by taking the care of a child upon himself.
Distress on one side, and ambition on the other, were too powerful for
parental fondness, and the little family passed in review before him,
that he might, make his choice. I was then ten years old, and, without
knowing for what purpose, I was called to my great cousin, endeavoured
to recommend myself by my best courtesy, sung him my prettiest song,
told the last story that I had read, and so much endeared myself by my
innocence, that he declared his resolution to adopt me, and to educate
me with his own daughters.

My parents felt the common struggles at the thought of parting, and
_some natural tears they dropp'd, but wip'd them soon_. They considered,
not without that false estimation of the value of wealth, which poverty
long continued always produces, that I was raised to higher rank than
they could give me, and to hopes of more ample fortune than they could
bequeath. My mother sold some of her ornaments to dress me in such a
manner as might secure me from contempt at my first arrival; and when
she dismissed me, pressed me to her bosom with an embrace that I still
feel, gave me some precepts of piety, which, however neglected, I have
not forgotten, and uttered prayers for my final happiness, of which I
have not yet ceased to hope that they will at last be granted.

My sisters envied my new finery, and seemed not much to regret our
separation; my father conducted me to the stage-coach with a kind of
cheerful tenderness; and in a very short time I was transported to
splendid apartments, and a luxurious table, and grew familiar to shew,
noise, and gaiety.

In three years my mother died, having implored a blessing on her family
with her last breath. I had little opportunity to indulge a sorrow which
there was none to partake with me, and therefore soon ceased to reflect
much upon my loss. My father turned all his care upon his other
children, whom some fortunate adventures and unexpected legacies enabled
him, when he died, four years after my mother, to leave in a condition
above their expectations.

I should have shared the increase of his fortune, and had once a portion
assigned me in his will; but my cousin assuring him that all care for me
was needless, since he had resolved to place me happily in the world,
directed him to divide my part amongst my sisters.

Thus I was thrown upon dependance without resource. Being now at an age
in which young women are initiated into company, I was no longer to be
supported in my former character, but at a considerable expense; so that
partly lest I should waste money, and partly lest my appearance might
draw too many compliments and assiduities, I was insensibly degraded
from my equality, and enjoyed few privileges above the head servant, but
that of receiving no wages.

I felt every indignity, but knew that resentment would precipitate my
fall. I therefore endeavoured to continue my importance by little
services and active officiousness, and, for a time, preserved myself
from neglect, by withdrawing all pretences to competition, and studying
to please rather than to shine. But my interest, notwithstanding this
expedient, hourly declined, and my cousin's favourite maid began to
exchange repartees with me, and consult me about the alterations of a
cast gown.

I was now completely depressed; and, though I had seen mankind enough to
know the necessity of outward cheerfulness, I often withdrew to my
chamber to vent my grief, or turn my condition in my mind, and examine
by what means I might escape from perpetual mortification. At last my
schemes and sorrows were interrupted by a sudden change of my relation's
behaviour, who one day took an occasion when we were left together in a
room, to bid me suffer myself no longer to be insulted, but assume the
place which he always intended me to hold in the family. He assured me
that his wife's preference of her own daughters should never hurt me;
and, accompanying his professions with a purse of gold, ordered me to
bespeak a rich suit at the mercer's, and to apply privately to him for
money when I wanted it, and insinuate that my other friends supplied me,
which he would take care to confirm.

By this stratagem, which I did not then understand, he filled me with
tenderness and gratitude, compelled me to repose on him as my only
support, and produced a necessity of private conversation. He often
appointed interviews at the house of an acquaintance, and sometimes
called on me with a coach, and carried me abroad. My sense of his
favour, and the desire of retaining it, disposed me to unlimited
complaisance, and, though I saw his kindness grow every day more fond, I
did not suffer any suspicion to enter my thoughts. At last the wretch
took advantage of the familiarity which he enjoyed as my relation, and
the submission which he exacted as my benefactor, to complete the ruin
of an orphan, whom his own promises had made indigent, whom his
indulgence had melted, and his authority subdued.

I know not why it should afford subject of exultation to overpower on
any terms the resolution, or surprise the caution of a girl; but of all
the boasters that deck themselves in the spoils of innocence and beauty,
they surely have the least pretensions to triumph, who submit to owe
their success to some casual influence. They neither employ the graces
of fancy, nor the force of understanding, in their attempts; they cannot
please their vanity with the art of their approaches, the delicacy of
their adulations, the elegance of their address, or the efficacy of
their eloquence; nor applaud themselves as possessed of any qualities,
by which affection is attracted. They surmount no obstacles, they defeat
no rivals, but attack only those who cannot resist, and are often
content to possess the body, without any solicitude to gain the heart.

Many of those despicable wretches does my present acquaintance with
infamy and wickedness enable me to number among the heroes of
debauchery. Reptiles whom their own servants would have despised, had
they not been their servants, and with whom beggary would have disdained
intercourse, had she not been allured by hopes of relief. Many of the
beings which are now rioting in taverns, or shivering in the streets,
have been corrupted, not by arts of gallantry which stole gradually upon
the affections and laid prudence asleep, but by the fear of losing
benefits which were never intended, or of incurring resentment which
they could not escape; some have been frighted by masters, and some awed
by guardians into ruin.

Our crime had its usual consequence, and he soon perceived that I could
not long continue in his family. I was distracted at the thought of the
reproach which I now believed inevitable. He comforted me with hopes of
eluding all discovery, and often upbraided me with the anxiety, which
perhaps none but himself saw in my countenance; but at last mingled his
assurances of protection and maintenance with menaces of total
desertion, if, in the moments of perturbation I should suffer his secret
to escape, or endeavour to throw on him any part of my infamy.

Thus passed the dismal hours, till my retreat could no longer be
delayed. It was pretended that my relations had sent for me to a distant
county, and I entered upon a state which shall be described in my next
letter.

I am, &c.

MISELLA.



No. 171. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1751.

  _Tædet coeli convexa tueri_. VIRG. Æn. iv. 451.

  Dark is the sun, and loathsome is the day.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Misella now sits down to continue her narrative. I am convinced that
nothing would more powerfully preserve youth from irregularity, or guard
inexperience from seduction, than a just description of the condition
into which the wanton plunges herself; and therefore hope that my letter
may be a sufficient antidote to my example.

After the distraction, hesitation, and delays which the timidity of
guilt naturally produces, I was removed to lodgings in a distant part of
the town, under one of the characters commonly assumed upon such
occasions. Here being by my circumstances condemned to solitude, I
passed most of my hours in bitterness and anguish. The conversation of
the people with whom I was placed was not at all capable of engaging my
attention, or dispossessing the reigning ideas. The books which I
carried to my retreat were such as heightened my abhorrence of myself;
for I was not so far abandoned as to sink voluntarily into corruption,
or endeavour to conceal from my own mind the enormity of my crime.

My relation remitted none of his fondness, but visited me so often, that
I was sometimes afraid lest his assiduity should expose him to
suspicion. Whenever he came he found me weeping, and was therefore less
delightfully entertained than he expected. After frequent expostulations
upon the unreasonableness of my sorrow, and innumerable protestations of
everlasting regard, he at last found that I was more affected with the
loss of my innocence, than the danger of my fame, and that he might not
be disturbed by my remorse, began to lull my conscience with the opiates
of irreligion. His arguments were such as my course of life has since
exposed me often to the necessity of hearing, vulgar, empty, and
fallacious; yet they at first confounded me by their novelty, filled me
with doubt and perplexity, and interrupted that peace which I began to
feel from the sincerity of my repentance, without substituting any other
support. I listened a while to his impious gabble, but its influence was
soon overpowered by natural reason and early education, and the
convictions which this new attempt gave me of his baseness completed my
abhorrence. I have heard of barbarians, who, when tempests drive ships
upon their coast, decoy them to the rocks that they may plunder their
lading, and have always thought that wretches, thus merciless in their
depredations, ought to be destroyed by a general insurrection of all
social beings; yet how light is this guilt to the crime of him, who, in
the agitations of remorse, cuts away the anchor of piety, and, when he
has drawn aside credulity from the paths of virtue, hides the light of
heaven which would direct her to return. I had hitherto considered him
as a man equally betrayed with myself by the concurrence of appetite and
opportunity; but I now saw with horrour that he was contriving to
perpetuate his gratification, and was desirous to fit me to his purpose,
by complete and radical corruption.

To escape, however, was not yet in my power. I could support the
expenses of my condition only by the continuance of his favour. He
provided all that was necessary, and in a few weeks congratulated me
upon my escape from the danger which we had both expected with so much
anxiety. I then began to remind him of his promise to restore me with my
fame uninjured to the world. He promised me in general terms, that
nothing should be wanting which his power could add to my happiness, but
forbore to release me from my confinement. I knew how much my reception
in the world depended upon my speedy return, and was therefore
outrageously impatient of his delays, which I now perceived to be only
artifices of lewdness. He told me at last, with an appearance of sorrow,
that all hopes of restoration to my former state were for ever
precluded; that chance had discovered my secret, and malice divulged it;
and that nothing now remained, but to seek a retreat more private, where
curiosity or hatred could never find us.

The rage, anguish, and resentment, which I felt at this account are not
to be expressed. I was in so much dread of reproach and infamy, which he
represented as pursuing me with full cry, that I yielded myself
implicitly to his disposal and was removed, with a thousand studied
precautions, through by-ways and dark passages to another house, where I
harassed him with perpetual solicitations for a small annuity that might
enable me to live in the country in obscurity and innocence.

This demand he at first evaded with ardent professions, but in time
appeared offended at my importunity and distrust; and having one day
endeavoured to sooth me with uncommon expressions of tenderness, when he
found my discontent immoveable, left me with some inarticulate murmurs
of anger. I was pleased that he was at last roused to sensibility, and
expecting that at his next visit he would comply with my request, lived
with great tranquillity upon the money in my hands, and was so much
pleased with this pause of persecution, that I did not reflect how much
his absence had exceeded the usual intervals, till I was alarmed with
the danger of wanting subsistence. I then suddenly contracted my
expenses, but was unwilling to supplicate for assistance. Necessity,
however, soon overcame my modesty or my pride, and I applied to him by a
letter, but had no answer. I writ in terms more pressing, but without
effect. I then sent an agent to inquire after him, who informed me, that
he had quitted his house, and was gone with his family to reside for
some time on his estate in Ireland.

However shocked at this abrupt departure, I was yet unwilling to believe
that he could wholly abandon me, and therefore, by the sale of my
clothes, I supported myself, expecting that every post would bring me
relief. Thus I passed seven months between hope and dejection, in a
gradual approach to poverty and distress, emaciated with discontent, and
bewildered with uncertainty. At last my landlady, after many hints of
the necessity of a new lover, took the opportunity of my absence to
search my boxes, and missing some of my apparel, seized the remainder
for rent, and led me to the door.

To remonstrate against legal cruelty, was vain; to supplicate obdurate
brutality, was hopeless. I went away I knew not whither, and wandered
about without any settled purpose, unacquainted with the usual
expedients of misery, unqualified for laborious offices, afraid to meet
an eye that had seen me before, and hopeless of relief from those who
were strangers to my former condition. Night came on in the midst of my
distraction, and I still continued to wander till the menaces of the
watch obliged me to shelter myself in a covered passage.

Next day, I procured a lodging in the backward garret of a mean house,
and employed my landlady to inquire for a service. My applications were
generally rejected for want of a character. At length I was received at
a draper's, but when it was known to my mistress that I had only one
gown, and that of silk, she was of opinion that I looked like a thief,
and without warning hurried me away. I then tried to support myself by
my needle; and, by my landlady's recommendation obtained a little work
from a shop, and for three weeks lived without repining; but when my
punctuality had gained me so much reputation, that I was trusted to make
up a head of some value, one of my fellow-lodgers stole the lace, and I
was obliged to fly from a prosecution.

Thus driven again into the streets, I lived upon the least that could
support me, and at night accommodated myself under pent-houses as well
as I could. At length I became absolutely pennyless, and having strolled
all day without sustenance, was, at the close of evening, accosted by an
elderly man, with an invitation to a tavern. I refused him with
hesitation; he seized me by the hand, and drew me into a neighbouring
house, where, when he saw my face pale with hunger, and my eyes swelling
with tears, he spurned me from him, and bade me cant and whine in some
other place; he for his part would take care of his pockets.

I still continued to stand in the way, having scarcely strength to walk
further, when another soon addressed me in the same manner. When he saw
the same tokens of calamity, he considered that I might be obtained at a
cheap rate, and therefore quickly made overtures, which I no longer had
firmness to reject. By this man I was maintained four months in
penurious wickedness, and then abandoned to my former condition, from
which I was delivered by another keeper.

In this abject state I have now passed four years, the drudge of
extortion and the sport of drunkenness; sometimes the property of one
man, and sometimes the common prey of accidental lewdness; at one time
tricked up for sale by the mistress of a brothel, at another begging in
the streets to be relieved from hunger by wickedness; without any hope
in the day but of finding some whom folly or excess may expose to my
allurements, and without any reflections at night, but such as guilt and
terrour impress upon me.

If those who pass their days in plenty and security, could visit for an
hour the dismal receptacles to which the prostitute retires from her
nocturnal excursions, and see the wretches that lie crowded together,
mad with intemperance, ghastly with famine, nauseous with filth, and
noisome with disease; it would not be easy for any degree of abhorrence
to harden them against compassion, or to repress the desire which they
must immediately feel to rescue such numbers of human beings from a
state so dreadful.

It is said, that in France they annually evacuate their streets, and
ship their prostitutes and vagabonds to their colonies. If the women
that infest this city had the same opportunity of escaping from their
miseries, I believe very little force would be necessary; for who among
them can dread any change? Many of us indeed are wholly unqualified for
any but the most servile employments, and those perhaps would require
the care of a magistrate to hinder them from following the same
practices in another country; but others are only precluded by infamy
from reformation, and would gladly be delivered on any terms from the
necessity of guilt, and the tyranny of chance. No place but a populous
city, can afford opportunities for open prostitution; and where the eye
of justice can attend to individuals, those who cannot be made good may
be restrained from mischief. For my part, I should exult at the
privilege of banishment, and think myself happy in any region that
should restore me once again to honesty and peace.

I am, Sir, &c.

MISELLA.



No. 172. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 9, 1751.

  _Sæpe rogare soles, qualis sim, Prisce, futurus,
    Si fiam locuples, simque repente potens.
  Quemquam posse putas mores narrare futuros?
    Die mihi, si fias tu leo, qualis eris?_ MART. Lib. xii. Ep. 93.

  Priscus, you've often ask'd me how I'd live,
  Should fate at once both wealth and honour give.
  What soul his future conduct can foresee?
  Tell me what sort of lion you would be. F. LEWIS.

Nothing has been longer observed, than that a change of fortune causes a
change of manners; and that it is difficult to conjecture from the
conduct of him whom we see in a low condition, how he would act, if
wealth and power were put into his hands. But it is generally agreed,
that few men are made better by affluence or exaltation; and that the
powers of the mind, when they are unbound and expanded by the sunshine
of felicity, more frequently luxuriate into follies, than blossom into
goodness.

Many observations have concurred to establish this opinion, and it is
not likely soon to become obsolete, for want of new occasions to revive
it. The greater part of mankind are corrupt in every condition, and
differ in high and in low stations, only as they have more or fewer
opportunities of gratifying their desires, or as they are more or less
restrained by human censures. Many vitiate their principles in the
acquisition of riches; and who can wonder that what is gained by fraud
and extortion is enjoyed with tyranny and excess?

Yet I am willing to believe that the depravation of the mind by external
advantages, though certainly not uncommon, yet approaches not so nearly
to universality, as some have asserted in the bitterness of resentment,
or heat of declamation.

Whoever rises above those who once pleased themselves with equality,
will have many malevolent gazers at his eminence. To gain sooner than
others that which all pursue with the same ardour, and to which all
imagine themselves entitled, will for ever be a crime. When those who
started with us in the race of life, leave us so far behind, that we
have little hope to overtake them, we revenge our disappointment by
remarks on the arts of supplantation by which they gained the advantage,
or on the folly and arrogance with which they possess it. Of them, whose
rise we could not hinder, we solace ourselves by prognosticating the
fall.

It is impossible for human purity not to betray to an eye, thus
sharpened by malignity, some stains which lay concealed and unregarded,
while none thought it their interest to discover them; nor can the most
circumspect attention, or steady rectitude, escape blame from censors,
who have no inclination to approve. Riches therefore, perhaps, do not so
often produce crimes as incite accusers.

The common charge against those who rise above their original condition,
is that of pride. It is certain that success naturally confirms us in a
favourable opinion of our own abilities. Scarce any man is willing to
allot to accident, friendship, and a thousand causes, which concur in
every event without human contrivance or interposition, the part which
they may justly claim in his advancement. We rate ourselves by our
fortune rather than our virtues, and exorbitant claims are quickly
produced by imaginary merit. But captiousness and jealousy are likewise
easily offended, and to him who studiously looks for an affront, every
mode of behaviour will supply it; freedom will be rudeness, and reserve
sullenness; mirth will be negligence, and seriousness formality; when he
is received with ceremony, distance and respect are inculcated; if he is
treated with familiarity, he concludes himself insulted by
condescensions.

It must however be confessed, that as all sudden changes are dangerous,
a quick transition from poverty to abundance can seldom be made with
safety. He that has long lived within sight of pleasures which he could
not reach, will need more than common moderation, not to lose his reason
in unbounded riot, when they are first put into his power.

Every possession is endeared by novelty; every gratification is
exaggerated by desire. It is difficult not to estimate what is lately
gained above its real value; it is impossible not to annex greater
happiness to that condition from which we are unwillingly excluded, than
nature has qualified us to obtain. For this reason, the remote inheritor
of an unexpected fortune, may be generally distinguished from those who
are enriched in the common course of lineal descent, by his greater
haste to enjoy his wealth, by the finery of his dress, the pomp of his
equipage, the splendour of his furniture, and the luxury of his table.

A thousand things which familiarity discovers to be of little value,
have power for a time to seize the imagination. A Virginian king, when
the Europeans had fixed a lock on his door, was so delighted to find his
subjects admitted or excluded with such facility, that it was from
morning to evening his whole employment to turn the key. We, among whom
locks and keys have been longer in use, are inclined to laugh at this
American amusement; yet I doubt whether this paper will have a single
reader that may not apply the story to himself, and recollect some hours
of his life in which he has been equally overpowered by the transitory
charms of trifling novelty.

Some indulgence is due to him whom a happy gale of fortune has suddenly
transported into new regions, where unaccustomed lustre dazzles his
eyes, and untasted delicacies solicit his appetite. Let him not be
considered as lost in hopeless degeneracy, though he for a while forgets
the regard due to others, to indulge the contemplation of himself, and
in the extravagance of his first raptures expects that his eye should
regulate the motions of all that approach him, and his opinion be
received as decisive and oraculous. His intoxication will give way to
time; the madness of joy will fume imperceptibly away; the sense of his
insufficiency will soon return; he will remember that the co-operation
of others is necessary to his happiness, and learn to conciliate their
regard by reciprocal beneficence.

There is, at least, one consideration which ought to alleviate our
censures of the powerful and rich. To imagine them chargeable with all
the guilt and folly of their own actions, is to be very little
acquainted with the world.

  _De l'absolu pouvoir vous ignorez l'yvresse,
  Et du lache flateur la voix enchanteresse_.

  Thou hast not known the giddy whirls of fate,
  Nor servile flatteries which enchant the great.   Miss A. W.

He that can do much good or harm, will not find many whom ambition or
cowardice will suffer to be sincere. While we live upon the level with
the rest of mankind, we are reminded of our duty by the admonitions of
friends and reproaches of enemies; but men who stand in the highest
ranks of society, seldom hear of their faults; if by any accident an
opprobrious clamour reaches their ears, flattery is always at hand to
pour in her opiates, to quiet conviction, and obtund remorse.

Favour is seldom gained but by conformity in vice. Virtue can stand
without assistance, and considers herself as very little obliged by
countenance and approbation: but vice, spiritless and timorous, seeks
the shelter of crowds, and support of confederacy. The sycophant,
therefore, neglects the good qualities of his patron, and employs all
his art on his weaknesses and follies, regales his reigning vanity, or
stimulates his prevalent desires.

Virtue is sufficiently difficult with any circumstances, but the
difficulty is increased when reproof and advice are frighted away. In
common life, reason and conscience have only the appetites and passions
to encounter; but in higher stations, they must oppose artifice and
adulation. He, therefore, that yields to such temptations, cannot give
those who look upon his miscarriage much reason for exultation, since
few can justly presume that from the same snare they should have been
able to escape.



No. 173. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1751.

  _Quo virtus, quo ferat error_. HOR. De Ar. Poet. 308.

  Now say, where virtue stops, and vice begins?

As any action or posture, long continued, will distort and disfigure the
limbs; so the mind likewise is crippled and contracted by perpetual
application to the same set of ideas. It is easy to guess the trade of
an artizan by his knees, his fingers, or his shoulders: and there are
few among men of the more liberal professions, whose minds do not carry
the brand of their calling, or whose conversation does not quickly
discover to what class of the community they belong.

These peculiarities have been of great use, in the general hostility
which every part of mankind exercises against the rest, to furnish
insults and sarcasms. Every art has its dialect, uncouth and ungrateful
to all whom custom has not reconciled to its sound, and which therefore
becomes ridiculous by a slight misapplication, or unnecessary
repetition.

The general reproach with which ignorance revenges the superciliousness
of learning, is that of pedantry; a censure which every man incurs, who
has at any time the misfortune to talk to those who cannot understand
him, and by which the modest and timorous are sometimes frighted from
the display of their acquisitions, and the exertion of their powers.

The name of a pedant is so formidable to young men when they first sally
from their colleges, and is so liberally scattered by those who mean to
boast their elegance of education, easiness of manners, and knowledge of
the world, that it seems to require particular consideration; since,
perhaps, if it were once understood, many a heart might be freed from
painful apprehensions, and many a tongue, delivered from restraint.

Pedantry is the unseasonable ostentation of learning. It may be
discovered either in the choice of a subject, or in the manner of
treating it. He is undoubtedly guilty of pedantry, who, when he has made
himself master of some abstruse and uncultivated part of knowledge,
obtrudes his remarks and discoveries upon those whom he believes unable
to judge of his proficiency, and from whom, as he cannot fear
contradiction, he cannot properly expect applause.

To this errour the student is sometimes betrayed by the natural
recurrence of the mind to its common employment, by the pleasure which
every man receives from the recollection of pleasing images, and the
desire of dwelling upon topicks, on which he knows himself able to speak
with justness. But because we are seldom so far prejudiced in favour of
each other, as to search out for palliations, this failure of politeness
is imputed always to vanity; and the harmless collegiate, who, perhaps,
intended entertainment and instruction, or at worst only spoke without
sufficient reflection upon the character of his hearers, is censured as
arrogant or overbearing, and eager to extend his renown, in contempt of
the convenience of society and the laws of conversation.

All discourse of which others cannot partake, is not only an irksome
usurpation of the time devoted to pleasure and entertainment, but what
never fails to excite very keen resentment, an insolent assertion of
superiority, and a triumph over less enlightened understandings. The
pedant is, therefore, not only heard with weariness, but malignity; and
those who conceive themselves insulted by his knowledge, never fail to
tell with acrimony how injudiciously it was exerted.

To avoid this dangerous imputation, scholars sometimes divest themselves
with too much haste of their academical formality, and in their
endeavours to accommodate their notions and their style to common
conceptions, talk rather of any thing than of that which they
understand, and sink into insipidity of sentiment and meanness of
expression.

There prevails among men of letters an opinion, that all appearance of
science is particularly hateful to women; and that therefore, whoever
desires to be well received in female assemblies, must qualify himself
by a total rejection of all that is serious, rational, or important;
must consider argument or criticism, as perpetually interdicted; and
devote all his attention to trifles, and all his eloquence to
compliment.

Students often form their notions of the present generation from the
writings of the past, and are not very early informed of those changes
which the gradual diffusion of knowledge, or the sudden caprice of
fashion, produces in the world. Whatever might be the state of female
literature in the last century, there is now no longer any danger lest
the scholar should want an adequate audience at the tea-table; and
whoever thinks it necessary to regulate his conversation by antiquated
rules, will be rather despised for his futility than caressed for his
politeness.

To talk intentionally in a manner above the comprehension of those whom
we address, is unquestionable pedantry; but surely complaisance
requires, that no man should, without proof, conclude his company
incapable of following him to the highest elevation of his fancy, or the
utmost extent of his knowledge. It is always safer to err in favour of
others than of ourselves, and therefore we seldom hazard much by
endeavouring to excel.

It ought at least to be the care of learning, when she quits her
exaltation, to descend with dignity. Nothing is more despicable than the
airiness and jocularity of a man bred to severe science, and solitary
meditation. To trifle agreeably is a secret which schools cannot impart;
that gay negligence and vivacious levity, which charm down resistance
wherever they appear, are never attainable by him who, having spent his
first years among the dust of libraries, enters late into the gay world
with an unpliant attention and established habits.

It is observed in the panegyrick on Fabricius the mechanist, that,
though forced by publick employments into mingled conversation, he never
lost the modesty and seriousness of the convent, nor drew ridicule upon
himself by an affected imitation of fashionable life. To the same praise
every man devoted to learning ought to aspire. If he attempts the softer
arts of pleasing, and endeavours to learn the graceful bow and the
familiar embrace, the insinuating accent and the general smile, he will
lose the respect due to the character of learning, without arriving at
the envied honour of doing any thing with elegance and facility.

Theophrastus was discovered not to be a native of Athens, by so strict
an adherence to the Attick dialect, as shewed that he had learned it not
by custom, but by rule. A man not early formed to habitual elegance,
betrays, in like manner, the effects of his education, by an unnecessary
anxiety of behaviour. It is as possible to become pedantick, by fear of
pedantry, as to be troublesome by ill-timed civility. There is no kind
of impertinence more justly censurable than his who is always labouring
to level thoughts to intellects higher than his own; who apologizes for
every word which his own narrowness of converse inclines him to think
unusual; keeps the exuberance of his faculties under visible restraint;
is solicitous to anticipate inquiries by needless explanations; and
endeavours to shade his own abilities, lest weak eyes should be dazzled
with their lustre.



No. 174. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1751.

  _Faenum habet in cornu, longe fuge; dummodo risum
  Excutiat sibi, non hic cuiquam parcet amico_.
  HOR. Lib. i. Sat. iv. 34.

  Yonder he drives--avoid that furious beast:
  If he may have his jest, he never cares
  At whose expense; nor friend nor patron spares. FRANCIS.

TO THE RAMBLER.

MR. RAMBLER,

The laws of social benevolence require, that every man should endeavour
to assist others by his experience. He that has at last escaped into
port from the fluctuations of chance, and the gusts of opposition, ought
to make some improvements in the chart of life, by marking the rocks on
which he has been dashed, and the shallows where he has been stranded.

The errour into which I was betrayed, when custom first gave me up to my
own direction, is very frequently incident to the quick, the sprightly,
the fearless, and the gay; to all whose ardour hurries them into
precipitate execution of their designs, and imprudent declaration of
their opinions; who seldom count the cost of pleasure, or examine the
distant consequences of any practice that flatters them with immediate
gratification.

I came forth into the crowded world with the usual juvenile ambition,
and desired nothing beyond the title of a wit. Money I considered as
below my care; for I saw such multitudes grow rich without
understanding, that I could not forbear to look on wealth as an
acquisition easy to industry directed by genius, and therefore threw it
aside as a secondary convenience, to be procured when my principal wish
should be satisfied, and the claim to intellectual excellence
universally acknowledged.

With this view I regulated my behaviour in publick, and exercised my
meditations in solitude. My life was divided between the care of
providing topicks for the entertainment of my company, and that of
collecting company worthy to be entertained; for I soon found, that wit,
like every other power, has its boundaries; that its success depends
upon the aptitude of others to receive impressions; and that as some
bodies, indissoluble by heat, can set the furnace and crucible at
defiance, there are minds upon which the rays of fancy may be pointed
without effect, and which no fire of sentiment can agitate or exalt.

It was, however, not long before I fitted myself with a set of
companions who knew how to laugh, and to whom no other recommendation
was necessary than the power of striking out a jest. Among those I fixed
my residence, and for a time enjoyed the felicity of disturbing the
neighbours every night with the obstreperous applause which my sallies
forced from the audience. The reputation of our club every day
increased, and as my flights and remarks were circulated by my admirers,
every day brought new solicitations for admission into our society.

To support this perpetual fund of merriment, I frequented every place of
concourse, cultivated the acquaintance of all the fashionable race, and
passed the day in a continual succession of visits, in which I collected
a treasure of pleasantry for the expenses of the evening. Whatever
errour of conduct I could discover, whatever peculiarity of manner I
could observe, whatever weakness was betrayed by confidence, whatever
lapse was suffered by neglect, all was drawn together for the diversion
of my wild companions, who when they had been taught the art of
ridicule, never failed to signalize themselves by a zealous imitation,
and filled the town on the ensuing day with scandal and vexation, with
merriment and shame.

I can scarcely believe, when I recollect my own practice, that I could
have been so far deluded with petty praise, as to divulge the secrets of
trust, and to expose the levities of frankness; to waylay the walks of
the cautious, and surprise the security of the thoughtless. Yet it is
certain, that for many years I heard nothing but with design to tell it,
and saw nothing with any other curiosity than after some failure that
might furnish out a jest.

My heart, indeed, acquits me of deliberate malignity, or interested
insidiousness. I had no other purpose than to heighten the pleasure of
laughter by communication, nor ever raised any pecuniary advantage from
the calamities of others. I led weakness and negligence into
difficulties, only that I might divert myself with their perplexities
and distresses; and violated every law of friendship, with no other hope
than that of gaining the reputation of smartness and waggery.

I would not be understood to charge myself with any crimes of the
atrocious or destructive kind. I never betrayed an heir to gamesters, or
a girl to bebauchees; [Transcriber's note: sic] never intercepted the
kindness of a patron, or sported away the reputation of innocence. My
delight was only in petty mischief, and momentary vexations, and my
acuteness was employed not upon fraud and oppression, which it had been
meritorious to detect, but upon harmless ignorance or absurdity,
prejudice or mistake.

This inquiry I pursued with so much diligence and sagacity, that I was
able to relate, of every man whom I knew, some blunder or miscarriage;
to betray the most circumspect of my friends into follies, by a
judicious flattery of his predominant passion; or expose him to
contempt, by placing him in circumstances which put his prejudices into
action, brought to view his natural defects, or drew the attention of
the company on his airs of affectation.

The power had been possessed in vain if it had never been exerted; and
it was not my custom to let any arts of jocularity remain unemployed. My
impatience of applause brought me always early to the place of
entertainment; and I seldom failed to lay a scheme with the small knot
that first gathered round me, by which some of those whom we expected
might be made subservient to our sport. Every man has some favourite
topick of conversation, on which, by a feigned seriousness of attention,
he may be drawn to expatiate without end. Every man has some habitual
contortion of body, or established mode of expression, which never fails
to raise mirth if it be pointed out to notice. By premonitions of these
particularities I secured our pleasantry. Our companion entered with his
usual gaiety, and began to partake of our noisy cheerfulness, when the
conversation was imperceptibly diverted to a subject which pressed upon
his tender part, and extorted the expected shrug, the customary
exclamation, or the predicted remark. A general clamour of joy then
burst from all that were admitted to the stratagem. Our mirth was often
increased by the triumph of him that occasioned it; for as we do not
hastily form conclusions against ourselves, seldom any one suspected,
that he had exhilarated us otherwise than by wit.

You will hear, I believe, with very little surprise, that by this
conduct I had in a short time united mankind against me, and that every
tongue was diligent in prevention or revenge. I soon perceived myself
regarded with malevolence or distrust, but wondered what had been
discovered in me either terrible or hateful. I had invaded no man's
property; I had rivalled no man's claims: nor had ever engaged in any of
those attempts which provoke the jealousy of ambition or the rage of
faction. I had lived but to laugh, and make others laugh; and believed
that I was loved by all who caressed, and favoured by all who applauded
me. I never imagined, that he who, in the mirth of a nocturnal revel,
concurred in ridiculing his friend, would consider, in a cooler hour,
that the same trick might be played against himself; or that even where
there is no sense of danger, the natural pride of human nature rises
against him, who, by general censures, lays claim to general
superiority.

I was convinced, by a total desertion, of the impropriety of my conduct;
every man avoided, and cautioned others to avoid me. Wherever I came, I
found silence and dejection, coldness and terrour. No one would venture
to speak, lest he should lay himself open to unfavourable
representations; the company, however numerous, dropped off at my
entrance upon various pretences; and, if I retired to avoid the shame of
being left, I heard confidence and mirth revive at my departure.

If those whom I had thus offended could have contented themselves with
repaying one insult for another, and kept up the war only by a
reciprocation of sarcasms, they might have perhaps vexed, but would
never have much hurt me; for no man heartily hates him at whom he can
laugh. But these wounds which they give me as they fly, are without
cure; this alarm which they spread by their solicitude to escape me,
excludes me from all friendship and from all pleasure. I am condemned to
pass a long interval of my life in solitude, as a man suspected of
infection is refused admission into cities; and must linger in
obscurity, till my conduct shall convince the world, that I may be
approached without hazard.

I am, &c.

DICACULUS.



No. 175. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1751.

  _Rari quippe boni: numerus vix est totidem quot
  Thebarum portae, vel divitis ostia Nili_. Juv. Sat. xiii. 26.

  Good men are scarce; the just are thinly sown:
  They thrive but ill, nor can they last when grown;
  And should we count them, and our store compile,
  Yet Thebes more gates could show, more mouths the Nile. CREECH.

None of the axioms of wisdom which recommend the ancient sages to
veneration, seem to have required less extent of knowledge or
perspicacity of penetration, than the remarks of Bias, that [Greek: oi
pleones kakoi], "the majority are wicked."

The depravity of mankind is so easily discoverable, that nothing but the
desert or the cell can exclude it from notice. The knowledge of crimes
intrudes uncalled and undesired. They whom their abstraction from common
occurrences hinders from seeing iniquity, will quickly have their
attention awakened by feeling it. Even he who ventures not into the
world, may learn its corruption in his closet. For what are treatises of
morality, but persuasives to the practice of duties, for which no
arguments would be necessary, but that we are continually tempted to
violate or neglect them? What are all the records of history, but
narratives of successive villanies, of treasons and usurpations,
massacres and wars?

But, perhaps, the excellence of aphorisms consists not so much in the
expression of some rare and abstruse sentiment, as in the comprehension
of some obvious and useful truths in a few words. We frequently fall
into errour and folly, not because the true principles of action are not
known, but because, for a time, they are not remembered; and he may,
therefore, be justly numbered among the benefactors of mankind, who
contracts the great rules of life into short sentences, that may be
easily impressed on the memory, and taught by frequent recollection to
recur habitually to the mind.

However those who have passed through half the life of man, may now
wonder that any should require to be cautioned against corruption, they
will find that they have themselves purchased their conviction by many
disappointments and vexations which an earlier knowledge would have
spared them; and may see, on every side, some entangling themselves in
perplexities, and some sinking into ruin, by ignorance or neglect of the
maxim of Bias.

Every day sends out, in quest of pleasure and distinction, some heir
fondled in ignorance, and flattered into pride. He comes forth with all
the confidence of a spirit unacquainted with superiors, and all the
benevolence of a mind not yet irritated by opposition, alarmed by fraud,
or embittered by cruelty. He loves all, because he imagines himself the
universal favourite. Every exchange of salutation produces new
acquaintance, and every acquaintance kindles into friendship.

Every season brings a new flight of beauties into the world, who have
hitherto heard only of their own charms, and imagine that the heart
feels no passion but that of love. They are soon surrounded by admirers
whom they credit, because they tell them only what is heard with
delight. Whoever gazes upon them is a lover; and whoever forces a sigh,
is pining in despair.

He surely is a useful monitor, who inculcates to these thoughtless
strangers, that the _majority are wicked_; who informs them, that the
train which wealth and beauty draw after them, is lured only by the
scent of prey; and that, perhaps, among all those who crowd about them
with professions and flatteries, there is not one who does not hope for
some opportunity to devour or betray them, to glut himself by their
destruction, or to share their spoils with a stronger savage.

Virtue presented singly to the imagination or the reason, is so well
recommended by its own graces, and so strongly supported by arguments,
that a good man wonders how any can be bad; and they who are ignorant of
the force of passion and interest, who never observed the arts of
seduction, the contagion of example, the gradual descent from one crime
to another, or the insensible depravation of the principles by loose
conversation, naturally expect to find integrity in every bosom, and
veracity on every tongue.

It is, indeed, impossible not to hear from those who have lived longer,
of wrongs and falsehoods, of violence and circumvention; but such
narratives are commonly regarded by the young, the heady, and the
confident, as nothing more than the murmurs of peevishness, or the
dreams of dotage; and, notwithstanding all the documents of hoary
wisdom, we commonly plunge into the world fearless and credulous,
without any foresight of danger, or apprehension of deceit.

I have remarked, in a former paper, that credulity is the common failing
of unexperienced virtue; and that he who is spontaneously suspicious,
may be justly charged with radical corruption; for, if he has not known
the prevalence of dishonesty by information, nor had time to observe it
with his own eyes, whence can he take his measures of judgment but from
himself?

They who best deserve to escape the snares of artifice, are most likely
to be entangled. He that endeavours to live for the good of others, must
always be exposed to the arts of them who live only for themselves,
unless he is taught by timely precepts the caution required in common
transactions, and shewn at a distance the pitfalls of treachery.

To youth, therefore, it should be carefully inculcated, that, to enter
the road of life without caution or reserve, in expectation of general
fidelity and justice, is to launch on the wide ocean without the
instruments of steerage, and to hope that every wind will be prosperous,
and that every coast will afford a harbour.

To enumerate the various motives to deceit and injury, would be to count
all the desires that prevail among the sons of men; since there is no
ambition however petty, no wish however absurd, that by indulgence will
not be enabled to overpower the influence of virtue. Many there are, who
openly and almost professedly regulate all their conduct by their love
of money; who have no other reason for action or forbearance, for
compliance or refusal, than that they hope to gain more by one than by
the other. These are indeed the meanest and cruellest of human beings, a
race with whom, as with some pestiferous animals, the whole creation
seems to be at war; but who, however detested or scorned, long continue
to add heap to heap, and when they have reduced one to beggary, are
still permitted to fasten on another.

Others, yet less rationally wicked, pass their lives in mischief,
because they cannot bear the sight of success, and mark out every man
for hatred, whose fame or fortune they believe increasing.

Many who have not advanced to these degrees of guilt are yet wholly
unqualified for friendship, and unable to maintain any constant or
regular course of kindness. Happiness may be destroyed not only by union
with the man who is apparently the slave of interest, but with him whom
a wild opinion of the dignity of perseverance, in whatever cause,
disposes to pursue every injury with unwearied and perpetual resentment;
with him whose vanity inclines him to consider every man as a rival in
every pretension; with him whose airy negligence puts his friend's
affairs or secrets in continual hazard, and who thinks his forgetfulness
of others excused by his inattention to himself; and with him whose
inconstancy ranges without any settled rule of choice through varieties
of friendship, and who adopts and dismisses favourites by the sudden
impulse of caprice.

Thus numerous are the dangers to which the converse of mankind exposes
us, and which can be avoided only by prudent distrust. He therefore
that, remembering this salutary maxim, learns early to withhold his
fondness from fair appearances, will have reason to pay some honours to
Bias of Priene, who enabled him to become wise without the cost of
experience.



No. 176. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 23, 1751

  --_Naso suspendis adunco_. HOR. Lib. i. Sat. vi. 5.

  On me you turn the nose.--

There are many vexatious accidents and uneasy situations which raise
little compassion for the sufferer, and which no man but those whom they
immediately distress can regard with seriousness. Petty mischiefs, that
have no influence on futurity, nor extend their effects to the rest of
life, are always seen with a kind of malicious pleasure. A mistake or
embarrassment, which for the present moment fills the face with blushes,
and the mind with confusion, will have no other effect upon those who
observe it, than that of convulsing them with irresistible laughter.
Some circumstances of misery are so powerfully ridiculous, that neither
kindness nor duty can withstand them; they bear down love, interest, and
reverence, and force the friend, the dependent, or the child, to give
way to, instantaneous motions of merriment.

Among the principal of comick calamities, may be reckoned the pain which
an author, not yet hardened into insensibility, feels at the onset of a
furious critick, whose age, rank, or fortune, gives him confidence to
speak without reserve; who heaps one objection upon another, and
obtrudes his remarks, and enforces his corrections, without tenderness
or awe.

The author, full of the importance of his work, and anxious for the
justification of every syllable, starts and kindles at the slightest
attack; the critick, eager to establish his superiority, triumphing in
every discovery of failure, and zealous to impress the cogency of his
arguments, pursues him from line to line without cessation or remorse.
The critick, who hazards little, proceeds with vehemence, impetuosity,
and fearlessness; the author, whose quiet and fame, and life and
immortality, are involved in the controversy, tries every art of
subterfuge and defence; maintains modestly what he resolves never to
yield, and yields unwillingly what cannot be maintained. The critick's
purpose is to conquer, the author only hopes to escape; the critick
therefore knits his brow, and raises his voice, and rejoices whenever he
perceives any tokens of pain excited by the pressure of his assertions,
or the point of his sarcasms. The author, whose endeavour is at once to
mollify and elude his persecutor, composes his features and softens his
accent, breaks the force of assault by retreat, and rather steps aside
than flies or advances.

As it very seldom happens that the rage of extemporary criticism
inflicts fatal or lasting wounds, I know not that the laws of
benevolence entitle this distress to much sympathy. The diversion of
baiting an author has the sanction of all ages and nations, and is more
lawful than the sport of teasing other animals, because, for the most
part, he comes voluntarily to the stake, furnished, as he imagines, by
the patron powers of literature, with resistless weapons, and
impenetrable armour, with the mail of the boar of Erymanth, and the paws
of the lion of Nemea.

But the works of genius are sometimes produced by other motives than
vanity; and he whom necessity or duty enforces to write, is not always
so well satisfied with himself, as not to be discouraged by censorious
impudence. It may therefore be necessary to consider, how they whom
publication lays open to the insults of such as their obscurity secures
against reprisals, may extricate themselves from unexpected encounters.

Vida, a man of considerable skill in the politicks of literature,
directs his pupil wholly to abandon his defence, and even when he can
irrefragably refute all objections, to suffer tamely the exultations of
his antagonist.

This rule may perhaps be just, when advice is asked, and severity
solicited, because no man tells his opinion so freely as when he
imagines it received with implicit veneration; and criticks ought never
to be consulted, but while errours may yet be rectified or insipidity
suppressed. But when the book has once been dismissed into the world,
and can be no more retouched, I know not whether a very different
conduct should not be prescribed, and whether firmness and spirit may
not sometimes be of use to overpower arrogance and repel brutality.
Softness, diffidence, and moderation, will often be mistaken for
imbecility and dejection; they hire cowardice to the attack by the hopes
of easy victory, and it will soon be found that he whom every man thinks
he can conquer, shall never be at peace.

The animadversions of criticks are commonly such as may easily provoke
the sedatest writer to some quickness of resentment and asperity of
reply. A man, who by long consideration has familiarized a subject to
his own mind, carefully surveyed the series of his thoughts, and planned
all the parts of his composition into a regular dependance on each
other, will often start at the sinistrous interpretations or absurd
remarks of haste and ignorance, and wonder by what infatuation they have
been led away from the obvious sense, and upon what peculiar principles
of judgment they decide against him.

The eye of the intellect, like that of the body, is not equally perfect
in all, nor equally adapted in any to all objects; the end of criticism
is to supply its defects; rules are the instruments of mental vision,
which may indeed assist our faculties when properly used, but produce
confusion and obscurity by unskilful application.

Some seem always to read with the microscope of criticism, and employ
their whole attention upon minute elegance, or faults scarcely visible
to common observation. The dissonance of a syllable, the recurrence of
the same sound, the repetition of a particle, the smallest deviation
from propriety, the slightest defect in construction or arrangement,
swell before their eyes into enormities. As they discern with great
exactness, they comprehend but a narrow compass, and know nothing of the
justness of the design, the general spirit of the performance, the
artifice of connection, or the harmony of the parts; they never,
conceive how small a proportion that which they are busy in
contemplating bears to the whole, or how the petty inaccuracies, with
which they are offended, are absorbed and lost in general excellence.

Others are furnished by criticism with a telescope. They see with great
clearness whatever is too remote to be discovered by the rest of
mankind, but are totally blind to all that lies immediately before them.
They discover in every passage some secret meaning, some remote
allusion, some artful allegory, or some occult imitation, which no other
reader ever suspected; but they have no perception of the cogency of
arguments, the force of pathetick sentiments, the various colours of
diction, or the flowery embellishments of fancy; of all that engages the
attention of others they are totally insensible, while they pry into
worlds of conjecture, and amuse themselves with phantoms in the clouds.

In criticism, as in every other art, we fail sometimes by our weakness,
but more frequently by our fault. We are sometimes bewildered by
ignorance, and sometimes by prejudice, but we seldom deviate far from
the right, but when we deliver ourselves up to the direction of vanity.



No. 177. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 1751.

  _Turpe est difficiles habere nugas_. MART. Lib. ii. Ep. lxxxvi. 9.

  Those things which now seem frivolous and slight,
  Will be of serious consequence to you,
  When they have made you once ridiculous. ROSCOMMON.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

When I was, at the usual time, about to enter upon the profession to
which my friends had destined me, being summoned, by the death of my
father, into the country, I found myself master of an unexpected sum of
money, and of an estate, which, though not large, was, in my opinion,
sufficient to support me in a condition far preferable to the fatigue,
dependance, and uncertainty of any gainful occupation. I therefore
resolved to devote the rest of my life wholly to curiosity, and without
any confinement of my excursions, or termination of my views, to wander
over the boundless regions of general knowledge.

This scheme of life seemed pregnant with inexhaustible variety, and
therefore I could not forbear to congratulate myself upon the wisdom of
my choice. I furnished a large room with all conveniences for study;
collected books of every kind; quitted every science at the first
perception of disgust; returned to it again as soon as my former ardour
happened to revive; and having no rival to depress me by comparison, nor
any critick to alarm me with objections, I spent day after day in
profound tranquillity, with only so much complaisance in my own
improvements, as served to excite and animate my application.

Thus I lived for some years with complete acquiescence in my own plan of
conduct, rising early to read, and dividing the latter part of the day
between economy, exercise, and reflection. But, in time, I began to find
my mind contracted and stiffened by solitude. My ease and elegance were
sensibly impaired; I was no longer able to accommodate myself with
readiness to the accidental current of conversation; my notions grew
particular and paradoxical, and my phraseology formal and unfashionable;
I spoke, on common occasions, the language of books. My quickness of
apprehension, and celerity of reply, had entirely deserted me; when I
delivered my opinion, or detailed my knowledge, I was bewildered by an
unseasonable interrogatory, disconcerted by any slight opposition, and
overwhelmed and lost in dejection, when the smallest advantage was
gained against me in dispute. I became decisive and dogmatical,
impatient of contradiction, perpetually jealous of my character,
insolent to such as acknowledged my superiority, and sullen and
malignant to all who refused to receive my dictates.

This I soon discovered to be one of those intellectual diseases which a
wise man should make haste to cure. I therefore resolved for a time to
shut my books, and learn again the art of conversation; to defecate and
clear my mind by brisker motions, and stronger impulses; and to unite
myself once more to the living generation.

For this purpose I hasted to London, and entreated one of my academical
acquaintances to introduce me into some of the little societies of
literature which are formed in taverns and coffee-houses. He was pleased
with an opportunity of shewing me to his friends, and soon obtained me
admission among a select company of curious men, who met once a week to
exhilarate their studies, and compare their acquisitions.

The eldest and most venerable of this society was Hirsutus, who, after
the first civilities of my reception, found means to introduce the
mention of his favourite studies, by a severe censure of those who want
the due regard for their native country. He informed me, that he had
early withdrawn his attention from foreign trifles, and that since he
began to addict his mind to serious and manly studies, he had very
carefully amassed all the English books that were printed in the black
character. This search he had pursued so diligently, that he was able to
shew the deficiencies of the best catalogues. He had long since
completed his Caxton, had three sheets of Treveris unknown to the
antiquaries, and wanted to a perfect Pynson but two volumes, of which
one was promised him as a legacy by its present possessor, and the other
he was resolved to buy, at whatever price, when Quisquilius's library
should be sold. Hirsutus had no other reason for the valuing or
slighting a book, than that it was printed in the Roman or the Gothic
letter, nor any ideas but such as his favourite volumes had supplied;
when he was serious he expatiated on the narratives "of Johan de
Trevisa," and when he was merry, regaled us with a quotation from the
"Shippe of Foles."

While I was listening to this hoary student, Ferratus entered in a
hurry, and informed us with the abruptness of ecstacy, that his set of
halfpence was now complete; he had just received in a handful of change,
the piece that he had so long been seeking, and could now defy mankind
to outgo his collection of English copper.

Chartophylax then observed how fatally human sagacity was sometimes
baffled, and how often the most valuable discoveries are made by chance.
He had employed himself and his emissaries seven years at great expense
to perfect his series of Gazettes, but had long wanted a single paper,
which, when he despaired of obtaining it, was sent him wrapped round a
parcel of tobacco.

Cantilenus turned all his thoughts upon old ballads, for he considered
them as the genuine records of the national taste. He offered to shew me
a copy of "The Children in the Wood," which he firmly believed to be of
the first edition, and, by the help of which, the text might be freed
from several corruptions, if this age of barbarity had any claim to such
favours from him.

Many were admitted into this society as inferior members, because they
had collected old prints and neglected pamphlets, or possessed some
fragment of antiquity, as the seal of an ancient corporation, the
charter of a religious house, the genealogy of a family extinct, or a
letter written in the reign of Elizabeth.

Every one of these virtuosos looked on all his associates as wretches of
depraved taste and narrow notions. Their conversation was, therefore,
fretful and waspish, their behaviour brutal, their merriment bluntly
sarcastick, and their seriousness gloomy and suspicious. They were
totally ignorant of all that passes, or has lately passed, in the world;
unable to discuss any question of religious, political, or military
knowledge; equally strangers to science and politer learning, and
without any wish to improve their minds, or any other pleasure than that
of displaying rarities, of which they would not suffer others to make
the proper use.

Hirsutus graciously informed me, that the number of their society was
limited, but that I might sometimes attend as an auditor. I was pleased
to find myself in no danger of an honour, which I could not have
willingly accepted, nor gracefully refused, and left them without any
intention of returning; for I soon found that the suppression of those
habits with which I was vitiated, required association with men very
different from this solemn race.

I am, Sir, &c.

VIVACULUS.

It is natural to feel grief or indignation when any thing necessary or
useful is wantonly wasted, or negligently destroyed; and therefore my
correspondent cannot be blamed for looking with uneasiness on the waste
of life. Leisure and curiosity might soon make great advances in useful
knowledge, were they not diverted by minute emulation and laborious
trifles. It may, however, somewhat mollify his anger to reflect, that
perhaps none of the assembly which he describes, was capable of any
nobler employment, and that he who does his best, however little, is
always to be distinguished from him who does nothing. Whatever busies
the mind without corrupting it, has at least this use, that it rescues
the day from idleness, and he that is never idle will not often be
vicious.



No. 178. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 1751.

  _Purs sanitatis velle sanuria fuit_. SENECA.

  To yield to remedies is half the cure.

Pythagoras is reported to have required from those whom he instructed in
philosophy a probationary silence of five years. Whether this
prohibition of speech extended to all the parts of this time, as seems
generally to be supposed, or was to be observed only in the school or in
the presence of their master, as is more probable, it was sufficient to
discover the pupil's disposition; to try whether he was willing to pay
the price of learning, or whether he was one of those whose ardour was
rather violent than lasting, and who expected to grow wise on other
terms than those of patience and obedience.

Many of the blessings universally desired, are very frequently wanted,
because most men, when they should labour, content themselves to
complain, and rather linger in a state in which they cannot be at rest,
than improve their condition by vigour and resolution.

Providence has fixed the limits of human enjoyment by immoveable
boundaries, and has set different gratifications at such a distance from
each other, that no art or power can bring them together. This great law
it is the business of every rational being to understand, that life may
not pass away in an attempt to make contradictions consistent, to
combine opposite qualities, and to unite things which the nature of
their being must always keep asunder.

Of two objects tempting at a distance on contrary sides, it is
impossible to approach one but by receding from the other; by long
deliberation and dilatory projects, they may be both lost, but can never
be both gained. It is, therefore, necessary to compare them, and, when
we have determined the preference, to withdraw our eyes and our thoughts
at once from that which reason directs us to reject. This is more
necessary, if that which we are forsaking has the power of delighting
the senses, or firing the fancy. He that once turns aside to the
allurements of unlawful pleasure, can have no security that he shall
ever regain the paths of virtue.

The philosophick goddess of Boethius, having related the story of
Orpheus, who, when he had recovered his wife from the dominions of
death, lost her again by looking back upon her in the confines of light,
concludes with a very elegant and forcible application. "Whoever you are
that endeavour to elevate your minds to the illuminations of Heaven,
consider yourselves as represented in this fable; for he that is once so
far overcome as to turn back his eyes towards the infernal caverns,
loses at the first sight all that influence which attracted him on
high:"

  Vos haec fabula respicit,
  Quicunque in superum diem
  Mentem ducere quaeritis.
  Nam qui Tartareum in specus
  Victus lumina flexerit,
  Quidquid praecipuum trahit,
  Perdit, dum videt inferos.

It may be observed, in general, that the future is purchased by the
present. It is not possible to secure instant or permanent happiness but
by the forbearance of some immediate gratification. This is so evidently
true with regard to the whole of our existence, that all the precepts of
theology have no other tendency than to enforce a life of faith; a life
regulated not by our senses but our belief; a life in which pleasures
are to be refused for fear of invisible punishments, and calamities
sometimes to be sought, and always endured, in hope of rewards that
shall be obtained in another state.

Even if we take into our view only that particle of our duration which
is terminated by the grave, it will be found that we cannot enjoy one
part of life beyond the common limitations of pleasure, but by
anticipating some of the satisfaction which should exhilarate the
following years. The heat of youth may spread happiness into wild
luxuriance, but the radical vigour requisite to make it perennial is
exhausted, and all that can be hoped afterwards is languor and
sterility.

The reigning errour of mankind is, that we are not content with the
conditions on which the goods of life are granted. No man is insensible
of the value of knowledge, the advantages of health, or the convenience
of plenty, but every day shews us those on whom the conviction is
without effect.

Knowledge is praised and desired by multitudes whom her charms could
never rouse from the couch of sloth; whom the faintest invitation of
pleasure draws away from their studies; to whom any other method of
wearing out the day is more eligible than the use of books, and who are
more easily engaged by any conversation, than such as may rectify their
notions or enlarge their comprehension.

Every man that has felt pain, knows how little all other comforts can
gladden him to whom health is denied. Yet who is there does not
sometimes hazard it for the enjoyment of an hour? All assemblies of
jollity, all places of public entertainment, exhibit examples of
strength wasting in riot, and beauty withering in irregularity; nor is
it easy to enter a house in which part of the family is not groaning in
repentance of past intemperance, and part admitting disease by
negligence, or soliciting it by luxury.

There is no pleasure which men of every age and sect have more generally
agreed to mention with contempt, than the gratifications of the palate;
an entertainment so far removed from intellectual happiness, that
scarcely the most shameless of the sensual herd have dared to defend it:
yet even to this, the lowest of our delights, to this, though neither
quick nor lasting, is health with all its activity and sprightliness
daily sacrificed; and for this are half the miseries endured which urge
impatience to call on death.

The whole world is put in motion by the wish for riches and the dread of
poverty. Who, then, would not imagine that such conduct as will
inevitably destroy what all are thus labouring to acquire, must
generally be avoided? That he who spends more than he receives, must in
time become indigent, cannot be doubted; but, how evident soever this
consequence may appear, the spendthrift moves in the whirl of pleasure
with too much rapidity to keep it before his eyes, and, in the
intoxication of gaiety, grows every day poorer without any such sense of
approaching ruin as is sufficient to wake him into caution.

Many complaints are made of the misery of life; and indeed it must be
confessed that we are subject to calamities by which the good and bad,
the diligent and slothful, the vigilant and heedless, are equally
afflicted. But surely, though some indulgence may be allowed to groans
extorted by inevitable misery, no man has a right to repine at evils
which, against warning, against experience, he deliberately and
leisurely brings upon his own head; or to consider himself as debarred
from happiness by such obstacles as resolution may break or dexterity
may put aside.

Great numbers who quarrel with their condition, have wanted not the
power but the will to obtain a better state. They have never
contemplated the difference between good and evil sufficiently to
quicken aversion, or invigorate desire; they have indulged a drowsy
thoughtlessness or giddy levity; have committed the balance of choice to
the management of caprice; and when they have long accustomed themselves
to receive all that chance offered them, without examination, lament at
last that they find themselves deceived.



No. 179. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 3, 1751.

  _Perpetuo risu pulmonem agitare solebat_. JUV. Sat. x. 33.

  Democritus would feed his spleen, and shake
  His sides and shoulders till he felt them ake. DRYDEN

Every man, says Tully, has two characters; one which he partakes with
all mankind, and by which he is distinguished from brute animals;
another which discriminates him from the rest of his own species, and
impresses on him a manner and temper peculiar to himself; this
particular character, if it be not repugnant to the laws of general
humanity, it is always his business to cultivate and preserve.

Every hour furnishes some confirmation of Tully's precept. It seldom
happens, that an assembly of pleasure is so happily selected, but that
some one finds admission, with whom the rest are deservedly offended;
and it will appear, on a close inspection, that scarce any man becomes
eminently disagreeable, but by a departure from his real character, and
an attempt at something for which nature or education have left him
unqualified.

Ignorance or dulness have indeed no power of affording delight, but they
never give disgust except when they assume the dignity of knowledge, or
ape the sprightliness of wit. Awkwardness and inelegance have none of
those attractions by which ease and politeness take possession of the
heart; but ridicule and censure seldom rise against them, unless they
appear associated with that confidence which belongs only to long
acquaintance with the modes of life, and to consciousness of unfailing
propriety of behaviour. Deformity itself is regarded with tenderness
rather than aversion, when it does not attempt to deceive the sight by
dress and decoration, and to seize upon fictitious claims the
prerogatives of beauty.

He that stands to contemplate the crowds that fill the streets of a
populous city, will see many passengers whose air and motion it will be
difficult to behold without contempt and laughter; but if he examines
what are the appearances that thus powerfully excite his risibility, he
will find among them neither poverty nor disease, nor any involuntary or
painful defect. The disposition to derision and insult is awakened by
the softness of foppery, the swell of insolence, the liveliness of
levity, or the solemnity of grandeur; by the sprightly trip, the stately
stalk, the formal strut, the lofty mien; by gestures intended to catch
the eye, and by looks elaborately formed as evidences of importance.

It, has, I think, been sometimes urged in favour of affectation, that it
is only a mistake of the means to a good end, and that the intention
with which it is practised is always to please. If all attempts to
innovate the constitutional or habitual character have really proceeded
from publick spirit and love of others, the world has hitherto been
sufficiently ungrateful, since no return but scorn has yet been made to
the most difficult of all enterprises, a contest with nature; nor has
any pity been shown to the fatigues of labour which never succeeded, and
the uneasiness of disguise by which nothing was concealed.

It seems therefore to be determined by the general suffrage of mankind,
that he who decks himself in adscititious qualities rather purposes to
command applause than impart pleasure: and he is therefore treated as a
man who, by an unreasonable ambition, usurps the place in society to
which he has no right. Praise is seldom paid with willingness even to
incontestable merit, and it can be no wonder that he who calls for it
without desert is repulsed with universal indignation.

Affectation naturally counterfeits those excellencies which are placed
at the greatest distance from possibility of attainment. We are
conscious of our own defects, and eagerly endeavour to supply them by
artificial excellence; nor would such efforts be wholly without excuse,
were they not often excited by ornamental trifles, which he, that thus
anxiously struggles for the reputation of possessing them, would not
have been known to want, had not his industry quickened observation.

Gelasimus passed the first part of his life in academical privacy and
rural retirement, without any other conversation than that of scholars,
grave, studious, and abstracted as himself. He cultivated the
mathematical sciences with indefatigable diligence, discovered many
useful theorems, discussed with great accuracy the resistance of fluids,
and, though his priority was not generally acknowledged, was the first
who fully explained all the properties of the catenarian curve.

Learning, when if rises to eminence, will be observed in time, whatever
mists may happen to surround it. Gelasimus, in his forty-ninth year, was
distinguished by those who have the rewards of knowledge in their hands,
and called out to display his acquisitions for the honour of his
country, and add dignity by his presence to philosophical assemblies. As
he did not suspect his unfitness for common affairs, he fell no
reluctance to obey the invitation, and what he did not feel he had yet
too much honesty to feign. He entered into the world as a larger and
more populous college, where his performances would be more publick, and
his renown farther extended; and imagined that he should find his
reputation universally prevalent, and the influence of learning every
where the same.

His merit introduced him to splendid tables and elegant acquaintance;
but he did not find himself always qualified to join in the
conversation. He was distressed by civilities, which he knew not how to
repay, and entangled in many ceremonial perplexities, from which his
books and diagrams could not extricate him. He was sometimes unluckily
engaged in disputes with ladies, with whom algebraick axioms had no
great weight, and saw many whose favour and esteem he could not but
desire, to whom he was very little recommended by his theories of the
tides, or his approximations to the quadrature of the circle.

Gelasimus did not want penetration to discover, that no charm was more
generally irresistible than that of easy facetiousness and flowing
hilarity. He saw that diversion was more frequently welcome than
improvement; that authority and seriousness were rather feared than
loved; and that the grave scholar was a kind of imperious ally, hastily
dismissed when his assistance was no longer necessary. He came to a
sudden resolution of throwing off those cumbrous ornaments of learning
which hindered his reception, and commenced a man of wit and jocularity.
Utterly unacquainted with every topick of merriment, ignorant of the
modes and follies, the vices and virtues of mankind, and unfurnished
with any ideas but such as Pappas and Archimedes had given him, he began
to silence all inquiries with a jest instead of a solution, extended his
face with a grin, which he mistook for a smile, and in the place of
scientifick discourse, retailed in a new language, formed between the
college and the tavern, the intelligence of the newspaper.

Laughter, he knew, was a token of alacrity; and, therefore, whatever he
said or heard, he was careful not to fail in that great duty of a wit.
If he asked or told the hour of the day, if he complained of heat or
cold, stirred the fire, or filled a glass, removed his chair, or snuffed
a candle, he always found some occasion to laugh. The jest was indeed a
secret to all but himself; but habitual confidence in his own
discernment hindered him from suspecting any weakness or mistake. He
wondered that his wit was so little understood, but expected that his
audience would comprehend it by degrees, and persisted all his life to
shew by gross buffoonery, how little the strongest faculties can perform
beyond the limits of their own province.



No. 180. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1751.

  [Greek: Taut eidos sophos isthi, mataen d' Epikouron eason
  Poy to kenon zaetein, kai tines ai monades.] AUTOMEDON.

  On life, on morals, be thy thoughts employ'd;
  Leave to the schools their atoms and their void.

It is somewhere related by Le Clerc, that a wealthy trader of good
understanding, having the common ambition to breed his son a scholar,
carried him to an university, resolving to use his own judgment in the
choice of a tutor. He had been taught, by whatever intelligence, the
nearest way to the heart of an academick, and at his arrival entertained
all who came about him with such profusion, that the professors were
lured by the smell of his table from their books, and flocked round him
with all the cringes of awkward complaisance. This eagerness answered
the merchant's purpose: he glutted them with delicacies, and softened
them with caresses, till he prevailed upon one after another to open his
bosom, and make a discovery of his competitions, jealousies, and
resentments. Having thus learned each man's character, partly from
himself, and partly from his acquaintances, he resolved to find some
other education for his son, and went away convinced, that a scholastick
life has no other tendency than to vitiate the morals and contract the
understanding: nor would he afterwards hear with patience the praises of
the ancient authors, being persuaded that scholars of all ages must have
been the same, and that Xenophon and Cicero were professors of some
former university, and therefore mean and selfish, ignorant and servile,
like those whom he had lately visited and forsaken.

Envy, curiosity, and a sense of the imperfection of our present state,
incline us to estimate the advantages which are in the possession of
others above their real value. Every one must have remarked, what powers
and prerogatives the vulgar imagine to be conferred by learning. A man
of science is expected to excel the unlettered and unenlightened even on
occasions where literature is of no use, and among weak minds, loses
part of his reverence, by discovering no superiority in those parts of
life, in which all are unavoidably equal; as when a monarch makes a
progress to the remoter provinces, the rustics are said sometimes to
wonder that they find him of the same size with themselves.

These demands of prejudice and folly can never be satisfied; and
therefore many of the imputations which learning suffers from
disappointed ignorance, are without reproach. But there are some
failures, to which men of study are peculiarly exposed. Every condition
has its disadvantages. The circle of knowledge is too wide for the most
active and diligent intellect, and while science is pursued, other
accomplishments are neglected; as a small garrison must leave one part
of an extensive fortress naked, when an alarm calls them to another.

The learned, however, might generally support their dignity with more
success, if they suffered not themselves to be misled by the desire of
superfluous attainments. Raphael, in return to Adam's inquiries into the
courses of the stars, and the revolutions of heaven, counsels him to
withdraw his mind from idle speculations, and employ his faculties upon
nearer and more interesting objects, the survey of his own life, the
subjection of his passions, the knowledge of duties which must daily be
performed, and the detection of dangers which must daily be incurred.

This angelick counsel every man of letters should always have before
him. He that devotes himself to retired study naturally sinks from
omission to forgetfulness of social duties; he must be therefore
sometimes awakened and recalled to the general condition of mankind.

I am far from any intention to limit curiosity, or confine the labours
of learning to arts of immediate and necessary use. It is only from the
various essays of experimental industry, and the vague excursions of
minds sent out upon discovery, that any advancement of knowledge can be
expected; and, though many must be disappointed in their labours, yet
they are not to be charged with having spent their time in vain; their
example contributed to inspire emulation, and their miscarriages taught
others the way to success.

But the distant hope of being one day useful or eminent, ought not to
mislead us too far from that study which is equally requisite to the
great and mean, to the celebrated and obscure; the art of moderating the
desires, of repressing the appetites, and of conciliating or retaining
the favour of mankind.

No man can imagine the course of his own life, or the conduct of the
world around him, unworthy his attention; yet, among the sons of
learning, many seem to have thought of every thing rather than of
themselves, and to have observed every thing but what passes before
their eyes: many who toil through the intricacy of complicated systems,
are insuperably embarrassed with the least perplexity in common affairs;
many who compare the actions, and ascertain the characters of ancient
heroes, let their own days glide away without examination, and suffer
vicious habits to encroach upon their minds without resistance or
detection.

The most frequent reproach of the scholastick race is the want of
fortitude, not martial but philosophick. Men bred in shades and silence,
taught to immure themselves at sunset, and accustomed to no other weapon
than syllogism, may be allowed to feel terrour at personal danger, and
to be disconcerted by tumult and alarm. But why should he whose life is
spent in contemplation, and whose business is only to discover truth, be
unable to rectify the fallacies of imagination, or contend successfully
against prejudice and passion? To what end has he read and meditated, if
he gives up his understanding to false appearances, and suffers himself
to be enslaved by fear of evils to which only folly or vanity can expose
him, or elated by advantages to which, as they are equally conferred
upon the good and bad, no real dignity is annexed.

Such, however, is the state of the world, that the most obsequious of
the slaves of pride, the most rapturous of the gazers upon wealth, the
most officious of the whisperers of greatness, are collected from
seminaries appropriated to the study of wisdom and of virtue, where it
was intended that appetite should learn to be content with little, and
that hope should aspire only to honours which no human power can give or
take away[j].

The student, when he comes forth into the world, instead of
congratulating himself upon his exemption from the errours of those
whose opinions have been formed by accident or custom, and who live
without any certain principles of conduct, is commonly in haste to
mingle with the multitude, and shew his sprightliness and ductility by
an expeditious compliance with fashions or vices. The first smile of a
man, whose fortune gives him power to reward his dependants, commonly
enchants him beyond resistance; the glare of equipage, the sweets of
luxury, the liberality of general promises, the softness of habitual
affability, fill his imagination; and he soon ceases to have any other
wish than to be well received, or any measure of right and wrong but the
opinion of his patron.

A man flattered and obeyed, learns to exact grosser adulation, and
enjoin lower submission. Neither our virtues nor vices are all our own.
If there were no cowardice, there would be little insolence; pride
cannot rise to any great degree, but by the concurrence of blandishment
or the sufferance of tameness. The wretch who would shrink and crouch
before one that should dart his eyes upon him with the spirit of natural
equality, becomes capricious and tyrannical when he sees himself
approached with a downcast look, and hears the soft address of awe and
servility. To those who are willing to purchase favour by cringes and
compliance, is to be imputed the haughtiness that leaves nothing to be
hoped by firmness and integrity.

If, instead of wandering after the meteors of philosophy, which fill the
world with splendour for a while, and then sink and are forgotten, the
candidates of learning fixed their eyes upon the permanent lustre of
moral and religious truth, they would find a more certain direction to
happiness. A little plausibility of discourse, and acquaintance with
unnecessary speculations, is dearly purchased, when it excludes those
instructions which fortify the heart with resolution, and exalt the
spirit to independence.

[Footnote j: "Such are a sort of sacrilegious ministers in the temple of
intellect. They profane its shew-bread to pamper the palate, its
everlasting lamp they use to light unholy fires within their breast, and
show them the way to the sensual chambers of sense and worldliness."
IRVING.]



No. 181. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 10, 1751.

  _--Neu fluitem dubue spe pendulus horae_. HOR. Lib. i. Ep. xviii. 110.

  Nor let me float in fortune's pow'r,
  Dependent on the future hour. FRANCIS.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

As I have passed much of my life in disquiet and suspense, and lost many
opportunities of advantage by a passion which I have reason to believe
prevalent in different degrees over a great part of mankind, I cannot
but think myself well qualified to warn those who are yet uncaptivated,
of the danger which they incur by placing themselves within its
influence.

I served an apprenticeship to a linen-draper, with uncommon reputation
for diligence and fidelity; and at the age of three-and-twenty opened a
shop for myself with a large stock, and such credit among all the
merchants, who were acquainted with my master, that I could command
whatever was imported curious or valuable. For five years I proceeded
with success proportionate to close application and untainted integrity;
was a daring bidder at every sale; always paid my notes before they were
due; and advanced so fast in commercial reputation, that I was
proverbially marked out as the model of young traders, and every one
expected that a few years would make me an alderman.

In this course of even prosperity, I was one day persuaded to buy a
ticket in the lottery. The sum was inconsiderable, part was to be repaid
though fortune might fail to favour me, and therefore my established
maxims of frugality did not restrain me from so trifling an experiment.
The ticket lay almost forgotten till the time at which every man's fate
was to be determined; nor did the affair even then seem of any
importance, till I discovered by the publick papers that the number next
to mine had conferred the great prize.

My heart leaped at the thought of such an approach to sudden riches,
which I considered myself, however contrarily to the laws of
computation, as having missed by a single chance; and I could not
forbear to revolve the consequences which such a bounteous allotment
would have produced, if it had happened to me. This dream of felicity,
by degrees, took possession of my imagination. The great delight of my
solitary hours was to purchase an estate, and form plantations with
money which once might have been mine, and I never met my friends but I
spoiled all their merriment by perpetual complaints of my ill luck.

At length another lottery was opened, and I had now so heated my
imagination with the prospect of a prize, that I should have pressed
among the first purchasers, had not my ardour been withheld by
deliberation upon the probability of success from one ticket rather than
another. I hesitated long between even and odd; considered the square
and cubick numbers through the lottery; examined all those to which good
luck had been hitherto annexed; and at last fixed upon one, which, by
some secret relation to the events of my life, I thought predestined to
make me happy. Delay in great affairs is often mischievous; the ticket
was sold, and its possessor could not be found.

I returned to my conjectures, and after many arts of prognostication,
fixed upon another chance, but with less confidence. Never did captive,
heir, or lover, feel so much vexation from the slow pace of time, as I
suffered between the purchase of my ticket and the distribution of the
prizes. I solaced my uneasiness as well as I could, by frequent
contemplation of approaching happiness; when the sun rose I knew it
would set, and congratulated myself at night that I was so much nearer
to my wishes. At last the day came, my ticket appeared, and rewarded all
my care and sagacity with a despicable prize of fifty pounds.

My friends, who honestly rejoiced upon my success, were very coldly
received; I hid myself a fortnight in the country, that my chagrin might
fume away without observation, and then returning to my shop, began to
listen after another lottery.

With the news of a lottery I was soon gratified, and having now found
the vanity of conjecture, and inefficacy of computation, I resolved to
take the prize by violence, and therefore bought forty tickets, not
omitting, however, to divide them between the even and odd numbers, that
I might not miss the lucky class. Many conclusions did I form, and many
experiments did I try, to determine from which of those tickets I might
most reasonably expect riches. At last, being unable to satisfy myself
by any modes of reasoning, I wrote the numbers upon dice, and allotted
five hours every day to the amusement of throwing them in a garret; and,
examining the event by an exact register, found, on the evening before
the lottery was drawn, that one of my numbers had been turned up five
times more than any of the rest in three hundred and thirty thousand
throws.

This experiment was fallacious; the first day presented the hopeful
ticket, a detestable blank. The rest came out with different fortune,
and in conclusion I lost thirty pounds by this great adventure.

I had now wholly changed the cast of my behaviour and the conduct of my
life. The shop was for the most part abandoned to my servants, and if I
entered it, my thoughts were so engrossed by my tickets, that I scarcely
heard or answered a question, but considered every customer as an
intruder upon my meditations, whom I was in haste to despatch. I mistook
the price of my goods, committed blunders in my bills, forgot to file my
receipts, and neglected to regulate my books. My acquaintances by
degrees began to fall away; but I perceived the decline of my business
with little emotion, because whatever deficience there might be in my
gains, I expected the next lottery to supply.

Miscarriage naturally produces diffidence; I began now to seek
assistance against ill luck, by an alliance with those that had been
more successful. I inquired diligently at what office any prize had been
sold, that I might purchase of a propitious vender; solicited those who
had been fortunate in former lotteries, to partake with me in my new
tickets; and whenever I met with one that had in any event of his life
been eminently prosperous, I invited him to take a larger share. I had,
by this rule of conduct, so diffused my interest, that I had a fourth
part of fifteen tickets, an eighth of forty, and a sixteenth of ninety.

I waited for the decision of my fate with my former palpitations, and
looked upon the business of my trade with the usual neglect. The wheel
at last was turned, and its revolutions brought me a long succession of
sorrows and disappointments. I indeed often partook of a small prize,
and the loss of one day was generally balanced by the gain of the next;
but my desires yet remained unsatisfied, and when one of my chances had
failed, all my expectation was suspended on those which remained yet
undetermined. At last a prize of five thousand pounds was proclaimed; I
caught fire at the cry, and inquiring the number, found it to be one of
my own tickets, which I had divided among those on whose luck I
depended, and of which I had retained only a sixteenth part.

You will easily judge with what detestation of himself, a man thus
intent upon gain reflected that he had sold a prize which was once in
his possession. It was to no purpose, that I represented to my mind the
impossibility of recalling the past, or the folly of condemning an act,
which only its event, an event which no human intelligence could
foresee, proved to be wrong. The prize which, though put in my hands,
had been suffered to slip from me, filled me with anguish, and knowing
that complaint would only expose me to ridicule, I gave myself up
silently to grief, and lost by degrees my appetite and my rest.

My indisposition soon became visible; I was visited by my friends, and
among them by Eumathes, a clergyman, whose piety and learning gave him
such an ascendant over me, that I could not refuse to open my heart.
There are, said he, few minds sufficiently firm to be trusted in the
hands of chance. Whoever finds himself inclined to anticipate futurity,
and exalt possibility to certainty, should avoid every kind of casual
adventure, since his grief must be always proportionate to his hope. You
have long wasted that time, which, by a proper application, would have
certainly, though moderately, increased your fortune, in a laborious and
anxious pursuit of a species of gain, which no labour or anxiety, no art
or expedient, can secure or promote. You are now fretting away your life
in repentance of an act, against which repentance can give no caution,
but to avoid the occasion of committing it. Rouse from this lazy dream
of fortuitous riches, which, if obtained, you could scarcely have
enjoyed, because they could confer no consciousness of desert; return to
rational and manly industry, and consider the mere gift of luck as below
the care of a wise man.



No. 182. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 14, 1751.

  _--Dives qui fieri vult,
  Et cilo vult fieri.--_ JUV. Sat. xiv. 176

  The lust of wealth can never bear delay.

It has been observed in a late paper, that we are unreasonably desirous
to separate the goods of life from those evils which Providence has
connected with them, and to catch advantages without paying the price at
which they are offered us. Every man wishes to be rich, but very few
have the powers necessary to raise a sudden fortune, either by new
discoveries, or by superiority of skill, in any necessary employment;
and among lower understandings, many want the firmness and industry
requisite to regular gain and gradual acquisitions.

From the hope of enjoying affluence by methods more compendious than
those of labour, and more generally practicable than those of genius,
proceeds the common inclination to experiment and hazard, and that
willingness to snatch all opportunities of growing rich by chance,
which, when it has once taken possession of the mind, is seldom driven
out either by time or argument, but continues to waste life in perpetual
delusion, and generally ends in wretchedness and want.

The folly of untimely exultation and visionary prosperity, is by no
means peculiar to the purchasers of tickets; there are multitudes whose
life is nothing but a continual lottery; who are always within a few
months of plenty and happiness, and how often soever they are mocked
with blanks, expect a prize from the next adventure.

Among the most resolute and ardent of the votaries of chance, may be
numbered the mortals whose hope is to raise themselves by a wealthy
match; who lay out all their industry on the assiduities of courtship,
and sleep and wake with no other ideas than of treats, compliments,
guardians and rivals.

One of the most indefatigable of this class, is my old friend Leviculus,
whom I have never known for thirty years without some matrimonial
project of advantage. Leviculus was bred under a merchant, and by the
graces of his person, the sprightliness of his prattle, and the neatness
of his dress, so much enamoured his master's second daughter, a girl of
sixteen, that she declared her resolution to have no other husband. Her
father, after having chidden her for undutifulness, consented to the
match, not much to the satisfaction of Leviculus, who was sufficiently
elated with his conquest to think himself entitled to a larger fortune.
He was, however, soon rid of his perplexity, for his mistress died
before their marriage.

He was now so well satisfied with his own accomplishments, that he
determined to commence fortune-hunter; and when his apprenticeship
expired, instead of beginning, as was expected, to walk the Exchange
with a face of importance, or associating himself with those who were
most eminent for their knowledge of the stocks, he at once threw off the
solemnity of the counting-house, equipped himself with a modish wig,
listened to wits in coffee-houses, passed his evenings behind the scenes
in the theatres, learned the names of beauties of quality, hummed the
last stanzas of fashionable songs, talked with familiarity of high play,
boasted of his achievements upon drawers and coachmen, was often brought
to his lodgings at midnight in a chair, told with negligence and
jocularity of bilking a tailor, and now and then let fly a shrewd jest
at a sober citizen.

Thus furnished with irresistible artillery, he turned his batteries upon
the female world, and, in the first warmth of self-approbation, proposed
no less than the possession of riches and beauty united. He therefore
paid his civilities to Flavilla, the only daughter of a wealthy
shop-keeper, who not being accustomed to amorous blandishments, or
respectful addresses, was delighted with the novelty of love, and easily
suffered him to conduct her to the play, and to meet her where she
visited. Leviculus did not doubt but her father, however offended by a
clandestine marriage, would soon be reconciled by the tears of his
daughter, and the merit of his son-in-law, and was in haste to conclude
the affair. But the lady liked better to be courted than married, and
kept him three years in uncertainty and attendance. At last she fell in
love with a young ensign at a ball, and having danced with him all
night, married him in the morning.

Leviculus, to avoid the ridicule of his companions, took a journey to a
small estate in the country, where, after his usual inquiries concerning
the nymphs in the neighbourhood, he found it proper to fall in love with
Altilia, a maiden lady, twenty years older than himself, for whose
favour fifteen nephews and nieces were in perpetual contention. They
hovered round her with such jealous officiousness, as scarcely left a
moment vacant for a lover. Leviculus, nevertheless, discovered his
passion in a letter, and Altilia could not withstand the pleasure of
hearing vows and sighs, and flatteries and protestations. She admitted
his visits, enjoyed for five years the happiness of keeping all her
expectants in perpetual alarms, and amused herself with the various
stratagems which were practised to disengage her affections. Sometimes
she was advised with great earnestness to travel for her health, and
sometimes entreated to keep her brother's house. Many stories were
spread to the disadvantage of Leviculus, by which she commonly seemed
affected for a time, but took care soon afterwards to express her
conviction of their falsehood. But being at last satiated with this
ludicrous tyranny, she told her lover, when he pressed for the reward of
his services, that she was very sensible of his merit, but was resolved
not to impoverish an ancient family.

He then returned to the town, and soon after his arrival, became
acquainted with Latronia, a lady distinguished by the elegance of her
equipage, and the regularity of her conduct. Her wealth was evident in
her magnificence, and her prudence in her economy, and therefore
Leviculus, who had scarcely confidence to solicit her favour, readily
acquitted fortune of her former debts, when he found himself
distinguished by her with such marks of preference as a woman of modesty
is allowed to give. He now grew bolder, and ventured to breathe out his
impatience before her. She heard him without resentment, in time
permitted him to hope for happiness, and at last fixed the nuptial day,
without any distrustful reserve of pin-money, or sordid stipulations for
jointure, and settlements.

Leviculus was triumphing on the eve of marriage, when he heard on the
stairs the voice of Latronia's maid, whom frequent bribes had secured in
his service. She soon burst into his room, and told him that she could
not suffer him to be longer deceived; that her mistress was now spending
the last payment of her fortune, and was only supported in her expense
by the credit of his estate. Leviculus shuddered to see himself so near
a precipice, and found that he was indebted for his escape to the
resentment of the maid, who having assisted Latronia to gain the
conquest, quarrelled with her at last about the plunder.

Leviculus was now hopeless and disconsolate, till one Sunday he saw a
lady in the Mall, whom her dress declared a widow, and whom, by the
jolting prance of her gait, and the broad resplendence of her
countenance, he guessed to have lately buried some prosperous citizen.
He followed her home, and found her to be no less than the relict of
Prune the grocer, who, having no children, had bequeathed to her all his
debts and dues, and his estates real and personal. No formality was
necessary in addressing madam Prune, and therefore Leviculus went next
morning without an introductor. His declaration was received with a loud
laugh; she then collected her countenance, wondered at his impudence,
asked if he knew to whom he was talking, then shewed him the door, and
again laughed to find him confused. Leviculus discovered that this
coarseness was nothing more than the coquetry of Cornhill, and next day
returned to the attack. He soon grew familiar to her dialect, and in a
few weeks heard, without any emotion, hints of gay clothes with empty
pockets; concurred in many sage remarks on the regard due to people of
property; and agreed with her in detestation of the ladies at the other
end of the town, who pinched their bellies to buy fine laces, and then
pretended to laugh at the city.

He sometimes presumed to mention marriage; but was always answered with
a slap, a hoot, and a flounce. At last he began to press her closer, and
thought himself more favourably received; but going one morning, with a
resolution to trifle no longer, he found her gone to church with a young
journeyman from the neighbouring shop, of whom she had become enamoured
at her window.

In these, and a thousand intermediate adventures, has Leviculus spent
his time, till he is now grown grey with age, fatigue, and
disappointment. He begins at last to find that success is not to be
expected, and being unfit for any employment that might improve his
fortune, and unfurnished with any arts that might amuse his leisure, is
condemned to wear out a tasteless life in narratives which few will
hear, and complaints which none will pity.



No. 183. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 17, 1751.

  _Nidla fides regni sociis, omnisque potestas
  Impatiens consortis erit_. LUCAN. Lib. i. 92.

  No faith of partnership dominion owns;
  Still discord hovers o'er divided thrones.

The hostility perpetually exercised between one man and another, is
caused by the desire of many for that which only few can possess. Every
man would be rich, powerful, and famous; yet fame, power, and riches are
only the names of relative conditions, which imply the obscurity,
dependance, and poverty of greater numbers. This universal and incessant
competition produces injury and malice by two motives, interest and
envy; the prospect of adding to our possessions what we can take from
others, and the hope of alleviating the sense of our disparity by
lessening others, though we gain nothing to ourselves.

Of these two malignant and destructive powers, it seems probable at the
first view, that interest has the strongest and most extensive
influence. It is easy to conceive that opportunities to seize what has
been long wanted, may excite desires almost irresistible; but surely the
same eagerness cannot be kindled by an accidental power of destroying
that which gives happiness to another. It must be more natural to rob
for gain, than to ravage only for mischief.

Yet I am inclined to believe, that the great law of mutual benevolence
is oftener violated by envy than by interest, and that most of the
misery which the defamation of blameless actions, or the obstruction of
honest endeavours, brings upon the world, is inflicted by men that
propose no advantage to themselves but the satisfaction of poisoning the
banquet which they cannot taste, and blasting the harvest which they
have no right to reap.

Interest can diffuse itself but to a narrow compass. The number is never
large of those who can hope to fill the posts of degraded power, catch
the fragments of shattered fortune, or succeed to the honours of
depreciated beauty. But the empire of envy has no limits, as it requires
to its influence very little help from external circumstances. Envy may
always be produced by idleness and pride, and in what place will they
not be found?

Interest requires some qualities not universally bestowed. The ruin of
another will produce no profit to him who has not discernment to mark
his advantage, courage to seize, and activity to pursue it; but the cold
malignity of envy may be exerted in a torpid and quiescent state, amidst
the gloom of stupidity, in the coverts of cowardice. He that falls by
the attacks of interest, is torn by hungry tigers; he may discover and
resist his enemies. He that perishes in the ambushes of envy, is
destroyed by unknown and invisible assailants, and dies like a man
suffocated by a poisonous vapour, without knowledge of his danger, or
possibility of contest.

Interest is seldom pursued but at some hazard. He that hopes to gain
much, has commonly something to lose, and when he ventures to attack
superiority, if he fails to conquer, is irrecoverably crushed. But envy
may act without expense or danger. To spread suspicion, to invent
calumnies, to propagate scandal, requires neither labour nor courage. It
is easy for the author of a lie, however malignant, to escape detection,
and infamy needs very little industry to assist its circulation.

Envy is almost the only vice which is practicable at all times, and in
every place; the only passion which can never lie quiet for want of
irritation: its effects therefore are every where discoverable, and its
attempts always to be dreaded.

It is impossible to mention a name which any advantageous distinction
has made eminent, but some latent animosity will burst out. The wealthy
trader, however he may abstract himself from publick affairs, will never
want those who hint, with Shylock, that ships are but boards. The
beauty, adorned only with the unambitious graces of innocence and
modesty, provokes, whenever she appears, a thousand murmurs of
detraction. The genius, even when he endeavours only to entertain or
instruct, yet suffers persecution from innumerable criticks, whose
acrimony is excited merely by the pain of seeing others pleased, and of
hearing applauses which another enjoys.

The frequency of envy makes it so familiar, that it escapes our notice;
nor do we often reflect upon its turpitude or malignity, till we happen
to feel its influence. When he that has given no provocation to malice,
but by attempting to excel, finds himself pursued by multitudes whom he
never saw, with all the implacability of personal resentment; when he
perceives clamour and malice let loose upon him as a publick enemy, and
incited by every stratagem of defamation; when he hears the misfortunes
of his family, or the follies of his youth, exposed to the world; and
every failure of conduct, or defect of nature, aggravated and ridiculed;
he then learns to abhor those artifices at which he only laughed before,
and discovers how much the happiness of life would be advanced by the
eradication of envy from the human heart.

Envy is, indeed, a stubborn weed of the mind, and seldom yields to the
culture of philosophy. There are, however, considerations, which, if
carefully implanted and diligently propagated, might in time overpower
and repress it, since no one can nurse it for the sake of pleasure, as
its effects are only shame, anguish, and perturbation. It is above all
other vices inconsistent with the character of a social being, because
it sacrifices truth and kindness to very weak temptations. He that
plunders a wealthy neighbour gains as much as he takes away, and may
improve his own condition in the same proportion as he impairs
another's; but he that blasts a flourishing reputation, must be content
with a small dividend of additional fame, so small as can afford very
little consolation to balance the guilt by which it is obtained.

I have hitherto avoided that dangerous and empirical morality, which
cures one vice by means of another. But envy is so base and detestable,
so vile in its original, and so pernicious in its effects, that the
predominance of almost any other quality is to be preferred. It is one
of those lawless enemies of society, against which poisoned arrows may
honestly be used. Let it therefore be constantly remembered, that
whoever envies another, confesses his superiority, and let those be
reformed by their pride who have lost their virtue.

It is no slight aggravation of the injuries which envy incites, that
they are committed against those who have given no intentional
provocation; and that the sufferer is often marked out for ruin, not
because he has failed in any duty, but because he has dared to do more
than was required.

Almost every other crime is practised by the help of some quality which
might have produced esteem or love, if it had been well employed; but
envy is mere unmixed and genuine evil; it pursues a hateful end by
despicable means, and desires not so much its own happiness as another's
misery. To avoid depravity like this, it is not necessary that any one
should aspire to heroism or sanctity, but only that he should resolve
not to quit the rank which nature assigns him, and wish to maintain the
dignity of a human being.



No. 184. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1751.

  _Permittes ipsis expendere numinibus, quid
  Conveniat nobis, rebusque sit utile nostris_. JUV. Sat. x. 347.

  Intrust thy fortune to the pow'rs above;
  Leave them to manage for thee, and to grant
  What their unerring wisdom sees thee want. DRYDEN.

As every scheme of life, so every form of writing, has its advantages
and inconveniencies, though not mingled in the same proportions. The
writer of essays escapes many embarrassments to which a large work would
have exposed him; he seldom harasses his reason with long trains of
consequences, dims his eyes with the perusal of antiquated volumes, or
burthens his memory with great accumulations of preparatory knowledge. A
careless glance upon a favourite author, or transient survey of the
varieties of life, is sufficient to supply the first hint or seminal
idea, which, enlarged by the gradual accretion of matter stored in the
mind, is by the warmth of fancy easily expanded into flowers, and
sometimes ripened into fruit.

The most frequent difficulty by which the authors of these petty
compositions are distressed, arises from the perpetual demand of novelty
and change. The compiler of a system of science lays his invention at
rest, and employs only his judgment, the faculty exerted with least
fatigue. Even the relator of feigned adventures, when once the principal
characters are established, and the great events regularly connected,
finds incidents and episodes crowding upon his mind; every change opens
new views, and the latter part of the story grows without labour out of
the former. But he that attempts to entertain his reader with
unconnected pieces, finds the irksomeness of his task rather increased
than lessened by every production. The day calls afresh upon him for a
new topick, and he is again obliged to choose, without any principle to
regulate his choice.

It is indeed true, that there is seldom any necessity of looking far, or
inquiring long for a proper subject. Every diversity of art or nature,
every publick blessing or calamity, every domestick pain or
gratification, every sally of caprice, blunder of absurdity, or
stratagem of affectation, may supply matter to him whose only rule is to
avoid uniformity. But it often happens, that the judgment is distracted
with boundless multiplicity, the imagination ranges from one design to
another, and the hours pass imperceptibly away, till the composition can
be no longer delayed, and necessity enforces the use of those thoughts
which then happen to be at hand. The mind, rejoicing at deliverance on
any terms from perplexity and suspense, applies herself vigorously to
the work before her, collects embellishments and illustrations, and
sometimes finishes, with great elegance and happiness, what in a state
of ease and leisure she never had begun.

It is not commonly observed, how much, even of actions, considered as
particularly subject to choice, is to be attributed to accident, or some
cause out of our own power, by whatever name it be distinguished. To
close tedious deliberations with hasty resolves, and after long
consultations with reason to refer the question to caprice, is by no
means peculiar to the essayist. Let him that peruses this paper review
the series of his life, and inquire how he was placed in his present
condition. He will find, that of the good or ill which he has
experienced, a great part came unexpected, without any visible
gradations of approach; that every event has been influenced by causes
acting without his intervention; and that whenever he pretended to the
prerogative of foresight, he was mortified with new conviction of the
shortness of his views.

The busy, the ambitious, the inconstant, and the adventurous, may be
said to throw themselves by design into the arms of fortune, and
voluntarily to quit the power of governing themselves; they engage in a
course of life in which little can be ascertained by previous measures;
nor is it any wonder that their time is passed between elation and
despondency, hope and disappointment.

Some there are who appear to walk the road of life with more
circumspection, and make no step till they think themselves secure from
the hazard of a precipice, when neither pleasure nor profit can tempt
them from the beaten path; who refuse to climb lest they should fall, or
to run lest they should stumble, and move slowly forward without any
compliance with those passions by which the heady and vehement are
seduced and betrayed.

Yet even the timorous prudence of this judicious class is far from
exempting them from the dominion of chance, a subtle and insidious
power, who will intrude upon privacy and embarrass caution. No course of
life is so prescribed and limited, but that many actions must result
from arbitrary election. Every one must form the general plan of his
conduct by his own reflections; he must resolve whether he will
endeavour at riches or at content; whether he will exercise private or
publick virtues; whether he will labour for the general benefit of
mankind, or contract his beneficence to his family and dependants.

This question has long exercised the schools of philosophy, but remains
yet undecided; and what hope is there that a young man, unacquainted
with the arguments on either side, should determine his own destiny
otherwise than by chance?

When chance has given him a partner of his bed, whom he prefers to all
other women, without any proof of superior desert, chance must again
direct him in the education of his children; for, who was ever able to
convince himself by arguments, that he had chosen for his son that mode
of instruction to which his understanding was best adapted, or by which
he would most easily be made wise or virtuous?

Whoever shall inquire by what motives he was determined on these
important occasions, will find them such as his pride will scarcely
suffer him to confess; some sudden ardour of desire, some uncertain
glimpse of advantage, some petty competition, some inaccurate
conclusion, or some example implicitly reverenced. Such are often the
first causes of our resolves; for it is necessary to act, but impossible
to know the consequences of action, or to discuss all the reasons which
offer themselves on every part to inquisitiveness and solicitude.

Since life itself is uncertain, nothing which has life for its basis can
boast much stability. Yet this is but a small part of our perplexity. We
set out on a tempestuous sea in quest of some port, where we expect to
find rest, but where we are not sure of admission, we are not only in
danger of sinking in the way, but of being misled by meteors mistaken
for stars, of being driven from our course by the changes of the wind,
and of losing it by unskilful steerage; yet it sometimes happens, that
cross winds blow us to a safer coast, that meteors draw us aside from
whirlpools, and that negligence or errour contributes to our escape from
mischiefs to which a direct course would have exposed us. Of those that,
by precipitate conclusions, involve themselves in calamities without
guilt, very few, however they may reproach themselves, can be certain
that other measures would have been more successful.

In this state of universal uncertainty, where a thousand dangers hover
about us, and none can tell whether the good that he pursues is not evil
in disguise, or whether the next step will lead him to safety or
destruction, nothing can afford any rational tranquillity, but the
conviction that, however we amuse ourselves with unideal sounds, nothing
in reality is governed by chance, but that the universe is under the
perpetual superintendance of Him who created it; that our being is in
the hands of omnipotent Goodness, by whom what appears casual to us, is
directed for ends ultimately kind and merciful; and that nothing can
finally hurt him who debars not himself from the Divine favour.



No. 185. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1751.

  _At vindicta bonum vita jucundius ipsa,
  Nempe hoc indocti.--
  Chrysippus non dicet idem, nec mite Thaletis
  Ingenium, dulcique senex vicinus Hymetto,
  Qui partem adceptæ sæva inter vincla Cicutæ
  Adcusatori nollet dare.--
  --Quippe minuti
  Semper et infirmi est animi exiguique voluptas
  Ultio_. JUV. Sat. xiii. 180.

  _But O! revenge is sweet_.
  Thus think the crowd; who, eager to engage,
  Take quickly fire, and kindle into rage.
  Not so mild Thales nor Chrysippus thought,
  Nor that good man, who drank the poisonous draught.
  With mind serene; and could not wish to see
  His vile accuser drink as deep as he:
  Exalted Socrates! divinely brave!
  Injur'd he fell, and dying he forgave!
  Too noble for revenge; which still we find
  The weakest frailty of a feeble mind. DRYDEN.

No vicious dispositions of the mind more obstinately resist both the
counsels of philosophy and the injunctions of religion, than those which
are complicated with an opinion of dignity; and which we cannot dismiss
without leaving in the hands of opposition some advantage iniquitously
obtained, or suffering from our own prejudices some imputation of
pusillanimity.

For this reason scarcely any law of our Redeemer is more openly
transgressed, or more industriously evaded, than that by which he
commands his followers to forgive injuries, and prohibits, under the
sanction of eternal misery, the gratification of the desire which every
man feels to return pain upon him that inflicts it. Many who could have
conquered their anger, are unable to combat pride, and pursue offences
to extremity of vengeance, lest they should be insulted by the triumph
of an enemy.

But certainly no precept could better become him, at whose birth _peace_
was proclaimed _to the earth_. For, what would so soon destroy all the
order of society, and deform life with violence and ravage, as a
permission to every one to judge his own cause, and to apportion his own
recompense for imagined injuries?

It is difficult for a man of the strictest justice not to favour himself
too much, in the calmest moments of solitary meditation. Every one
wishes for the distinctions for which thousands are wishing at the same
time, in their own opinion, with better claims. He that, when his reason
operates in its full force, can thus, by the mere prevalence of
self-love, prefer himself to his fellow-beings, is very unlikely to
judge equitably when his passions are agitated by a sense of wrong, and
his attention wholly engrossed by pain, interest, or danger. Whoever
arrogates, to himself the right of vengeance, shews how little he is
qualified to decide his own claims, since he certainly demands what he
would think unfit to be granted to another.

Nothing is more apparent than that, however injured, or however
provoked, some must at last be contented to forgive. For it can never be
hoped, that he who first commits an injury, will contentedly acquiesce
in the penalty required: the same haughtiness of contempt, or vehemence
of desire, that prompt the act of injustice, will more strongly incite
its justification; and resentment can never so exactly balance the
punishment with the fault, but there will remain an overplus of
vengeance which even he who condemns his first action will think himself
entitled to retaliate. What then can ensue but a continual exacerbation
of hatred, an unextinguishable feud, an incessant reciprocation of
mischief, a mutual vigilance to entrap, and eagerness to destroy.

Since then the imaginary right of vengeance must be at last remitted,
because it is impossible to live in perpetual hostility, and equally
impossible that of two enemies, either should first think himself
obliged by justice to submission, it is surely eligible to forgive
early. Every passion is more easily subdued before it has been long
accustomed to possession of the heart; every idea is obliterated with
less difficulty, as it has been more slightly impressed, and less
frequently renewed. He who has often brooded over his wrongs, pleased
himself with schemes of malignity, and glutted his pride with the
fancied supplications of humbled enmity, will not easily open his bosom
to amity and reconciliation, or indulge the gentle sentiments of
benevolence and peace.

It is easiest to forgive, while there is yet little to be forgiven. A
single injury may be soon dismissed from the memory; but a long
succession of ill offices by degrees associates itself with every idea;
a long contest involves so many circumstances, that every place and
action will recall it to the mind, and fresh remembrance of vexation
must still enkindle rage, and irritate revenge.

A wise man will make haste to forgive, because he knows the true value
of time, and will not suffer it to pass away in unnecessary pain. He
that willingly suffers the corrosions of inveterate hatred, and gives up
his days and nights to the gloom of malice, and perturbations of
stratagem, cannot surely be said to consult his ease. Resentment is an
union of sorrow with malignity, a combination of a passion which all
endeavour to avoid, with a passion which all concur to detest. The man
who retires to meditate mischief, and to exasperate his own rage; whose
thoughts are employed only on means of distress and contrivances of
ruin; whose mind never pauses from the remembrance of his own
sufferings, but to indulge some hope of enjoying the calamities of
another, may justly be numbered among the most miserable of human
beings, among those who are guilty without reward, who have neither the
gladness of prosperity, nor the calm of innocence.

Whoever considers the weakness both of himself and others, will not long
want persuasives to forgiveness. We know not to what degree of malignity
any injury is to be imputed; or how much its guilt, if we were to
inspect the mind of him that committed it, would be extenuated by
mistake, precipitance, or negligence; we cannot be certain how much more
we feel than was intended to be inflicted, or how much we increase the
mischief to ourselves by voluntary aggravations. We may charge to design
the effects of accident; we may think the blow violent only because we
have made ourselves delicate and tender; we are on every side in danger
of errour and of guilt; which we are certain to avoid only by speedy
forgiveness.

From this pacifick and harmless temper, thus propitious to others and
ourselves, to domestick tranquillity and to social happiness, no man is
withheld but by pride, by the fear of being insulted by his adversary,
or despised by the world.

It may be laid down as an unfailing and universal axiom, that "all pride
is abject and mean." It is always an ignorant, lazy, or cowardly
acquiescence in a false appearance of excellence, and proceeds not from
consciousness of our attainments, but insensibility of our wants.

Nothing can be great which is not right. Nothing which reason condemns
can be suitable to the dignity of the human mind. To be driven by
external motives from the path which our own heart approves, to give way
to any thing but conviction, to suffer the opinion of others to rule our
choice, or overpower our resolves, is to submit tamely to the lowest and
most ignominious slavery, and to resign the right of directing our own
lives.

The utmost excellence at which humanity can arrive, is a constant and
determinate pursuit of virtue, without regard to present dangers or
advantage; a continual reference of every action to the divine will; an
habitual appeal to everlasting justice; and an unvaried elevation of the
intellectual eye to the reward which perseverance only can obtain. But
that pride which many, who presume to boast of generous sentiments,
allow to regulate their measures, has nothing nobler in view than the
approbation of men, of beings whose superiority we are under no
obligation to acknowledge, and who, when we have courted them with the
utmost assiduity, can confer no valuable or permanent reward; of beings
who ignorantly judge of what they do not understand, or partially
determine what they never have examined; and whose sentence is therefore
of no weight till it has received the ratification of our own
conscience.

He that can descend to bribe suffrages like these, at the price of his
innocence; he that can suffer the delight of such acclamations to
withhold his attention from the commands of the universal Sovereign, has
little reason to congratulate himself upon the greatness of his mind;
whenever he awakes to seriousness and reflection, he must become
despicable in his own eyes, and shrink with shame from the remembrance
of his cowardice and folly.

Of him that hopes to be forgiven, it is indispensably required that he
forgive. It is therefore superfluous to urge any other motive. On this
great duty eternity is suspended, and to him that refuses to practise
it, the Throne of mercy is inaccessible, and the Saviour of the world
has been born in vain.



No. 186. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 28, 1751.

  _Pone me, pigris ubi nulla campis
  Arbor æstica recreatur aurâ--
  Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
          Dulce loquentem_. HOR. Lib. i. Ode xxii. 17.

  Place me where never summer breeze
  Unbinds the glebe, or warms the trees;
  Where ever lowering clouds appear,
  And angry Jove deforms th' inclement year:
  Love and the nymph shall charm my toils,
  The nymph, who sweetly speaks and sweetly smiles. FRANCIS.

Of the happiness and misery of our present state, part arises from our
sensations, and part from our opinions; part is distributed by nature,
and part is in a great measure apportioned by ourselves. Positive
pleasure we cannot always obtain, and positive pain we often cannot
remove. No man can give to his own plantations the fragrance of the
Indian groves; nor will any precepts of philosophy enable him to
withdraw his attention from wounds or diseases. But the negative
infelicity which proceeds, not from the pressure of sufferings, but the
absence of enjoyments, will always yield to the remedies of reason.

One of the great arts of escaping superfluous uneasiness, is to free our
minds from the habit of comparing our condition with that of others on
whom the blessings of life are more bountifully bestowed, or with
imaginary states of delight and security, perhaps unattainable by
mortals. Few are placed in a situation so gloomy and distressful, as not
to see every day beings yet more forlorn and miserable, from whom they
may learn to rejoice in their own lot.

No inconvenience is less superable by art or diligence than the
inclemency of climates, and therefore none affords more proper exercise
for this philosophical abstraction. A native of England, pinched with
the frosts of December, may lessen his affection for his own country by
suffering his imagination to wander in the vales of Asia, and sport
among the woods that are always green, and streams that always murmur;
but if he turns his thought towards the polar regions, and considers the
nations to whom a great portion of the year is darkness, and who are
condemned to pass weeks and months amidst mountains of snow, he will
soon recover his tranquillity, and, while he stirs his fire, or throws
his cloak about him, reflect how much he owes to Providence, that he is
not placed in Greenland or Siberia.

The barrenness of the earth and the severity of the skies in these
dreary countries, are such as might be expected to confine the mind
wholly to the contemplation of necessity and distress, so that the care
of escaping death from cold and hunger, should leave no room for those
passions which, in lands of plenty, influence conduct, or diversify
characters; the summer should be spent only in providing for the winter,
and the winter in longing for the summer.

Yet learned curiosity is known to have found its way into these abodes
of poverty and gloom: Lapland and Iceland have their historians, their
criticks, and their poets; and love, that extends his dominion wherever
humanity can be found, perhaps exerts the same power in the
Greenlander's hut as in the palaces of eastern monarchs.

In one of the large caves to which the families of Greenland retire
together, to pass the cold months, and which may be termed their
villages or cities, a youth and maid, who came from different parts of
the country, were so much distinguished for their beauty, that they were
called by the rest of the inhabitants Anningait and Ajut, from a
supposed resemblance to their ancestors of the same names, who had been
transformed of old into the sun and moon.

Anningait for some time heard the praises of Ajut with little emotion,
but at last, by frequent interviews, became sensible of her charms, and
first made a discovery of his affection, by inviting her with her
parents to a feast, where he placed before Ajut the tail of a whale.
Ajut seemed not much delighted by this gallantry; yet, however, from
that time was observed rarely to appear, but in a vest made of the skin
of a white deer; she used frequently to renew the black dye upon her
hands and forehead, to adorn her sleeves with coral and shells, and to
braid her hair with great exactness.

The elegance of her dress, and the judicious disposition of her
ornaments, had such an effect upon Anningait, that he could no longer be
restrained from a declaration of his love. He therefore composed a poem
in her praise, in which, among other heroick and tender sentiments, he
protested, that "she was beautiful as the vernal willow, and fragrant as
the thyme upon the mountains; that her fingers were white as the teeth
of the morse, and her smile grateful as the dissolution of the ice; that
he would pursue her, though she should pass the snows of the midland
cliffs, or seek shelter in the caves of the eastern cannibals: that he
would tear her from the embraces of the genius of the rocks, snatch her
from the paws of Amarock, and rescue her from the ravine of Hafgufa." He
concluded with a wish, that "whoever shall attempt to hinder his union
with Ajut, might be buried without his bow, and that, in the land of
souls, his skull might serve for no other use than to catch the
droppings of the starry lamps."

This ode being universally applauded, it was expected that Ajut would
soon yield to such fervour and accomplishments; but Ajut, with the
natural haughtiness of beauty, expected all the forms of courtship; and
before she would confess herself conquered, the sun returned, the ice
broke, and the season of labour called all to their employments.

Anningait and Ajut for a time always went out in the same boat, and
divided whatever was caught. Anningait, in the sight of his mistress,
lost no opportunity of signalizing his courage: he attacked the
sea-horses on the ice; pursued the seals into the water, and leaped upon
the back of the whale, while he was yet struggling with the remains of
life. Nor was his diligence less to accumulate all that could be
necessary to make winter comfortable: he dried the roe of fishes and the
flesh of seals; he entrapped deer and foxes, and dressed their skins to
adorn his bride; he feasted her with eggs from the rocks, and strewed her
tent with flowers.

It happened that a tempest drove the fish to a distant part of the
coast, before Anningait had completed his store; he therefore entreated
Ajut, that she would at last grant him her hand, and accompany him to
that part of the country whither he was now summoned by necessity. Ajut
thought him not yet entitled to such condescension, but proposed, as a
trial of his constancy, that he should return at the end of summer to
the cavern where their acquaintance commenced, and there expect the
reward of his assiduities. "O virgin, beautiful as the sun shining on
the water, consider," said Anningait, "what thou hast required. How
easily may my return be precluded by a sudden frost or unexpected fogs!
then must the night be passed without my Ajut. We live not, my fair, in
those fabled countries, which lying strangers so wantonly describe;
where the whole year is divided into short days and nights; where the
same habitation serves for summer and winter; where they raise houses in
rows above the ground, dwell together from year to year, with flocks of
tame animals grazing in the fields about them; can travel at any time
from one place to another, through ways inclosed with trees, or over
walls raised upon the inland waters; and direct their course through
wide countries by the sight of green hills or scattered buildings. Even
in summer we have no means of crossing the mountains, whose snows are
never dissolved; nor can remove to any distant residence, but in our
boats coasting the bays. Consider, Ajut, a few summer-days, and a few
winter-nights, and the life of man is at an end. Night is the time of
ease and festivity, of revels and gaiety; but what will be the flaming
lamp, the delicious seal, or the soft oil, without the smile of Ajut?"

The eloquence of Anningait was vain; the maid continued inexorable, and
they parted with ardent promises to meet again before the night of
winter.



No. 187. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 31, 1751.

  _Non illum nostri possunt mutare labores;
  Non si frigoribus mediis Hebrunique bibamus,
  Sithoniasque nives hyemis subeamus aquosae:--
  Ominia vincit amor. Vinc. Ec. x. 64_.

  Love alters not for us his hard decrees,
  Not though beneath the Thracian clime we freeze,
  Or the mild bliss of temperate skies forego,
  And in raid winter tread Sithonian snow:--
  Love conquers all.--DRYDEN.

Anningait, however discomposed by the dilatory coyness of Ajut, was yet
resolved to omit no tokens of amorous respect; and therefore presented
her at his departure with the skins of seven white fawns, of five swans
and eleven seals, with three marble lamps, ten vessels of seal oil, and
a large kettle of brass, which he had purchased from a ship, at the
price of half a whale, and two horns of sea-unicorns.

Ajut was so much affected by the fondness of her lover, or so much
overpowered by his magnificence, that she followed him to the sea-side;
and, when she saw him enter the boat, wished aloud, that he might return
with plenty of skins and oil; that neither the mermaids might snatch him
into the deeps, nor the spirits of the rocks confine him in their
caverns.

She stood a while to gaze upon the departing vessel, and then returning
to her hut, silent and dejected, laid aside, from that hour, her white
deer skin, suffered her hair to spread unbraided on her shoulders, and
forbore to mix in the dances of the maidens. She endeavoured to divert
her thoughts, by continual application to feminine employments, gathered
moss for the winter lamps, and dried grass to line the boots of
Anningait. Of the skins which he had bestowed upon her, she made a
fishing-coat, a small boat, and tent, all of exquisite manufacture; and
while she was thus busied, solaced her labours with a song, in which she
prayed, "that her lover might have hands stronger than the paws of the
bear, and feet swifter than the feet of the reindeer; that his dart
might never err, and that his boat might never leak; that he might never
stumble on the ice, nor faint in the water; that the seal might rush on
his harpoon, and the wounded whale might dash the waves in vain."

The large boats in which the Greenlanders transport their families, are
always rowed by women; for a man will not debase himself by work, which
requires neither skill nor courage. Anningait was therefore exposed by
idleness to the ravages of passion. He went thrice to the stern of the
boat, with an intent to leap into the water, and swim back to his
mistress; but, recollecting the misery which they must endure in the
winter, without oil for the lamp, or skins for the bed, he resolved to
employ the weeks of absence in provision for a night of plenty and
felicity. He then composed his emotions as he could, and expressed, in
wild numbers and uncouth images, his hopes, his sorrows, and his fears.
"O life!" says he, "frail and uncertain! where shall wretched man find
thy resemblance, but in ice floating on the ocean? It towers on high, it
sparkles from afar, while the storms drive and the waters beat it, the
sun melts it above, and the rocks shatter it below. What art thou,
deceitful pleasure! but a sudden blaze streaming from the north, which
plays a moment on the eye, mocks the traveller with the hopes of light,
and then vanishes for ever? What, love, art thou but a whirlpool, which
we approach without knowledge of our danger, drawn on by imperceptible
degrees, till we have lost all power of resistance and escape? Till I
fixed my eyes on the graces of Ajut, while I had not yet called her to
the banquet, I was careless as the sleeping morse, was merry as the
singers in the stars. Why, Ajut, did I gaze upon thy graces? why, my
fair, did I call thee to the banquet? Yet, be faithful, my love,
remember Anningait, and meet my return with the smile of virginity. I
will chase the deer, I will subdue the whale, resistless as the frost of
darkness, and unwearied as the summer sun. In a few weeks I shall return
prosperous and wealthy; then shall the roe-fish and the porpoise feast
thy kindred; the fox and hare shall cover thy couch; the tough hide of
the seal shall shelter thee from cold; and the fat of the whale
illuminate thy dwelling."

Anningait having with these sentiments consoled his grief, and animated
his industry, found that they had now coasted the headland, and saw the
whales spouting at a distance. He therefore placed himself in his
fishing-boat, called his associates to their several employments, plied
his oar and harpoon with incredible courage and dexterity; and, by
dividing his time between the chace and fishery, suspended the miseries
of absence and suspicion.

Ajut, in the mean time, notwithstanding her neglected dress, happened,
as she was drying some skins in the sun, to catch the eye of Norngsuk,
on his return from hunting. Norngsuk was of birth truly illustrious. His
mother had died in child-birth, and his father, the most expert fisher
of Greenland, had perished by too close pursuit of the whale. His
dignity was equalled by his riches; he was master of four men's and two
women's boats, had ninety tubs of oil in his winter habitation, and
five-and-twenty seals buried in the snow against the season of darkness.
When he saw the beauty of Ajut, he immediately threw over her the skin
of a deer that he had taken, and soon after presented her with a branch
of coral. Ajut refused his gifts, and determined to admit no lover in
the place of Anningait.

Norngsuk, thus rejected, had recourse to stratagem. He knew that Ajut
would consult an Angekkok, or diviner, concerning the fate of her lover,
and the felicity of her future life. He therefore applied himself to the
most celebrated Angekkok of that part of the country, and, by a present
of two seals and a marble kettle, obtained a promise, that when Ajut
should consult him, he would declare that her lover was in the land of
souls. Ajut, in a short time, brought him a coat made by herself, and
inquired what events were to befall her, with assurances of a much
larger reward at the return of Anningait, if the prediction should
flatter her desires. The Angekkok knew the way to riches, and foretold
that Anningait, having already caught two whales, would soon return home
with a large boat laden with provisions.

This prognostication she was ordered to keep secret; and Norngsuk
depending upon his artifice, renewed his addresses with greater
confidence; but finding his suit still unsuccessful, applied himself to
her parents with gifts and promises. The wealth of Greenland is too
powerful for the virtue of a Greenlander; they forgot the merit and the
presents of Anningait, and decreed Ajut to the embraces of Norngsuk. She
entreated; she remonstrated; she wept, and raved; but finding riches
irresistible, fled away into the uplands, and lived in a cave upon such
berries as she could gather, and the birds or hares which she had the
fortune to ensnare, taking care, at an hour when she was not likely to
be found, to view the sea every day, that her lover might not miss her
at his return.

At last she saw the great boat in which Anningait had departed, stealing
slow and heavy laden along the coast. She ran with all the impatience of
affection to catch her lover in her arms, and relate her constancy and
sufferings. When the company reached the land, they informed her that
Anningait, after the fishery was ended, being unable to support the slow
passage of the vessel of carriage, had set out before them in his
fishing-boat, and they expected at their arrival to have found him on
shore.

Ajut, distracted at this intelligence, was about to fly into the hills,
without knowing why, though she was now in the hands of her parents, who
forced her back to their own hut, and endeavoured to comfort her; but
when at last they retired to rest, Ajut went down to the beach; where,
finding a fishing-boat, she entered it without hesitation, and telling
those who wondered at her rashness, that she was going in search of
Anningait, rowed away with great swiftness, and was seen no more.

The fate of these lovers gave occasion to various fictions and
conjectures. Some are of opinion, that they were changed into stars;
others imagine, that Anningait was seized in his passage by the genius
of the rocks, and that Ajut was transformed into a mermaid, and still
continues to seek her lover in the deserts of the sea. But the general
persuasion is, that they are both in that part of the land of souls
where the sun never sets, where oil is always fresh, and provisions
always warm. The virgins sometimes throw a thimble and a needle into the
bay, from which the hapless maid departed; and when a Greenlander would
praise any couple for virtuous affection, he declares that they love
like Anningait and Ajut.



No. 188. SATURDAY, JANUARY 4, 1751.

  --_Si te colo, Sexte, non amabo_. MART. Lib. ii. Ep. lv. 33.

  The more I honour thee, the less I love.

None of the desires dictated by vanity is more general, or less
blamable, than that of being distinguished for the arts of conversation.
Other accomplishments may be possessed without opportunity of exerting
them, or wanted without danger that the defect can often be remarked;
but as no man can live, otherwise than in an hermitage, without hourly
pleasure or vexation, from the fondness or neglect of those about him,
the faculty of giving pleasure is of continual use. Few are more
frequently envied than those who have the power of forcing attention
wherever they come, whose entrance is considered as a promise of
felicity, and whose departure is lamented, like the recess of the sun
from northern climates, as a privation of all that enlivens fancy, or
inspirits gaiety.

It is apparent, that to excellence in this valuable art, some peculiar
qualifications are necessary; for every one's experience will inform
him, that the pleasure which men are able to give in conversation, holds
no stated proportion to their knowledge or their virtue. Many find their
way to the tables and the parties of those who never consider them as of
the least importance in any other place; we have all, at one time or
other, been content to love those whom we could not esteem, and been
persuaded to try the dangerous experiment of admitting him for a
companion, whom we knew to be too ignorant for a counsellor, and too
treacherous for a friend.

I question whether some abatement of character is not necessary to
general acceptance. Few spend their time with much satisfaction under
the eye of uncontestable superiority; and therefore, among those whose
presence is courted at assemblies of jollity, there are seldom found men
eminently distinguished for powers or acquisitions. The wit whose
vivacity condemns slower tongues to silence, the scholar whose knowledge
allows no man to fancy that he instructs him, the critick who suffers no
fallacy to pass undetected, and the reasoner who condemns the idle to
thought, and the negligent to attention, are generally praised and
feared, reverenced and avoided.

He that would please must rarely aim at such excellence as depresses his
hearers in their own opinion, or debars them from the hope of
contributing reciprocally to the entertainment of the company.
Merriment, extorted by sallies of imagination, sprightliness of remark,
or quickness of reply, is too often what the Latins call, the Sardinian
laughter, a distortion of the face without gladness of heart.

For this reason, no style of conversation is more extensively acceptable
than the narrative. He who has stored his memory with slight anecdotes,
private incidents, and personal peculiarities, seldom fails to find his
audience favourable. Almost every man listens with eagerness to
contemporary history; for almost every man has some real or imaginary
connexion with a celebrated character, some desire to advance or oppose
a rising name. Vanity often co-operates with curiosity. He that is a
hearer in one place, qualifies himself to become a speaker in another;
for though he cannot comprehend a series of argument, or transport the
volatile spirit of wit without evaporation, he yet thinks himself able
to treasure up the various incidents of a story, and please his hopes
with the information which he shall give to some inferior society.

Narratives are for the most part heard without envy, because they are
not supposed to imply any intellectual qualities above the common rate.
To be acquainted with facts not yet echoed by plebeian mouths, may
happen to one man as well as to another; and to relate them when they
are known, has in appearance so little difficulty, that every one
concludes himself equal to the task.

But it is not easy, and in some situations of life not possible, to
accumulate such a stock of materials as may support the expense of
continual narration; and it frequently happens, that they who attempt
this method of ingratiating themselves, please only at the first
interview; and, for want of new supplies of intelligence, wear out their
stories by continual repetition.

There would be, therefore, little hope of obtaining the praise of a good
companion, were it not to be gained by more compendious methods; but
such is the kindness of mankind to all, except those who aspire to real
merit and rational dignity, that every understanding may find some way
to excite benevolence; and whoever is not envied may learn the art of
procuring love. We are willing to be pleased, but are not willing to
admire: we favour the mirth or officiousness that solicits our regard,
but oppose the worth or spirit that enforces it.

The first place among those that please, because they desire only to
please, is due to the _merry fellow_, whose laugh is loud, and whose
voice is strong; who is ready to echo every jest with obstreperous
approbation, and countenance every frolick with vociferations of
applause. It is not necessary to a merry fellow to have in himself any
fund of jocularity, or force of conception; it is sufficient that he
always appears in the highest exaltation of gladness, for the greater
part of mankind are gay or serious by infection, and follow without
resistance the attraction of example.

Next to the merry fellow is the _good-natured man_, a being generally
without benevolence, or any other virtue, than such as indolence and
insensibility confer. The characteristick of a good-natured man is to
bear a joke; to sit unmoved and unaffected amidst noise and turbulence,
profaneness and obscenity; to hear every tale without contradiction; to
endure insult without reply; and to follow the stream of folly, whatever
course it shall happen to take. The good-natured man is commonly the
darling of the petty wits, with whom they exercise themselves in the
rudiments of raillery; for he never takes advantage of failings, nor
disconcerts a puny satirist with unexpected sarcasms; but while the
glass continues to circulate, contentedly bears the expense of an
uninterrupted laughter, and retires rejoicing at his own importance.

The _modest man_ is a companion of a yet lower rank, whose only power of
giving pleasure is not to interrupt it. The modest man satisfies himself
with peaceful silence, which all his companions are candid enough to
consider as proceeding not from inability to speak, but willingness to
hear.

Many, without being able to attain any general character of excellence,
have some single art of entertainment which serves them as a passport
through the world. One I have known for fifteen years the darling of a
weekly club, because every night, precisely at eleven, he begins his
favourite song, and during the vocal performance, by corresponding
motions of his hand, chalks out a giant upon the wall. Another has
endeared himself to a long succession of acquaintances by sitting among
them with his wig reversed; another by contriving to smut the nose of
any stranger who was to be initiated in the club; another by purring
like a cat, and then pretending to be frighted; and another by yelping
like a hound, and calling to the drawers to drive out the dog[k].

Such are the arts by which cheerfulness is promoted, and sometimes
friendship established; arts, which those who despise them should not
rigorously blame, except when they are practised at the expense of
innocence; for it is always necessary to be loved, but not always
necessary to be reverenced.



No. 189. TUESDAY, JANUARY 7, 1752.

  _Quod tam grande Sophos clamat tibi turba togata;
  Non tu, Pomponi; caena diserta tua est_. MART. Lib. vi. Ep. xlviii.

  Resounding plaudits though the crowd have rung;
  Thy treat is eloquent, and not thy tongue. F. LEWIS.

The world scarcely affords opportunities of making any
observation more frequently, than on false claims to commendation.
Almost every man wastes part of his life in attempts to display
qualities which he does not possess, and to gain applause which he
cannot keep; so that scarcely can two persons casually meet, but one is
offended or diverted by the ostentation of the other.

Of these pretenders it is fit to distinguish those who endeavour to
deceive from them who are deceived; those who by designed impostures
promote their interest, or gratify their pride, from them who mean only
to force into regard their latent excellencies and neglected virtues;
who believe themselves qualified to instruct or please, and therefore
invite the notice of mankind.

The artful and fraudulent usurpers of distinction deserve greater
severities than ridicule and contempt, since they are seldom content
with empty praise, but are instigated by passions more pernicious than
vanity. They consider the reputation which they endeavour to establish
as necessary to the accomplishment of some subsequent design, and value
praise only as it may conduce to the success of avarice or ambition.

The commercial world is very frequently put into confusion by the
bankruptcy of merchants, that assumed the splendour of wealth only to
obtain the privilege of trading with the stock of other men, and of
contracting debts which nothing but lucky casualties could enable them
to pay; till after having supported their appearance a while by
tumultuous magnificence of boundless traffick, they sink at once, and
drag down into poverty those whom their equipages had induced to trust
them.

Among wretches that place their happiness in the favour of the great, of
beings whom only high titles or large estates set above themselves,
nothing is more common than to boast of confidence which they do not
enjoy; to sell promises which they know their interest unable to
perform; and to reimburse the tribute which they pay to an imperious
master, from the contributions of meaner dependants, whom they can amuse
with tales of their influence, and hopes of their solicitation.

Even among some, too thoughtless and volatile for avarice or ambition,
may be found a species of falsehood more detestable than the levee or
exchange can shew. There are men that boast of debaucheries, of which
they never had address to be guilty; ruin, by lewd tales, the characters
of women to whom they are scarcely known, or by whom they have been
rejected; destroy in a drunken frolick the happiness of families; blast
the bloom of beauty, and intercept the reward of virtue.

Other artifices of falsehood, though utterly unworthy of an ingenuous
mind, are not yet to be ranked with flagitious enormities, nor is it
necessary to incite sanguinary justice against them, since they may be
adequately punished by detection and laughter. The traveller who
describes cities which he has never seen; the squire, who, at his return
from London, tells of his intimacy with nobles to whom he has only bowed
in the park or coffee-house; the author who entertains his admirers with
stories of the assistance which he gives to wits of a higher rank; the
city dame who talks of her visits at great houses, where she happens to
know the cook-maid, are surely such harmless animals as truth herself
may be content to despise without desiring to hurt them.

But of the multitudes who struggle in vain for distinction, and display
their own merits only to feel more acutely the sting of neglect, a great
part are wholly innocent of deceit, and are betrayed, by infatuation and
credulity, to that scorn with which the universal love of praise incites
us all to drive feeble competitors out of our way.

Few men survey themselves with so much severity, as not to admit
prejudices in their own favour, which an artful flatterer may gradually
strengthen, till wishes for a particular qualification are improved to
hopes of attainment, and hopes of attainment to belief of possession.
Such flatterers every one will find, who has power to reward their
assiduities. Wherever there is wealth there will be dependance and
expectation, and wherever there is dependance, there will be an
emulation of servility.

Many of the follies which provoke general censure, are the effects of
such vanity as, however it might have wantoned in the imagination, would
scarcely have dared the publick eye, had it not been animated and
emboldened by flattery. Whatever difficulty there may be in the
knowledge of ourselves, scarcely any one fails to suspect his own
imperfections, till he is elevated by others to confidence. We are
almost all naturally modest and timorous; but fear and shame are uneasy
sensations, and whosoever helps to remove them is received with
kindness.

Turpicula was the heiress of a large estate, and having lost her mother
in her infancy, was committed to a governess, whom misfortunes had
reduced to suppleness and humility. The fondness of Turpicula's father
would not suffer him to trust her at a publick school, but he hired
domestick teachers, and bestowed on her all the accomplishments that
wealth could purchase. But how many things are necessary to happiness
which money cannot obtain! Thus secluded from all with whom she might
converse on terms of equality, she heard none of those intimations of
her defects, which envy, petulance, or anger, produce among children,
where they are not afraid of telling what they think.

Turpicula saw nothing but obsequiousness, and heard nothing but
commendations. None are so little acquainted with the heart, as not to
know that woman's first wish is to be handsome, and that consequently
the readiest method of obtaining her kindness is to praise her beauty.
Turpicula had a distorted shape and a dark complexion; yet, when the
impudence of adulation had ventured to tell her of the commanding
dignity of her motion, and the soft enchantment of her smile, she was
easily convinced, that she was the delight or torment of every eye, and
that all who gazed upon her felt the fire of envy or love. She therefore
neglected the culture of an understanding which might have supplied the
defects of her form, and applied all her care to the decoration of her
person; for she considered that more could judge of beauty than of wit,
and was, like the rest of human beings, in haste to be admired. The
desire of conquest naturally led her to the lists in which beauty
signalizes her power. She glittered at court, fluttered in the park, and
talked aloud in the front box; but after a thousand experiments of her
charms, was at last convinced that she had been flattered, and that her
glass was honester than her maid.

[Footnote k: Mrs. Piozzi, in her Anecdotes, informs us, that the man who
sung, and, by corresponding motions of his arm, chalked out a giant on
the wall, was one Richardson, an attorney: the ingenious imitator of a
cat, was one Busby, a proctor in the Commons: and the father of Dr.
Salter, of the Charter-House, a friend of Johnson's, and a member of the
Ivy-Lane Club, was the person who yelped like a hound, and perplexed the
distracted waiters.--Mr. Chalmers, in his preface to the Rambler,
observes, that the above-quoted lively writer was the only authority for
these assignments. She is certainly far too hasty and negligent to be
relied on, when unsupported by other testimony.--See Preface.]



No. 190. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 11, 1752.

  _Ploravere suis non respondere favorem
  Speratum meritis_.--HOR. Lib. ii. Ep. i. 9.

  Henry and Alfred--
  Clos'd their long glories with a sigh, to find
  Th' unwilling gratitude of base mankind. POPE.

Among the emirs and visiers, the sons of valour and of wisdom, that
stand at the corners of the Indian throne, to assist the counsels or
conduct the wars of the posterity of Timur, the first place was long
held by Morad the son of Hanuth. Morad, having signalized himself in
many battles and sieges, was rewarded with the government of a province,
from which the fame of his wisdom and moderation was wafted to the
pinnacles of Agra, by the prayers of those whom his administration made
happy. The emperour called him into his presence, and gave into his hand
the keys of riches, and the sabre of command. The voice of Morad was
heard from the cliffs of Taurus to the Indian ocean, every tongue
faultered in his presence, and every eye was cast down before him.

Morad lived many years in prosperity; every day increased his wealth,
and extended his influence. The sages repeated his maxims, the captains
of thousands waited his commands. Competition withdrew into the cavern
of envy, and discontent trembled at his own murmurs. But human greatness
is short and transitory, as the odour of incense in the fire. The sun
grew weary of gilding the palaces of Morad, the clouds of sorrow
gathered round his head, and the tempest of hatred roared about his
dwelling.

Morad saw ruin hastily approaching. The first that forsook him were his
poets; their example was followed by all those whom he had rewarded for
contributing to his pleasures, and only a few, whose virtue had entitled
them to favour, were now to be seen in his hall or chambers. He felt his
danger, and prostrated himself at the foot of the throne. His accusers
were confident and loud, his friends stood contented with frigid
neutrality, and the voice of truth was overborne by clamour. He was
divested of his power, deprived of his acquisitions, and condemned to
pass the rest of his life on his hereditary estate.

Morad had been so long-accustomed to crowds and business, supplicants
and flattery, that he knew not how to fill up his hours in solitude; he
saw with regret the sun rise to force on his eye a new day for which he
had no use; and envied the savage that wanders in the desert, because he
has no time vacant from the calls of nature, but is always chasing his
prey, or sleeping in his den.

His discontent in time vitiated his constitution, and a slow disease
seized upon him. He refused physick, neglected exercise, and lay down on
his couch peevish and restless, rather afraid to die than desirous to
live. His domesticks, for a time, redoubled their assiduities; but
finding that no officiousness could soothe, nor exactness satisfy, they
soon gave way to negligence and sloth; and he that once commanded
nations, often languished in his chamber without an attendant.

In this melancholy state, he commanded messengers to recall his eldest
son Abouzaid from the army. Abouzaid was alarmed at the account of his
father's sickness, and hasted by long journeys to his place of
residence. Morad was yet living, and felt his strength return at the
embraces of his son; then commanding him to sit down at his bedside,
"Abouzaid," says he, "thy father has no more to hope or fear from the
inhabitants of the earth; the cold hand of the angel of death is now
upon him, and the voracious grave is howling for his prey. Hear,
therefore, the precepts of ancient experience, let not my last
instructions issue forth in vain. Thou hast seen me happy and
calamitous, thou hast beheld my exaltation and my fall. My power is in
the hands of my enemies, my treasures have rewarded my accusers; but my
inheritance, the clemency of the emperour has spared, and my wisdom his
anger could not take away. Cast thine eyes around thee; whatever thou
beholdest will, in a few hours, be thine: apply thine ear to my
dictates, and these possessions will promote thy happiness. Aspire not
to public honours, enter not the palaces of kings; thy wealth will set
thee above insult, let thy moderation keep thee below envy. Content
thyself with private dignity, diffuse thy riches among thy friends, let
every day extend thy beneficence, and suffer not thy heart to be at rest
till thou art loved by all to whom thou art known. In the height of my
power, I said to defamation, Who will hear thee? and to artifice, What
canst thou perform? But, my son, despise not thou the malice of the
weakest, remember that venom supplies the want of strength, and that the
lion may perish by the puncture of an asp."

Morad expired in a few hours. Abouzaid, after the months of mourning,
determined to regulate his conduct by his father's precepts, and
cultivate the love of mankind by every art of kindness and endearment.
He wisely considered, that domestick happiness was first to be secured,
and that none have so much power of doing good or hurt, as those who are
present in the hour of negligence, hear the bursts of thoughtless
merriment, and observe the starts of unguarded passion. He therefore
augmented the pay of all his attendants, and requited every exertion of
uncommon diligence by supernumerary gratuities. While he congratulated
himself upon the fidelity and affection of his family, he was in the
night alarmed with robbers, who, being pursued and taken, declared that
they had been admitted by one of his servants; the servant immediately
confessed, that he unbarred the door, because another not more worthy of
confidence was entrusted with the keys.

Abouzaid was thus convinced that a dependant could not easily be made a
friend; and that while many were soliciting for the first rank of
favour, all those would be alienated whom he disappointed. He therefore
resolved to associate with a few equal companions selected from among
the chief men of the province. With these he lived happily for a time,
till familiarity set them free from restraint, and every man thought
himself at liberty to indulge his own caprice, and advance his own
opinions. They then disturbed each other with contrariety of
inclinations, and difference of sentiments, and Abouzaid was
necessitated to offend one party by concurrence, or both by
indifference.

He afterwards determined to avoid a close union with beings so
discordant in their nature, and to diffuse himself in a larger circle.
He practised the smile of universal courtesy, and invited all to his
table, but admitted none to his retirements. Many who had been rejected
in his choice of friendship, now refused to accept his acquaintance; and
of those whom plenty and magnificence drew to his table, every one
pressed forward toward intimacy, thought himself overlooked in the
crowd, and murmured because he was not distinguished above the rest. By
degrees all made advances, and all resented repulse. The table was then
covered with delicacies in vain; the musick sounded in empty rooms; and
Abouzaid was left to form in solitude some new scheme of pleasure or
security.

Resolving now to try the force of gratitude, he inquired for men of
science, whose merit was obscured by poverty. His house was soon crowded
with poets, sculptors, painters, and designers, who wantoned in
unexperienced plenty, and employed their powers in celebration of their
patron. But in a short time they forgot the distress from which they had
been rescued, and began to consider their deliverer as a wretch of
narrow capacity, who was growing great by works which he could not
perform, and whom they overpaid by condescending to accept his bounties.
Abouzaid heard their murmurs and dismissed them, and from that hour
continued blind to colours, and deaf to panegyrick.

As the sons of art departed, muttering threats of perpetual infamy,
Abouzaid, who stood at the gate, called to him Hamet the poet. "Hamet,"
said he, "thy ingratitude has put an end to my hopes and experiments: I
have now learned the vanity of those labours that wish to be rewarded by
human benevolence; I shall henceforth do good, and avoid evil, without
respect to the opinion of men; and resolve to solicit only the
approbation of that Being whom alone we are sure to please by
endeavouring to please him."



No. 191. TUESDAY, JANUARY 14, 1752.

  _Cereus in vitium flecli, monitoribus asper_. HOR. Art. Poet. 163.

  The youth--
  Yielding like wax, th' impressive folly bears;
  Rough to reproof, and slow to future cares. FRANCIS.

TO THE RAMBLER.

DEAR MR. RAMBLER,

I have been four days confined to my chamber by a cold, which has
already kept me from three plays, nine sales, five shows, and six
card-tables, and put me seventeen visits behind-hand; and the doctor
tells my mamma, that, if I fret and cry, it will settle in my head,
and I shall not be fit to be seen these six weeks. But, dear Mr. Rambler,
how can I help it? At this very time Melissa is dancing with the
prettiest gentleman;--she will breakfast with him to-morrow, and then run
to two auctions, and hear compliments, and have presents; then she will
be drest, and visit, and get a ticket to the play; then go to cards and
win, and come home with two flambeaux before her chair. Dear Mr.
Rambler, who can bear it?

My aunt has just brought me a bundle of your papers for my amusement.
She says you are a philosopher, and will teach me to moderate my
desires, and look upon the world with indifference. But, dear sir, I do
not wish nor intend to moderate my desires, nor can I think it proper to
look upon the world with indifference, till the world looks with
indifference on me. I have been forced, however, to sit this morning a
whole quarter of an hour with your paper before my face; but just as my
aunt came in, Phyllida had brought me a letter from Mr. Trip, which I
put within the leaves; and read about _absence_ and _inconsolableness_,
and _ardour_, and _irresistible passion_, and _eternal constancy_, while
my aunt imagined that I was puzzling myself with your philosophy, and
often cried out when she saw me look confused, "If there is any word
that you do not understand, child, I will explain it."

Dear soul! how old people that think themselves wise may be imposed
upon! But it is fit that they should take their turn, for I am sure,
while they can keep poor girls close in the nursery, they tyrannize over
us in a very shameful manner, and fill our imaginations with tales of
terrour, only to make us live in quiet subjection, and fancy that we can
never be safe but by their protection.

I have a mamma and two aunts, who have all been formerly celebrated for
wit and beauty, and are still generally admired by those that value
themselves upon their understanding, and love to talk of vice and
virtue, nature and simplicity, and beauty and propriety; but if there
was not some hope of meeting me, scarcely a creature would come near
them that wears a fashionable coat. These ladies, Mr. Rambler, have had
me under their government fifteen years and a half, and have all that
time been endeavouring to deceive me by such representations of life as
I now find not to be true; but I know not whether I ought to impute them
to ignorance or malice, as it is possible the world may be much changed
since they mingled in general conversation.

Being desirous that I should love books, they told me, that nothing but
knowledge could make me an agreeable companion to men of sense, or
qualify me to distinguish the superficial glitter of vanity from the
solid merit of understanding; and that a habit of reading would enable
me to fill up the vacuities of life without the help of silly or
dangerous amusements, and preserve me from the snares of idleness and
the inroads of temptation.

But their principal intention was to make me afraid of men; in which
they succeeded so well for a time, that I durst not look in their faces,
or be left alone with them in a parlour; for they made me fancy, that no
man ever spoke but to deceive, or looked but to allure; that the girl
who suffered him that had once squeezed her hand, to approach her a
second time, was on the brink of ruin; and that she who answered a
billet, without consulting her relations, gave love such power over her,
that she would certainly become either poor or infamous.

From the time that my leading-strings were taken off, I scarce heard any
mention of my beauty but from the milliner, the mantua-maker, and my own
maid; for my mamma never said more, when she heard me commended, but
"the girl is very well," and then endeavoured to divert my attention by
some inquiry after my needle, or my book.

It is now three months since I have been suffered to pay and receive
visits, to dance at publick assemblies, to have a place kept for me in
the boxes, and to play at lady Racket's rout; and you may easily imagine
what I think of those who have so long cheated me with false
expectations, disturbed me with fictitious terrours, and concealed from
me all that I have found to make the happiness of woman.

I am so far from perceiving the usefulness or necessity of books, that
if I had not dropped all pretensions to learning, I should have lost Mr.
Trip, whom I once frighted into another box, by retailing some of
Dryden's remarks upon a tragedy; for Mr. Trip declares, that he hates
nothing like hard words, and I am sure, there is not a better partner to
be found; his very walk is a dance. I have talked once or twice among
ladies about principles and ideas, but they put their fans before their
faces, and told me I was too wise for them, who for their part never
pretended to read any thing but the play-bill, and then asked me the
price of my best head.

Those vacancies of time which are to be filled up with books I have
never vet obtained; for, consider, Mr. Rambler, I go to bed late, and
therefore cannot rise early; as soon as I am up, I dress for the
gardens; then walk in the park; then always go to some sale or show, or
entertainment at the little theatre; then must be dressed for dinner;
then must pay my visits; then walk in the park; then hurry to the play;
and from thence to the card-table. This is the general course of the
day, when there happens nothing extraordinary; but sometimes I ramble
into the country, and come back again to a ball; sometimes I am engaged
for a whole day and part of the night. If, at any time, I can gain an
hour by not being at home, I have so many things to do, so many orders
to give to the milliner, so many alterations to make in my clothes, so
many visitants' names to read over, so many invitations to accept or
refuse, so many cards to write, and so many fashions to consider, that I
am lost in confusion, forced at last to let in company or step into my
chair, and leave half my affairs to the direction of my maid.

This is the round of my day; and when shall I either stop my course, or
so change it as to want a book? I suppose it cannot be imagined, that
any of these diversions will soon be at an end. There will always be
gardens, and a park, and auctions, and shows, and playhouses, and cards;
visits will always be paid, and clothes always be worn; and how can I
have time unemployed upon my hands?

But I am most at a loss to guess for what purpose they related such
tragick stories of the cruelty, perfidy, and artifices of men, who, if
they ever were so malicious and destructive, have certainly now reformed
their manners. I have not, since my entrance into the world, found one
who does not profess himself devoted to my service, and ready to live or
die as I shall command him. They are so far from intending to hurt me,
that their only contention is, who shall be allowed most closely to
attend, and most frequently to treat me; when different places of
entertainment, or schemes of pleasure are mentioned, I can see the eye
sparkle and the cheeks glow of him whose proposals obtain my
approbation; he then leads me off in triumph, adores my condescension,
and congratulates himself that he has lived to the hour of felicity. Are
these, Mr. Rambler, creatures to be feared? Is it likely that an injury
will be done me by those who can enjoy life only while I favour them
with my presence?

As little reason can I yet find to suspect them of stratagems and fraud.
When I play at cards, they never take advantage of my mistakes, nor
exact from me a rigorous observation of the game. Even Mr. Shuffle, a
grave gentleman, who has daughters older than myself, plays with me so
negligently, that I am sometimes inclined to believe he loses his money
by design, and yet he is so fond of play, that he says, he will one day
take me to his house in the country, that we may try by ourselves who
can conquer. I have not yet promised him; but when the town grows a
little empty, I shall think upon it, for I want some trinkets, like
Letitia's, to my watch. I do not doubt my luck, but must study some
means of amusing my relations.

For all these distinctions I find myself indebted to that beauty which I
was never suffered to hear praised, and of which, therefore, I did not
before know the full value. The concealment was certainly an intentional
fraud, for my aunts have eyes like other people, and I am every day
told, that nothing but blindness can escape the influence of my charms.
Their whole account of that world which they pretend to know so well,
has been only one fiction entangled with another; and though the modes
of life oblige me to continue some appearances of respect, I cannot
think that they, who have been so clearly detected in ignorance or
imposture, have any right to the esteem, veneration, or obedience of,

Sir, Yours,
BELLARIA.



No. 192. SATURDAY, JANUARY 18, 1752.

  [Greek:
  Genos ouden eis Erota;
  Sophiae, tropos pateitai;
  Monon arguron blepousin.
  Apoloito protos autos
  Ho ton arguron philaesas.
  Dia touton ou tokaees,
  Dai touton ou tokaees;
  Polemoi, phonoi di auton.
  To de cheiron, ollymestha
  Dia touton oi philountes.] ANACREON. [Greek: ODLI Ms.] 5.

  Vain the noblest birth would prove,
  Nor worth or wit avail in love;
  'Tis gold alone succeeds--by gold
  The venal sex is bought and sold.
  Accurs'd be he who first of yore
  Discover'd the pernicious ore!
  This sets a brother's heart on fire,
  And arms the son against the sire;
  And what, alas! is worse than all,
  To this the lover owes his fall. F. LEWIS.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

I am the son of a gentleman, whose ancestors, for many ages, held the
first rank in the country; till at last one of them, too desirous of
popularity, set his house open, kept a table covered with continual
profusion, and distributed his beef and ale to such as chose rather to
live upon the folly of others, than their own labour, with such
thoughtless liberality, that he left a third part of his estate
mortgaged. His successor, a man of spirit, scorned to impair his dignity
by parsimonious retrenchments, or to admit, by a sale of his lands, any
participation of the rights of his manour; he therefore made another
mortgage to pay the interest of the former, and pleased himself with the
reflection, that his son would have the hereditary estate without the
diminution of an acre.

Nearly resembling this was the practice of my wise progenitors for many
ages. Every man boasted the antiquity of her family, resolved to support
the dignity of his birth, and lived in splendour and plenty at the
expense of his heir, who, sometimes by a wealthy marriage, and sometimes
by lucky legacies, discharged part of the incumbrances, and thought
himself entitled to contract new debts, and to leave to his children the
same inheritance of embarrassment and distress.

Thus the estate perpetually decayed; the woods were felled by one, the
park ploughed by another, the fishery let to farmers by a third; at last
the old hall was pulled down to spare the cost of reparation, and part
of the materials sold to build a small house with the rest. We were now
openly degraded from our original rank, and my father's brother was
allowed with less reluctance to serve an apprenticeship, though we never
reconciled ourselves heartily to the sound of haberdasher, but always
talked of warehouses and a merchant, and when the wind happened to blow
loud, affected to pity the hazards of commerce, and to sympathize with
the solicitude of my poor uncle, who had the true retailer's terrour of
adventure, and never exposed himself or his property to any wider water
than the Thames.

In time, however, by continual profit and small expenses, he grew rich,
and began to turn his thoughts towards rank. He hung the arms of the
family over his parlour-chimney; pointed at a chariot decorated only
with a cypher; became of opinion that money could not make a gentleman;
resented the petulance of upstarts; told stories of alderman Puff's
grandfather the porter; wondered that there was no better method for
regulating precedence; wished for some dress peculiar to men of fashion;
and when his servant presented a letter, always inquired whether it came
from his brother the esquire.

My father was careful to send him game by every carrier, which, though
the conveyance often cost more than the value, was well received,
because it gave him an opportunity of calling his friends together,
describing the beauty of his brother's seat, and lamenting his own
folly, whom no remonstrances could withhold from polluting his fingers
with a shop-book.

The little presents which we sent were always returned with great
munificence. He was desirous of being the second founder of his family,
and could not bear that we should be any longer outshone by those whom
we considered as climbers upon our ruins, and usurpers of our fortune.
He furnished our house with all the elegance of fashionable expense, and
was careful to conceal his bounties, lest the poverty of his family
should be suspected.

At length it happened that, by misconduct like our own, a large estate,
which had been purchased from us, was again exposed to the best bidder.
My uncle, delighted with an opportunity of reinstating the family in
their possessions, came down with treasures scarcely to be imagined in a
place where commerce has not made large sums familiar, and at once drove
all the competitors away, expedited the writings, and took possession.
He now considered himself as superior to trade, disposed of his stock,
and as soon as he had settled his economy, began to shew his rural
sovereignty, by breaking the hedges of his tenants in hunting, and
seizing the guns or nets of those whose fortunes did not qualify them
for sportsmen. He soon afterwards solicited the office of sheriff, from
which all his neighbours were glad to be reprieved, but which he
regarded as a resumption of ancestral claims, and a kind of restoration
to blood after the attainder of a trade.

My uncle, whose mind was so filled with this change of his condition,
that he found no want of domestick entertainment, declared himself too
old to marry, and resolved to let the newly-purchased estate fall into
the regular channel of inheritance. I was therefore considered as heir
apparent, and courted with officiousness and caresses, by the gentlemen
who had hitherto coldly allowed me that rank which they could not
refuse, depressed me with studied neglect, and irritated me with
ambiguous insults.

I felt not much pleasure from the civilities for which I knew myself
indebted to my uncle's industry, till, by one of the invitations which
every day now brought me, I was induced to spend a week with Lucius,
whose daughter Flavilla I had often seen and admired like others,
without any thought of nearer approaches. The inequality which had
hitherto kept me at a distance being now levelled, I was received with
every evidence of respect: Lucius told me the fortune which he intended
for his favourite daughter; many odd accidents obliged us to be often
together without company, and I soon began to find that they were
spreading for me the nets of matrimony.

Flavilla was all softness and complaisance. I, who had been excluded by
a narrow fortune from much acquaintance with the world, and never been
honoured before with the notice of so fine a lady, was easily enamoured.
Lucius either perceived my passion, or Flavilla betrayed it; care was
taken, that our private meetings should be less frequent, and my charmer
confessed by her eyes how much pain she suffered from our restraint. I
renewed my visit upon every pretence, but was not allowed one interview
without witness; at last I declared my passion to Lucius, who received
me as a lover worthy of his daughter, and told me that nothing was
wanting to his consent, but that my uncle should settle his estate upon
me. I objected the indecency of encroaching on his life, and the danger
of provoking him by such an unseasonable demand. Lucius seemed not to
think decency of much importance, but admitted the danger of
displeasing, and concluded that as he was now old and sickly, we might,
without any inconvenience, wait for his death.

With this resolution I was better contented, as it procured me the
company of Flavilla, in which the days passed away amidst continual
rapture; but in time I began to be ashamed of sitting idle, in
expectation of growing rich by the death of my benefactor, and proposed
to Lucius many schemes of raising my own fortune by such assistance as I
knew my uncle willing to give me. Lucius, afraid lest I should change my
affection in absence, diverted me from my design by dissuasives to which
my passion easily listened. At last my uncle died, and considering
himself as neglected by me, from the time that Flavilla took possession
of my heart, left his estate to my younger brother, who was always
hovering about his bed, and relating stories of my pranks and
extravagance, my contempt of the commercial dialect, and my impatience
to be selling stock.

My condition was soon known, and I was no longer admitted by the father
of Flavilla. I repeated the protestations of regard, which had been
formerly returned with so much ardour, in a letter which she received
privately, but returned by her father's footman. Contempt has driven out
my love, and I am content to have purchased, by the loss of fortune, an
escape from a harpy, who has joined the artifices of age to the
allurements of youth. I am now going to pursue my former projects with a
legacy which my uncle bequeathed me, and if I succeed, shall expect to
hear of the repentance of Flavilla.

I am, Sir, Yours, &c.

CONSTANTIUS.



No. 193. TUESDAY, JANUARY 21, 1752.

  _Laudis amore tumes? sunt certa piacula, quoe te
  Ter pure lecto poterunt recreare libello_. HOR. Lib. i. Ep. i. 36.

  Or art thou vain? books yield a certain spell
  To stop thy tumour; you shall cease to swell
  When you have read them thrice, and studied well. CREECH.

Whatever is universally desired, will be sought by industry and
artifice, by merit and crimes, by means good and bad, rational and
absurd, according to the prevalence of virtue or vice, of wisdom or
folly. Some will always mistake the degree of their own desert, and some
will desire that others may mistake it. The cunning will have recourse
to stratagem, and the powerful to violence, for the attainment of their
wishes; some will stoop to theft, and others venture upon plunder.

Praise is so pleasing to the mind of man, that it is the original motive
of almost all our actions. The desire of commendation, as of every thing
else, is varied indeed by innumerable differences of temper, capacity,
and knowledge; some have no higher wish than for the applause of a club;
some expect the acclamations of a county; and some have hoped to fill
the mouths of all ages and nations with their names. Every man pants for
the highest eminence within his view; none, however mean, ever sinks
below the hope of being distinguished by his fellow-beings, and very few
have by magnanimity or piety been so raised above it, as to act wholly
without regard to censure or opinion.

To be praised, therefore, every man resolves; but resolutions will not
execute themselves. That which all think too parsimoniously distributed
to their own claims, they will not gratuitously squander upon others,
and some expedient must be tried, by which praise may be gained before
it can be enjoyed.

Among the innumerable bidders for praise, some are willing to purchase
at the highest rate, and offer ease and health, fortune and life. Yet
even of these only a small part have gained what they so earnestly
desired; the student wastes away in meditation, and the soldier perishes
on the ramparts, but unless some accidental advantage cooperates with
merit, neither perseverance nor adventure attracts attention, and
learning and bravery sink into the grave, without honour or remembrance.

But ambition and vanity generally expect to be gratified on easier
terms. It has been long observed, that what is procured by skill or
labour to the first possessor, may be afterwards transferred for money;
and that the man of wealth may partake all the acquisitions of courage
without hazard, and all the products of industry without fatigue. It was
easily discovered, that riches would obtain praise among other
conveniencies, and that he whose pride was unluckily associated with
laziness, ignorance, or cowardice, needed only to pay the hire of a
panegyrist, and he might be regaled with periodical eulogies; might
determine, at leisure, what virtue or science he would be pleased to
appropriate, and be lulled in the evening with soothing serenades, or
waked in the morning by sprightly gratulations.

The happiness which mortals receive from the celebration of beneficence
which never relieved, eloquence which never persuaded, or elegance which
never pleased, ought not to be envied or disturbed, when they are known
honestly to pay for their entertainment. But there are unmerciful
exactors of adulation, who withhold the wages of venality; retain their
encomiast from year to year by general promises and ambiguous
blandishments; and when he has run through the whole compass of
flattery, dismiss him with contempt, because his vein of fiction is
exhausted.

A continual feast of commendation is only to be obtained by merit or by
wealth; many are therefore obliged to content themselves with single
morsels, and recompense the infrequency of their enjoyment by excess and
riot, whenever fortune sets the banquet before them. Hunger is never
delicate; they who are seldom gorged to the full with praise, may be
safely fed with gross compliments; for the appetite must be satisfied
before it is disgusted.

It is easy to find the moment at which vanity is eager for sustenance,
and all that impudence or servility can offer will be well received.
When any one complains of the want of what he is known to possess in an
uncommon degree, he certainly waits with impatience to be contradicted.
When the trader pretends anxiety about the payment of his bills, or the
beauty remarks how frightfully she looks, then is the lucky moment to
talk of riches or of charms, of the death of lovers, or the honour of a
merchant.

Others there are yet more open and artless, who, instead of suborning a
flatterer, are content to supply his place, and, as some animals
impregnate themselves, swell with the praises which they hear from their
own tongues. _Recte is dicitur laudare sese, cui nemo alius contigit
laudator_. "It is right," says Erasmus, "that he, whom no one else will
commend, should bestow commendations on himself." Of all the sons of
vanity, these are surely the happiest and greatest; for what is
greatness or happiness but independence on external influences,
exemption from hope or fear, and the power of supplying every want from
the common stores of nature, which can neither be exhausted nor
prohibited? Such is the wise man of the stoicks; such is the divinity of
the epicureans; and such is the flatterer of himself. Every other
enjoyment malice may destroy; every other panegyrick envy may withhold;
but no human power can deprive the boaster of his own encomiums. Infamy
may hiss, or contempt may growl, the hirelings of the great may follow
fortune, and the votaries of truth may attend on virtue; but his
pleasures still remain the same; he can always listen with rapture to
himself, and leave those who dare not repose upon their own attestation,
to be elated or depressed by chance, and toil on in the hopeless task of
fixing caprice, and propitiating malice.

This art of happiness has been long practised by periodical writers,
with little apparent violation of decency. When we think our
excellencies overlooked by the world, or desire to recall the attention
of the publick to some particular performance, we sit down with great
composure and write a letter to ourselves. The correspondent, whose
character we assume, always addresses us with the deference due to a
superior intelligence; proposes his doubts with a proper sense of his
own inability; offers an objection with trembling diffidence; and at
last has no other pretensions to our notice than his profundity of
respect, and sincerity of admiration, his submission to our dictates,
and zeal for our success. To such a reader, it is impossible to refuse
regard, nor can it easily be imagined with how much alacrity we snatch
up the pen which indignation or despair had condemned to inactivity,
when we find such candour and judgment yet remaining in the world.

A letter of this kind I had lately the honour of perusing, in which,
though some of the periods were negligently closed, and some expressions
of familiarity were used, which I thought might teach others to address
me with too little reverence, I was so much delighted with the passages
in which mention was made of universal learning--unbounded genius--soul
of Homer, Pythagoras, and Plato--solidity of thought--accuracy of
distinction--elegance of combination--vigour of fancy--strength of
reason--and regularity of composition--that I had once determined to lay
it before the publick. Three times I sent it to the printer, and three
times I fetched it back. My modesty was on the point of yielding, when
reflecting that I was about to waste panegyricks on myself, which might
be more profitably reserved for my patron, I locked it up for a better
hour, in compliance with the farmer's principle, who never eats at home
what he can carry to the market.



No. 194. SATURDAY, JANUARY 25, 1752.

  _Si damnosa senem juvat alea, ludit et heres
  Bullatus, parvoque eadem movet arma fritillo_. JUV. Sat. xiv. 4.

  If gaming does an aged sire entice,
  Then my young master swiftly learns the vice,
  And shakes in hanging sleeves the little box and dice. J. DRYDEN, jun.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

That vanity which keeps every man important in his own eyes, inclines me
to believe that neither you nor your readers have yet forgotten the name
of Eumathes, who sent you a few months ago an account of his arrival at
London, with a young nobleman his pupil. I shall therefore continue my
narrative without preface or recapitulation.

My pupil, in a very short time, by his mother's countenance and
direction, accomplished himself with all those qualifications which
constitute puerile politeness. He became in a few days a perfect master
of his hat, which with a careless nicety he could put off or on, without
any need to adjust it by a second motion. This was not attained but by
frequent consultations with his dancing-master, and constant practice
before the glass, for he had some rustick habits to overcome; but, what
will not time and industry perform? A fortnight more furnished him with
all the airs and forms of familiar and respectful salutation, from the
clap on the shoulder to the humble bow; he practises the stare of
strangeness, and the smile of condescension, the solemnity of promise,
and the graciousness of encouragement, as if he had been nursed at a
levee; and pronounces, with no less propriety than his father, the
monosyllables of coldness, and sonorous periods of respectful
profession.

He immediately lost the reserve and timidity which solitude and study
are apt to impress upon the most courtly genius; was able to enter a
crowded room with airy civility; to meet the glances of a hundred eyes
without perturbation; and address those whom he never saw before with
ease and confidence. In less than a month his mother declared her
satisfaction at his proficiency by a triumphant observation, that she
believed _nothing would make him blush_.

The silence with which I was contented to hear my pupil's praises, gave
the lady reason to suspect me not much delighted with his acquisitions;
but she attributed my discontent to the diminution of my influence, and
my fears of losing the patronage of the family; and though she thinks
favourably of my learning and morals, she considers me as wholly
unacquainted with the customs of the polite part of mankind; and
therefore not qualified to form the manners of a young nobleman, or
communicate the knowledge of the world. This knowledge she comprises in
the rules of visiting, the history of the present hour, an early
intelligence of the change of fashions, an extensive acquaintance with
the names and faces of persons of rank, and a frequent appearance in
places of resort.

All this my pupil pursues with great application. He is twice a day in
the Mall, where he studies the dress of every man splendid enough to
attract his notice, and never comes home without some observation upon
sleeves, button-holes, and embroidery. At his return from the theatre,
he can give an account of the gallantries, glances, whispers, smiles,
sighs, flirts, and blushes of every box, so much to his mother's
satisfaction, that when I attempted to resume my character, by inquiring
his opinion of the sentiments and diction of the tragedy, she at once
repressed my criticism, by telling me, "that she hoped he did not go to
lose his time in attending to the creatures on the stage."

But his acuteness was most eminently signalized at the masquerade, where
he discovered his acquaintance through their disguises, with such
wonderful facility, as has afforded the family an inexhaustible topick
of conversation. Every new visitor is informed how one was detected by
his gait, and another by the swinging of his arms, a third by the toss
of his head, and another by his favourite phrase; nor can you doubt but
these performances receive their just applause, and a genius thus
hastening to maturity is promoted by every art of cultivation.

Such have been his endeavours, and such his assistances, that every
trace of literature was soon obliterated. He has changed his language
with his dress, and instead of endeavouring at purity or propriety, has
no other care than to catch the reigning phrase and current exclamation,
till, by copying whatever is peculiar in the talk of all those whose
birth or fortune entitles them to imitation, he has collected every
fashionable barbarism of the present winter, and speaks a dialect not to
be understood among those who form their style by poring upon authors.

To this copiousness of ideas, and felicity of language, he has joined
such eagerness to lead the conversation, that he is celebrated among the
ladies as the prettiest gentleman that the age can boast of, except that
some who love to talk themselves, think him too forward, and others
lament that, with so much wit and knowledge, he is not taller.

His mother listens to his observations with her eyes sparkling and her
heart beating, and can scarcely contain, in the most numerous
assemblies, the expectations which she has formed for his future
eminence. Women, by whatever fate, always judge absurdly of the
intellects of boys. The vivacity and confidence which attract female
admiration, are seldom produced in the early part of life, but by
ignorance at least, if not by stupidity; for they proceed not from
confidence of right, but fearlessness of wrong. Whoever has a clear
apprehension, must have quick sensibility, and where he has no
sufficient reason to trust his own judgment, will proceed with doubt and
caution, because he perpetually dreads the disgrace of errour. The pain
of miscarriage is naturally proportionate to the desire of excellence;
and, therefore, till men are hardened by long familiarity with reproach,
or have attained, by frequent struggles, the art of suppressing their
emotions, diffidence is found the inseparable associate of
understanding.

But so little distrust has my pupil of his own abilities, that he has
for some time professed himself a wit, and tortures his imagination on
all occasions for burlesque and jocularity. How he supports a character
which, perhaps, no man ever assumed without repentance, may be easily
conjectured. Wit, you know, is the unexpected copulation of ideas, the
discovery of some occult relation between images in appearance remote
from each other; an effusion of wit, therefore, presupposes an
accumulation of knowledge; a memory stored with notions, which the
imagination may cull out to compose, new assemblages. Whatever may be
the native vigour of the mind, she can never form many combinations from
few ideas, as many changes can never be rung upon a few bells. Accident
may indeed sometimes produce a lucky parallel or a striking contrast;
but these gifts of chance are not frequent, and he that has nothing of
his own, and yet condemns himself to needless expenses, must live upon
loans or theft.

The indulgence which his youth has hitherto obtained, and the respect
which his rank secures, have hitherto supplied the want of intellectual
qualifications; and he imagines that all admire who applaud, and that
all who laugh are pleased. He therefore returns every day to the charge
with increase of courage, though not of strength, and practises all the
tricks by which wit is counterfeited. He lays trains for a quibble; he
contrives blunders for his footman; he adapts old stories to present
characters; he mistakes the question, that he may return a smart answer;
he anticipates the argument, that he may plausibly object; when he has
nothing to reply, he repeats the last words of his antagonist, then
says, "your humble servant," and concludes with a laugh of triumph.

These mistakes I have honestly attempted to correct; but what can be
expected from reason unsupported by fashion, splendour, or authority? He
hears me, indeed, or appears to hear me, but is soon rescued from the
lecture by more pleasing avocations; and shows, diversions, and
caresses, drive my precepts from his remembrance.

He at last imagines himself qualified to enter the world, and has met
with adventures in his first sally, which I shall, by your paper,
communicate to the publick.

I am, &c.

EUMATHES.



No. 195. TUESDAY, JANUARY 28, 1752.

           --_Nescit equo rudis
  Haerere ingenuus puer,
    Venarique timet; ludere doctior,
  Seu Graeco jubeas trocho,
    Seu malis vetitâ legibus aleâ_. HOR. Lib. iii. Ode xxiv. 54.

    Nor knows our youth, of noblest race,
  To mount the manag'd steed, or urge the chace;
    More skill'd in the mean arts of vice,
  The whirling troque, or law-forbidden dice. FRANCIS.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Favours of every kind are doubled when they are speedily conferred. This
is particularly true of the gratification of curiosity. He that long
delays a story, and suffers his auditor to torment himself with
expectation, will seldom be able to recompense the uneasiness, or equal
the hope which he suffers to be raised.

For this reason, I have already sent you the continuation of my pupil's
history, which, though it contains no events very uncommon, may be of
use to young men who are in too much haste to trust their own prudence,
and quit the wing of protection before they are able to shift for
themselves.

When he first settled in London, he was so much bewildered in the
enormous extent of the town, so confounded by incessant noise, and
crowds, and hurry, and so terrified by rural narratives of the arts of
sharpers, the rudeness of the populace, malignity of porters, and
treachery of coachmen, that he was afraid to go beyond the door without
an attendant, and imagined his life in danger if he was obliged to pass
the streets at night in any vehicle but his mother's chair.

He was therefore contented, for a time, that I should accompany him in
all his excursions. But his fear abated as he grew more familiar with
its objects; and the contempt to which his rusticity exposed him from
such of his companions as had accidentally known the town longer,
obliged him to dissemble his remaining terrours.

His desire of liberty made him now willing to spare me the trouble of
observing his motions; but knowing how much his ignorance exposed him to
mischief, I thought it cruel to abandon him to the fortune of the town.
We went together every day to a coffee-house, where he met wits, heirs,
and fops, airy, ignorant, and thoughtless as himself, with whom he had
become acquainted at card-tables, and whom he considered as the only
beings to be envied or admired. What were their topicks of conversation,
I could never discover; for, so much was their vivacity repressed by my
intrusive seriousness, that they seldom proceeded beyond the exchange of
nods and shrugs, an arch grin, or a broken hint, except when they could
retire, while I was looking on the papers, to a corner of the room,
where they seemed to disburden their imaginations, and commonly vented
the superfluity of their sprightliness in a peal of laughter. When they
had tittered themselves into negligence, I could sometimes overhear a
few syllables, such as--solemn rascal--academical airs--smoke the tutor--
company for gentlemen!--and other broken phrases, by which I did not
suffer my quiet to be disturbed, for they never proceeded to avowed
indignities, but contented themselves to murmur in secret, and, whenever
I turned my eye upon them, shrunk into stillness.

He was, however, desirous of withdrawing from the subjection which he
could not venture to break, and made a secret appointment to assist his
companions in the persecution of a play. His footman privately procured
him a catcall, on which he practised in a back-garret for two hours in
the afternoon. At the proper time a chair was called; he pretended an
engagement at lady Flutter's, and hastened to the place where his
critical associates had assembled. They hurried away to the theatre,
full of malignity and denunciations against a man whose name they had
never heard, and a performance which they could not understand; for they
were resolved to judge for themselves, and would not suffer the town to
be imposed upon by scribblers. In the pit, they exerted themselves with
great spirit and vivacity; called out for the tunes of obscene songs,
talked loudly at intervals of Shakespeare and Jonson, played on their
catcalls a short prelude of terrour, clamoured vehemently for a
prologue, and clapped with great dexterity at the first entrance of the
players.

Two scenes they heard without attempting interruption; but, being no
longer able to restrain their impatience, they then began to exert
themselves in groans and hisses, and plied their catcalls with incessant
diligence; so that they were soon considered by the audience as
disturbers of the house; and some who sat near them, either provoked at
the obstruction of their entertainment, or desirous to preserve the
author from the mortification of seeing his hopes destroyed by children,
snatched away their instruments of criticism, and, by the seasonable
vibration of a stick, subdued them instantaneously to decency and
silence.

To exhilarate themselves after this vexatious defeat, they posted to a
tavern, where they recovered their alacrity, and, after two hours of
obstreperous jollity, burst out big with enterprize, and panting for
some occasion to signalize their prowess. They proceeded vigorously
through two streets, and with very little opposition dispersed a rabble
of drunkards less daring than themselves, then rolled two watchmen in
the kennel, and broke the windows of a tavern in which the fugitives
took shelter. At last it was determined to march up to a row of chairs,
and demolish them for standing on the pavement; the chairmen formed a
line of battle, and blows were exchanged for a time with equal courage
on both sides. At last the assailants were overpowered, and the
chairmen, when they knew then-captives, brought them home by force.

The young gentleman, next morning, hung his head, and was so much
ashamed of his outrages and defeat, that perhaps he might have been
checked in his first follies, had not his mother, partly in pity of his
dejection, and partly in approbation of his spirit, relieved him from
his perplexity by paying the damages privately, and discouraging all
animadversion and reproof.

This indulgence could not wholly preserve him from the remembrance of
his disgrace, nor at once restore his confidence and elation. He was for
three days silent, modest, and compliant, and thought himself neither
too wise for instruction, nor too manly for restraint. But his levity
overcame this salutary sorrow; he began to talk with his former raptures
of masquerades, taverns, and frolicks; blustered when his wig was not
combed with exactness; and threatened destruction to a tailor who had
mistaken his directions about the pocket.

I knew that he was now rising again above control, and that his
inflation of spirits would burst out into some mischievous absurdity. I
therefore watched him with great attention; but one evening, having
attended his mother at a visit, he withdrew himself, unsuspected, while
the company was engaged at cards. His vivacity and officiousness were
soon missed, and his return impatiently expected; supper was delayed,
and conversation suspended; every coach that rattled through the street
was expected to bring him, and every servant that entered the room was
examined concerning his departure. At last the lady returned home, and
was with great difficulty preserved from fits by spirits and cordials.
The family was despatched a thousand ways without success, and the house
was filled with distraction, till, as we were deliberating what further
measures to take, he returned from a petty gaming-table, with his coat
torn and his head broken; without his sword, snuff-box, sleeve-buttons,
and watch.

Of this loss or robbery, he gave little account; but, instead of sinking
into his former shame, endeavoured to support himself by surliness and
asperity. "He was not the first that had played away a few trifles, and
of what use were birth and fortune if they would not admit some sallies
and expenses?" His mamma was so much provoked by the cost of this prank,
that she would neither palliate nor conceal it; and his father, after
some threats of rustication which his fondness would not suffer him to
execute, reduced the allowance of his pocket, that he might not be
tempted by plenty to profusion. This method would have succeeded in a
place where there are no panders to folly and extravagance, but was now
likely to have produced pernicious consequences; for we have discovered
a treaty with a broker, whose daughter he seems disposed to marry, on
condition that he shall be supplied with present money, for which he is
to repay thrice the value at the death of his father.

There was now no time to be lost. A domestick consultation was
immediately held, and he was doomed to pass two years in the country;
but his mother, touched with his tears, declared, that she thought him
too much of a man to be any longer confined to his book, and he
therefore begins his travels to-morrow under a French governour.

I am, &c.

EUMATHES.



No. 196. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 1752.

  _Multa ferunt anni venientes commoda secum,
  Multa recedentes adimunt.--_ HOR. De Ar. Poet. 175.

  The blessings flowing in with life's full tide,
  Down with our ebb of life decreasing glide. FRANCIS.

Baxter, in the narrative of his own life, has enumerated several
opinions, which, though he thought them evident and incontestable at his
first entrance into the world, time and experience disposed him to
change.

Whoever reviews the state of his own mind from the dawn of manhood to
its decline, and considers what he pursued or dreaded, slighted or
esteemed, at different periods of his age, will have no reason to
imagine such changes of sentiment peculiar to any station or character.
Every man, however careless and inattentive, has conviction forced upon
him; the lectures of time obtrude themselves upon the most unwilling or
dissipated auditor; and, by comparing our past with our present
thoughts, we perceive that we have changed our minds, though perhaps we
cannot discover when the alteration happened, or by what causes it was
produced.

This revolution of sentiments occasions a perpetual contest between the
old and young. They who imagine themselves entitled to veneration by the
prerogative of longer life, are inclined to treat the notions of those
whose conduct they superintend with superciliousness and contempt, for
want of considering that the future and the past have different
appearances; that the disproportion will always be great between
expectation and enjoyment, between new possession and satiety; that the
truth of many maxims of age gives too little pleasure to be allowed till
it is felt; and that the miseries of life would be increased beyond all
human power of endurance, if we were to enter the world with the same
opinions as we carry from it.

We naturally indulge those ideas that please us. Hope will predominate
in every mind, till it has been suppressed by frequent disappointments.
The youth has not yet discovered how many evils are continually hovering
about us, and when he is set free from the shackles of discipline, looks
abroad into the world with rapture; he sees an elysian region open
before him, so variegated with beauty, and so stored with pleasure, that
his care is rather to accumulate good, than to shun evil; he stands
distracted by different forms of delight, and has no other doubt, than
which path to follow of those which all lead equally to the bowers of
happiness.

He who has seen only the superficies of life believes every thing to be
what it appears, and rarely suspects that external splendour conceals
any latent sorrow or vexation. He never imagines that there may be
greatness without safety, affluence without content, jollity without
friendship, and solitude without peace. He fancies himself permitted to
cull the blessings of every condition, and to leave its inconveniencies
to the idle and the ignorant. He is inclined to believe no man miserable
but by his own fault, and seldom looks with much pity upon failings or
miscarriages, because he thinks them willingly admitted, or negligently
incurred.

It is impossible, without pity and contempt, to hear a youth of generous
sentiments and warm imagination, declaring, in the moment of openness
and confidence, his designs and expectations; because long life is
possible, he considers it as certain, and therefore promises himself all
the changes of happiness, and provides gratifications for every desire.
He is, for a time, to give himself wholly to frolick and diversion, to
range the world in search of pleasure, to delight every eye, to gain
every heart, and to be celebrated equally for his pleasing levities and
solid attainments, his deep reflections and his sparkling repartees. He
then elevates his views to nobler enjoyments, and finds all the
scattered excellencies of the female world united in a woman, who
prefers his addresses to wealth and titles; he is afterwards to engage
in business, to dissipate difficulty, and overpower opposition: to
climb, by the mere force of merit, to fame and greatness; and reward all
those who countenanced his rise, or paid due regard to his early
excellence. At last he will retire in peace and honour; contract his
views to domestick pleasures; form the manners of children like himself;
observe how every year expands the beauty of his daughters, and how his
sons catch ardour from their father's history; he will give laws to the
neighbourhood; dictate axioms to posterity; and leave the world an
example of wisdom and of happiness.

With hopes like these, he sallies jocund into life; to little purpose is
he told, that the condition of humanity admits no pure and unmingled
happiness; that the exuberant gaiety of youth ends in poverty or
disease; that uncommon qualifications and contrarieties of excellence,
produce envy equally with applause; that whatever admiration and
fondness may promise him, he must marry a wife like the wives of others,
with some virtues and some faults, and be as often disgusted by her
vices, as delighted by her elegance; that if he adventures into the
circle of action, he must expect to encounter men as artful, as daring,
as resolute as himself; that of his children, some may be deformed, and
others vicious; some may disgrace him by their follies, some offend him
by their insolence, and some exhaust him by their profusion. He hears
all this with obstinate incredulity, and wonders by what malignity old
age is influenced, that it cannot forbear to fill his ears with
predictions of misery.

Among other pleasing errours of young minds, is the opinion of their own
importance. He that has not yet remarked, how little attention his
contemporaries can spare from their own affairs, conceives all eyes
turned upon himself, and imagines every one that approaches him to be an
enemy or a follower, an admirer or a spy. He therefore considers his
fame as involved in the event of every action. Many of the virtues and
vices of youth proceed from this quick sense of reputation. This it is
that gives firmness and constancy, fidelity, and disinterestedness, and
it is this that kindles resentment for slight injuries, and dictates all
the principles of sanguinary honour.

But as time brings him forward into the world, he soon discovers that he
only shares fame or reproach with innumerable partners; that he is left
unmarked in the obscurity of the crowd; and that what he does, whether
good or bad, soon gives way to new objects of regard. He then easily
sets himself free from the anxieties of reputation, and considers praise
or censure as a transient breath, which, while he hears it, is passing
away, without any lasting mischief or advantage.

In youth, it is common to measure right and wrong by the opinion of the
world, and, in age, to act without any measure but interest, and to lose
shame without substituting virtue.

Such is the condition of life, that something is always wanting to
happiness. In youth, we have warm hopes, which are soon blasted by
rashness and negligence, and great designs, which are defeated by
inexperience. In age, we have knowledge and prudence without spirit to
exert, or motives to prompt them; we are able to plan schemes and
regulate measures, but have not time remaining to bring them to
completion.



No. 197. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 1752.

  _Cujus vulturis hoc erit cadaver_? MART. Lib. vi. Ep. lxii. 4.

  Say, to what vulture's share this carcase falls? F. LEWIS

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

I belong to an order of mankind, considerable at least for their number,
to which your notice has never been formally extended, though equally
entitled to regard with those triflers, who have hitherto supplied you
with topicks of amusement or instruction. I am, Mr. Rambler, a
legacy-hunter; and, as every man is willing to think well of the tribe
in which his name is registered, you will forgive my vanity, if I remind
you that the legacy-hunter, however degraded by an ill-compounded
appellation in our barbarous language, was known, as I am told, in
ancient Rome, by the sonorous titles of Captator and Hæredipeta.

My father was an attorney in the country, who married his master's
daughter in hopes of a fortune which he did not obtain, having been, as
he afterwards discovered, chosen by her only because she had no better
offer, and was afraid of service. I was the first offspring of a
marriage, thus reciprocally fraudulent, and therefore could not be
expected to inherit much dignity or generosity, and if I had them not
from nature, was not likely ever to attain them; for, in the years which
I spent at home, I never heard any reason for action or forbearance, but
that we should gain money or lose it; nor was taught any other style of
commendation, than that Mr. Sneaker is a warm man, Mr. Gripe has done
his business, and needs care for nobody.

My parents, though otherwise not great philosophers, knew the force of
early education, and took care that the blank of my understanding should
be filled with impressions of the value of money. My mother used, upon
all occasions, to inculcate some salutary axioms, such as might incite
me _to keep what I had, and get what I could_; she informed me that we
were in a world, where _all must catch that catch can_; and as I grew
up, stored my memory with deeper observations; restrained me from the
usual puerile expenses, by remarking that _many a little made a mickle_;
and, when I envied the finery of my neighbours, told me that _brag was a
good dog, but hold-fast was a better_.

I was soon sagacious enough to discover that I was not born to great
wealth; and having heard no other name for happiness, was sometimes
inclined to repine at my condition. But my mother always relieved me, by
saying, that there was money enough in the family, that _it was good to
be of kin to means_, that I had nothing to do but to please my friends,
and I might come to hold up my head with the best squire in the country.

These splendid expectations arose from our alliance to three persons of
considerable fortune. My mother's aunt had attended on a lady, who, when
she died, rewarded her officiousness and fidelity with a large legacy.
My father had two relations, of whom one had broken his indentures and
run to sea, from whence, after an absence of thirty years, he returned
with ten thousand pounds; and the other had lured an heiress out of a
window, who, dying of her first child, had left him her estate, on which
he lived, without any other care than to collect his rents, and preserve
from poachers that game which he could not kill himself.

These hoarders of money were visited and courted by all who had any
pretence to approach them, and received presents and compliments from
cousins who could scarcely tell the degree of their relation. But we had
peculiar advantages, which encouraged us to hope, that we should by
degrees supplant our competitors. My father, by his profession, made
himself necessary in their affairs; for the sailor and the chambermaid,
he inquired out mortgages and securities, and wrote bonds and contracts;
and had endeared himself to the old woman, who once rashly lent an
hundred pounds without consulting him, by informing her, that her
debtor, was on the point of bankruptcy, and posting so expeditiously
with an execution, that all the other creditors were defrauded.

To the squire he was a kind of steward, and had distinguished himself in
his office by his address in raising the rents, his inflexibility in
distressing the tardy tenants, and his acuteness in setting the parish
free from burdensome inhabitants, by shifting them off to some other
settlement.

Business made frequent attendance necessary; trust soon produced
intimacy; and success gave a claim to kindness; so that we had
opportunity to practise all the arts of flattery and endearment. My
mother, who could not support the thoughts of losing any thing,
determined, that all their fortunes should centre in me; and, in the
prosecution of her schemes, took care to inform me that _nothing cost
less than good words_, and that it is comfortable to leap into an estate
which another has got.

She trained me by these precepts to the utmost ductility of obedience,
and the closest attention to profit. At an age when other boys are
sporting in the fields or murmuring in the school, I was contriving some
new method of paying my court; inquiring the age of my future
benefactors; or considering how I should employ their legacies.

If our eagerness of money could have been satisfied with the possessions
of any one of my relations, they might perhaps have been obtained; but
as it was impossible to be always present with all three, our
competitors were busy to efface any trace of affection which we might
have left behind; and since there was not, on any part, such superiority
of merit as could enforce a constant and unshaken preference, whoever
was the last that flattered or obliged, had, for a time, the ascendant.

My relations maintained a regular exchange of courtesy, took care to
miss no occasion of condolence or congratulation, and sent presents at
stated times, but had in their hearts not much esteem for one another.
The seaman looked with contempt upon the squire as a milksop and a
landman, who had lived without knowing the points of the compass, or
seeing any part of the world beyond the county-town; and whenever they
met, would talk of longitude and latitude, and circles and tropicks,
would scarcely tell him the hour without some mention of the horizon and
meridian, nor shew him the news without detecting his ignorance of the
situation of other countries.

The squire considered the sailor as a rude uncultivated savage, with
little more of human than his form, and diverted himself with his
ignorance of all common objects and affairs; when he could persuade him
to go into the field, he always exposed him to the sportsmen, by sending
him to look for game in improper places; and once prevailed upon him to
be present at the races, only that he might shew the gentlemen how a
sailor sat upon a horse.

The old gentlewoman thought herself wiser than both, for she lived with
no servant but a maid, and saved her money. The others were indeed
sufficiently frugal; but the squire could not live without dogs and
horses, and the sailor never suffered the day to pass but over a bowl of
punch, to which, as he was not critical in the choice of his company,
every man was welcome that could roar out a catch, or tell a story.

All these, however, I was to please; an arduous task; but what will not
youth and avarice undertake? I had an unresisting suppleness of temper,
and an insatiable wish for riches; I was perpetually instigated by the
ambition of my parents, and assisted occasionally by their instructions.
What these advantages enabled me to perform, shall be told in the next
letter of,

Yours, &c.

CAPTATOR.



No. 198. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 1752.

  _Nil mihi das vivus: dicis, post fata daturum.
  Si non es stultus, scis, Maro, quid cupiam_. MART. Lib. xi. 67.

  You've told me, Maro, whilst you live,
  You'd not a single penny give,
  But that whene'er you chance to die,
  You'd leave a handsome legacy:
  You must be mad beyond redress,
  If my next wish you cannot guess. F. LEWIS.

MR. RAMBLER.

SIR,

You, who must have observed the inclination which almost every man,
however unactive or insignificant, discovers of representing his life as
distinguished by extraordinary events, will not wonder that Captator
thinks his narrative important enough to be continued. Nothing is more
common than for those to tease their companions with their history, who
have neither done nor suffered any thing that can excite curiosity, or
afford instruction.

As I was taught to flatter with the first essays of speech, and had very
early lost every other passion in the desire of money, I began my
pursuit with omens of success; for I divided my officiousness so
judiciously among my relations, that I was equally the favourite of all.
When any of them entered the door, I went to welcome him with raptures;
when he went away, I hung down my head, and sometimes entreated to go
with him with so much importunity, that I very narrowly escaped a
consent which I dreaded in my heart. When at an annual entertainment
they were altogether, I had a harder task; but plied them so impartially
with caresses, that none could charge me with neglect; and when they
were wearied with my fondness and civilities, I was always dismissed
with money to buy playthings.

Life cannot be kept at a stand: the years of innocence and prattle were
soon at an end, and other qualifications were necessary to recommend me
to continuance of kindness. It luckily happened that none of my friends
had high notions of book-learning. The sailor hated to see tall boys
shut up in a school, when they might more properly be seeing the world,
and making their fortunes; and was of opinion, that when the first rules
of arithmetick were known, all that was necessary to make a man complete
might be learned on ship-board. The squire only insisted, that so much
scholarship was indispensably necessary, as might confer ability to draw
a lease and read the court hands; and the old chambermaid declared
loudly her contempt of books, and her opinion that they only took the
head off the main chance.

To unite, as well as we could, all their systems, I was bred at home.
Each was taught to believe, that I followed his directions, and I gained
likewise, as my mother observed, this advantage, that I was always in
the way; for she had known many favourite children sent to schools or
academies, and forgotten.

As I grew fitter to be trusted to my own discretion, I was often
despatched upon various pretences to visit my relations, with directions
from my parents how to ingratiate myself, and drive away competitors.

I was, from my infancy, considered by the sailor as a promising genius,
because I liked punch better than wine; and I took care to improve this
prepossession by continual inquiries about the art of navigation, the
degree of heat and cold in different climates, the profits of trade, and
the dangers of shipwreck. I admired the courage of the seamen, and
gained his heart by importuning him for a recital of his adventures, and
a sight of his foreign curiosities. I listened with an appearance of
close attention to stories which I could already repeat, and at the
close never failed to express my resolution to visit distant countries,
and my contempt of the cowards and drones that spend all their lives in
their native parish; though I had in reality no desire of any thing but
money, nor ever felt the stimulations of curiosity or ardour of
adventure, but would contentedly have passed the years of Nestor in
receiving rents, and lending upon mortgages.

The squire I was able to please with less hypocrisy, for I really
thought it pleasant enough to kill the game and eat it. Some arts of
falsehood, however, the hunger of gold persuaded me to practise, by
which, though no other mischief was produced, the purity of my thoughts
was vitiated, and the reverence for truth gradually destroyed. I
sometimes purchased fish, and pretended to have caught them; I hired the
countrymen to shew me partridges, and then gave my uncle intelligence of
their haunt; I learned the seats of hares at night, and discovered them
in the morning with a sagacity that raised the wonder and envy of old
sportsmen. One only obstruction to the advancement of my reputation I
could never fully surmount; I was naturally a coward, and was therefore
always left shamefully behind, when there was a necessity to leap a
hedge, to swim a river, or force the horses to the utmost speed; but as
these exigencies did not frequently happen, I maintained my honour with
sufficient success, and was never left out of a hunting party.

The old chambermaid was not so certainly, nor so easily pleased, for she
had no predominant passion but avarice, and was therefore cold and
inaccessible. She had no conception of any virtue in a young man but
that of saving his money. When she heard of my exploits in the field,
she would shake her head, inquire how much I should be the richer for
all my performances, and lament that such sums should be spent upon dogs
and horses. If the sailor told her of my inclination to travel, she was
sure there was no place like England, and could not imagine why any man
that can live in his own country should leave it. This sullen and frigid
being I found means, however, to propitiate by frequent commendations of
frugality, and perpetual care to avoid expense.

From the sailor was our first and most considerable expectation; for he
was richer than the chambermaid, and older than the squire. He was so
awkward and bashful among women, that we concluded him secure from
matrimony; and the noisy fondness with which he used to welcome me to
his house, made us imagine that he would look out for no other heir, and
that we had nothing to do but wait patiently for his death. But in the
midst of our triumph, my uncle saluted us one morning with a cry of
transport, and, clapping his hand hard on my shoulder, told me, I was a
happy fellow to have a friend like him in the world, for he came to fit
me out for a voyage with one of his old acquaintances. I turned pale,
and trembled; my father told him, that he believed my constitution not
fitted to the sea; and my mother, bursting into tears, cried out, that
her heart would break if she lost me. All this had no effect; the sailor
was wholly insusceptive of the softer passions, and, without regard to
tears or arguments, persisted in his resolution to make me a man.  We
were obliged to comply in appearance, and preparations were accordingly
made. I took leave of my friends with great alacrity, proclaimed the
beneficence of my uncle with the highest strains of gratitude, and
rejoiced at the opportunity now put into my hands of gratifying my
thirst of knowledge. But, a week before the day appointed for my
departure, I fell sick by my mother's direction, and refused all food
but what she privately brought me; whenever my uncle visited me I was
lethargick or delirious, but took care in my raving fits to talk
incessantly of travel and merchandize. The room was kept dark; the table
was filled with vials and gallipots; my mother was with difficulty
persuaded not to endanger her life with nocturnal attendance; my father
lamented the loss of the profits of the voyage; and such superfluity of
artifices was employed, as perhaps might have discovered the cheat to a
man of penetration. But the sailor, unacquainted with subtilties and
stratagems, was easily deluded; and as the ship could not stay for my
recovery, sold the cargo, and left me to re-establish my health at
leisure.

I was sent to regain my flesh in a purer air, lest it should appear
never to have been wasted, and in two months returned to deplore my
disappointment. My uncle pitied my dejection, and bid me prepare myself
against next year, for no land-lubber should touch his money.

A reprieve however was obtained, and perhaps some new stratagem might
have succeeded another spring; but my uncle unhappily made amorous
advances to my mother's maid, who, to promote so advantageous a match,
discovered the secret with which only she had been entrusted. He
stormed, and raved, and declaring that he would have heirs of his own,
and not give his substance to cheats and cowards, married the girl in
two days, and has now four children.

Cowardice is always scorned, and deceit universally detested. I found my
friends, if not wholly alienated, at least cooled in their affection;
the squire, though he did not wholly discard me, was less fond, and
often inquired when I would go to sea. I was obliged to bear his
insults, and endeavoured to rekindle his kindness by assiduity and
respect; but all my care was vain; he died without a will, and the
estate devolved to the legal heir.

Thus has the folly of my parents condemned me to spend in flattery and
attendance those years in which I might have been qualified to place
myself above hope or fear. I am arrived at manhood without any useful
art, or generous sentiment; and, if the old woman should likewise at
last deceive me, am in danger at once of beggary and ignorance.

I am, &c.

CAPTATOR.



No. 199. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1752.

  _Decolor, obscurus, cilis. Non ille repexam
  Cæsariem Regum, nec Candida virginis ornat
  Colla, nec insigni splendet per cingula morsu:
  Sed nova si nigri videas miracula suai,
  Tum pulcros superat cultus, et quldquid Evis
  Indus litoribus rubra scrutatur in alga_. CLAUDIANUS, xlviii. 10.

  Obscure, unpris'd, and dark, the magnet lies,
  Nor lures the search of avaricious eyes,
  Nor binds the neck, nor sparkles in the hair,
  Nor dignifies the great, nor decks the fair.
  But search the wonders of the dusky stone,
  And own all glories of the mine outdone,
  Each grace of form, each ornament of state,
  That decks the fair, or dignifies the great.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Though you have seldom digressed from moral subjects, I suppose you are
not so rigorous or cynical as to deny the value or usefulness of natural
philosophy; or to have lived in this age of inquiry and experiment,
without any attention to the wonders every day produced by the pokers of
magnetism and the wheels of electricity. At least, I may be allowed to
hope that, since nothing is more contrary to moral excellence than envy,
you will not refuse to promote the happiness of others, merely because
you cannot partake of their enjoyments.

In confidence, therefore, that your ignorance has not made you an enemy
to knowledge, I offer you the honour of introducing to the notice of the
publick, an adept, who, having long laboured for the benefit of mankind,
is not willing, like too many of his predecessors, to conceal his
secrets in the grave.

Many have signalized themselves by melting their estates in crucibles. I
was born to no fortune, and therefore had only my mind and body to
devote to knowledge, and the gratitude of posterity will attest, that
neither mind nor body have been spared. I have sat whole weeks without
sleep by the side of an athanor, to watch the moment of projection; I
have made the first experiment in nineteen diving engines of new
construction; I have fallen eleven times speechless under the shock of
electricity; I have twice dislocated my limbs, and once fractured my
skull, in essaying to fly[l]; and four times endangered my life by
submitting to the transfusion of blood.

In the first period of my studies, I exerted the powers of my body more
than those of my mind, and was not without hopes that fame might be
purchased by a few broken bones without the toil of thinking; but having
been shattered by some violent experiments, and constrained to confine
myself to my books, I passed six-and-thirty years in searching the
treasures of ancient wisdom, but am at last amply recompensed for all my
perseverance.

The curiosity of the present race of philosophers, having been long
exercised upon electricity, has been lately transferred to magnetism;
the qualities of the loadstone have been investigated, if not with much
advantage, yet with great applause; and as the highest praise of art is
to imitate nature, I hope no man will think the makers of artificial
magnets celebrated or reverenced above their deserts.

I have, for some time, employed myself in the same practice, but with
deeper knowledge and more extensive views. While my contemporaries were
touching needles and raising weights, or busying themselves with
inclination and variation, I have been examining those qualities of
magnetism which may be applied to the accommodation and happiness of
common life. I have left to inferior understandings the care of
conducting the sailor through the hazards of the ocean, and reserved to
myself the more difficult and illustrious province of preserving the
connubial compact from violation, and setting mankind free for ever from
the danger of supposititious children, and the torments of fruitless
vigilance and anxious suspicion.

To defraud any man of his due praise is unworthy of a philosopher; I
shall, therefore, openly confess that I owe the first hint of this
inestimable secret to the rabbi Abraham Ben Hannase, who, in his
treatise of precious stones, has left this account of the magnet:
[Hebrew: chkalamta],&c. "The calamita, or loadstone that attracts iron,
produces many bad fantasies in man. Women fly from this stone. If,
therefore, any husband be disturbed with jealousy, and fear lest his
wife converses with other men, let him lay this stone upon her while she
is asleep. If she be pure, she will, when she wakes, clasp her husband
fondly in her arms; but if she be guilty, she will fall out of bed, and
run away."

When I first read this wonderful passage, I could not easily conceive
why it had remained hitherto unregarded in such a zealous competition
for magnetical fame. It would surely be unjust to suspect that any of
the candidates are strangers to the name or works of rabbi Abraham, or
to conclude, from a late edict of the Royal Society in favour of the
English language, that philosophy and literature are no longer to act in
concert. Yet, how should a quality so useful escape promulgation, but by
the obscurity of the language in which it was delivered? Why are footmen
and chambermaids paid on every side for keeping secrets, which no
caution nor expense could secure from the all-penetrating magnet? Or,
why are so many witnesses summoned, and so many artifices practised, to
discover what so easy an experiment would infallibly reveal?

Full of this perplexity, I read the lines of Abraham to a friend, who
advised me not to expose my life by a mad indulgence of the love of
fame: he warned me by the fate of Orpheus, that knowledge or genius
could give no protection to the invader of female prerogatives; assured
me that neither the armour of Achilles, nor the antidote of Mithridates,
would be able to preserve me; and counselled me, if I could not live
without renown, to attempt the acquisition of universal empire, in which
the honour would perhaps be equal, and the danger certainly be less.

I, a solitary student, pretend not to much knowledge of the world, but
am unwilling to think it so generally corrupt, as that a scheme for the
detection of incontinence should bring any danger upon its inventor. My
friend has indeed told me that all the women will be my enemies, and
that, however I flatter myself with hopes of defence from the men, I
shall certainly find myself deserted in the hour of danger. Of the young
men, said he, some will be afraid of sharing the disgrace of their
mothers, and some the danger of their mistresses; of those who are
married, part are already convinced of the falsehood of their wives, and
part shut their eyes to avoid conviction; few ever sought for virtue in
marriage, and therefore few will try whether they have found it. Almost
every man is careless or timorous, and to trust is easier and safer than
to examine.

These observations discouraged me, till I began to consider what
reception I was likely to find among the ladies, whom I have reviewed
under the three classes of maids, wives, and widows, and cannot but hope
that I may obtain some countenance among them. The single ladies I
suppose universally ready to patronise my method, by which connubial
wickedness may be detected, since no woman marries with a previous
design to be unfaithful to her husband. And to keep them steady in my
cause, I promise never to sell one of my magnets to a man who steals a
girl from school; marries a woman of forty years younger than himself;
or employs the authority of parents to obtain a wife without her own
consent.

Among the married ladies, notwithstanding the insinuations of slander,
yet I resolve to believe, that the greater part are my friends, and am
at least convinced, that they who demand the test, and appear on my
side, will supply, by their spirit, the deficiency of their numbers, and
that their enemies will shrink and quake at the sight of a magnet, as
the slaves of Scythia fled from the scourge.

The widows will be confederated in my favour by their curiosity, if not
by their virtue; for it may be observed, that women who have outlived
their husbands, always think themselves entitled to superintend the
conduct of young wives; and as they are themselves in no danger from
this magnetick trial, I shall expect them to be eminently and
unanimously zealous in recommending it.

With these hopes I shall, in a short time, offer to sale magnets armed
with a particular metallick composition, which concentrates their
virtue, and determines their agency. It is known that the efficacy of
the magnet, in common operations, depends much upon its armature, and it
cannot be imagined, that a stone, naked, or cased only in a common
manner, will discover the virtues ascribed to it by Rabbi Abraham. The
secret of this metal I shall carefully conceal, and, therefore, am not
afraid of imitators, nor shall trouble the offices with solicitations
for a patent.

I shall sell them of different sizes, and various degrees of strength. I
have some of a bulk proper to be hung at the bed's head, as scare-crows,
and some so small that they may be easily concealed. Some I have ground
into oval forms to be hung at watches; and some, for the curious, I have
set in wedding rings, that ladies may never want an attestation of their
innocence. Some I can produce so sluggish and inert, that they will not
act before the third failure; and others so vigorous and animated, that
they exert their influence against unlawful wishes, if they have been
willingly and deliberately indulged. As it is my practice honestly to
tell my customers the properties of my magnets, I can judge, by their
choice, of the delicacy of their sentiments. Many have been content to
spare cost by purchasing only the lowest degree of efficacy, and all
have started with terrour from those which operate upon the thoughts.
One young lady only fitted on a ring of the strongest energy, and
declared that she scorned to separate her wishes from her acts, or allow
herself to think what she was forbidden to practise.

I am, &c.

HERMETICUS.

[Footnote l: In the sixth chapter of Rasselas we have an excellent story
of an experimentalist in the art of flying. Dr. Johnson sketched perhaps
from life, for we are informed that he once lodged in the same house
with a man who broke his legs in the daring attempt.]



No. 200. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1752.

  _Nemo petit, modicis quae mittebantur amicis
  A Seneca, quae Piso bonus, quae Cotta solebut
  Largiri; namque et titulis, et fascibus olim
  Major habebatur donandi gloria: solum
  Poscimus, ut caenes civiliter. Hoc face, el esto,
  Esto, ut nunc multi, dives tibi, pauper amicis_. JUV. Sat. v. 108.

  No man expects (for who so much a sot
  Who has the times he lives in so forgot?)
  What Seneca, what Piso us'd to send,
  To raise or to support a sinking friend.
  Those godlike men, to wanting virtue kind,
  Bounty well plac'd, preferr'd, and well design'd,
  To all their titles, all that height of pow'r,
  Which turns the brains of fools, and fools alone adore.
  When your poor client is condemn'd t' attend,
  'Tis all we ask, receive him as a friend:
  Descend to this, and then we ask no more;
  Rich to yourself, to all beside be poor. BOWLES.

TO THE RAMBLER.

MR. RAMBLER,

Such is the tenderness or infirmity of many minds, that when any
affliction oppresses them, they have immediate recourse to lamentation
and complaint, which, though it can only be allowed reasonable when
evils admit of remedy, and then only when addressed to those from whom
the remedy is expected, yet seems even in hopeless and incurable
distresses to be natural, since those by whom it is not indulged,
imagine that they give a proof of extraordinary fortitude by suppressing
it.

I am one of those who, with the Sancho of Cervantes, leave to higher
characters the merit of suffering in silence, and give vent without
scruple to any sorrow that swells in my heart. It is therefore to me a
severe aggravation of a calamity, when it is such as in the common
opinion will not justify the acerbity of exclamation, or support the
solemnity of vocal grief. Yet many pains are incident to a man of
delicacy, which the unfeeling world cannot be persuaded to pity, and
which, when they are separated from their peculiar and personal
circumstances, will never be considered as important enough to claim
attention, or deserve redress.

Of this kind will appear to gross and vulgar apprehensions, the miseries
which I endured in a morning visit to Prospero, a man lately raised to
wealth by a lucky project, and too much intoxicated by sudden elevation,
or too little polished by thought and conversation, to enjoy his present
fortune with elegance and decency.

We set out in the world together; and for a long time mutually assisted
each other in our exigencies, as either happened to have money or
influence beyond his immediate necessities. You know that nothing
generally endears men so much as participation of dangers and
misfortunes; I therefore always considered Prospero as united with me in
the strongest league of kindness, and imagined that our friendship was
only to be broken by the hand of death. I felt at his sudden shoot of
success an honest and disinterested joy; but as I want no part of his
superfluities, am not willing to descend from that equality in which we
hitherto have lived.

Our intimacy was regarded by me as a dispensation from ceremonial
visits; and it was so long before I saw him at his new house, that he
gently complained of my neglect, and obliged me to come on a day
appointed. I kept my promise, but found that the impatience of my friend
arose not from any desire to communicate his happiness, but to enjoy his
superiority.

When I told my name at the door, the footman went to see if his master
was at home, and, by the tardiness of his return, gave me reason to
suspect that time was taken to deliberate. He then informed me, that
Prospero desired my company, and shewed the staircase carefully secured
by mats from the pollution of my feet. The best apartments were
ostentatiously set open, that I might have a distant view of the
magnificence which I was not permitted to approach; and my old friend
receiving me with all the insolence of condescension at the top of the
stairs, conducted me to a back room, where he told me he always
breakfasted when he had not great company.

On the floor where we sat lay a carpet covered with a cloth, of which
Prospero ordered his servant to lift up a corner, that I might
contemplate the brightness of the colours, and the elegance of the
texture, and asked me whether I had ever seen any thing so fine before?
I did not gratify his folly with any outcries of admiration, but coldly
bade the footman let down the cloth.

We then sat down, and I began to hope that pride was glutted with
persecution, when Prospero desired that I would give the servant leave
to adjust the cover of my chair, which was slipt a little aside, to shew
the damask; he informed me that he had bespoke ordinary chairs for
common use, but had been disappointed by his tradesman. I put the chair
aside with my foot, and drew another so hastily, that I was entreated
not to rumple the carpet.

Breakfast was at last set, and as I was not willing to indulge the
peevishness that began to seize me, I commended the tea: Prospero then
told me, that another time I should taste his finest sort, but that he
had only a very small quantity remaining, and reserved it for those whom
he thought himself obliged to treat with particular respect.

While we were conversing upon such subjects as imagination happened to
suggest, he frequently digressed into directions to the servant that
waited, or made a slight inquiry after the jeweller or silversmith; and
once, as I was pursuing an argument with some degree of earnestness, he
started from his posture of attention, and ordered, that if lord Lofty
called on him that morning, he should be shown into the best parlour.

My patience was yet not wholly subdued. I was willing to promote his
satisfaction, and therefore observed that the figures on the china were
eminently pretty. Prospero had now an opportunity of calling for his
Dresden china, which, says he, I always associate with my chased
teakettle. The cups were brought; I once resolved not to have looked
upon them, but my curiosity prevailed. When I had examined them a
little, Prospero desired me to set them down, for they who were
accustomed only to common dishes, seldom handled china with much care.
You will, I hope, commend my philosophy, when I tell you that I did not
dash his baubles to the ground.

He was now so much elevated with his own greatness, that he thought some
humility necessary to avert the glance of envy, and therefore told me,
with an air of soft composure, that I was not to estimate life by
external appearance, that all these shining acquisitions had added
little to his happiness, that he still remembered with pleasure the days
in which he and I were upon the level, and had often, in the moment of
reflection, been doubtful, whether he should lose much by changing his
condition for mine.

I began now to be afraid lest his pride should, by silence and
submission be emboldened to insults that could not easily be borne, and
therefore coolly considered, how I should repress it without such
bitterness of reproof as I was yet unwilling to use. But he interrupted
my meditation, by asking leave to be dressed, and told me, that he had
promised to attend some ladies in the park, and, if I was going the same
way, would take me in his chariot. I had no inclination to any other
favours, and therefore left him without any intention of seeing him
again, unless some misfortune should restore his understanding.

I am, &c.

ASPER.

Though I am not wholly insensible of the provocations which my
correspondent has received, I cannot altogether commend the keenness of
his resentment, nor encourage him to persist in his resolution of
breaking off all commerce with his old acquaintance. One of the golden
precepts of Pythagoras directs, that _a friend should not be hated for
little faults_; and surely he, upon whom nothing worse can be charged,
than that he mats his stairs, and covers his carpet, and sets out his
finery to show before those whom he does not admit to use it, has yet
committed nothing that should exclude him from common degrees of
kindness. Such improprieties often proceed rather from stupidity than
malice. Those who thus shine only to dazzle, are influenced merely by
custom and example, and neither examine, nor are qualified to examine,
the motives of their own practice, or to state the nice limits between
elegance and ostentation. They are often innocent of the pain which
their vanity produces, and insult others when they have no worse purpose
than to please themselves.

He that too much refines his delicacy will always endanger his quiet. Of
those with whom nature and virtue oblige us to converse, some are
ignorant of the art of pleasing, and offend when they design to caress;
some are negligent, and gratify themselves without regard to the quiet
of another; some, perhaps, are malicious, and feel no greater
satisfaction in prosperity, than that of raising envy and trampling
inferiority. But, whatever be the motive of insult, it is always best to
overlook it, for folly scarcely can deserve resentment, and malice is
punished by neglect[m].

[Footnote m: Garrick's little vanities are recognized by all in the
character of Prospero. Mr. Boswell informs us, that he never forgave its
pointed satire. On the same authority we are assured, that though
Johnson so dearly loved to ridicule his pupil, yet he so habitually
considered him as his own property, that he would permit no one beside
to hold up his weaknesses to derision.]



No. 201. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1752.

  --_Sanctus haberi
  Justitiæque tenat factis dictisque mereris,
  Adnosco procerem_. JUV. Sat. Lib. viii. 24.

  Convince the world that you're devout and true;
  Be just in all you say, and all you do;
  Whatever be your birth, you're sure to be
  A peer of the first magnitude to me. STEPNEY.

Boyle has observed, that the excellency of manufactures, and the
facility of labour, would be much promoted, if the various expedients
and contrivances which lie concealed in private hands, were by
reciprocal communications made generally known; for there are few
operations that are not performed by one or other with some peculiar
advantages, which, though singly of little importance, would, by
conjunction and concurrence, open new inlets to knowledge, and give new
powers to diligence.

There are, in like manner, several moral excellencies distributed among
the different classes of a community. It was said by Cujacius, that he
never read more than one book by which he was not instructed; and he
that shall inquire after virtue with ardour and attention, will seldom
find a man by whose example or sentiments he may not be improved.

Every profession has some essential and appropriate virtue, without
which there can be no hope of honour or success, and which, as it is
more or less cultivated, confers within its sphere of activity different
degrees of merit and reputation. As the astrologers range the
subdivisions of mankind under the planets which they suppose to
influence their lives, the moralist may distribute them according to the
virtues which they necessarily practise, and consider them as
distinguished by prudence or fortitude, diligence or patience.

So much are the modes of excellence settled by time and place, that men
may be heard boasting in one street of that which they would anxiously
conceal in another. The grounds of scorn and esteem, the topicks of
praise and satire, are varied according to the several virtues or vices
which the course of life has disposed men to admire or abhor; but he who
is solicitous for his own improvement, must not be limited by local
reputation, but select from every tribe of mortals their
characteristical virtues, and constellate in himself the scattered
graces which shine single in other men.

The chief praise to which a trader aspires is that of punctuality, or an
exact and rigorous observance of commercial engagements; nor is there
any vice of which he so much dreads the imputation, as of negligence and
instability. This is a quality which the interest of mankind requires to
be diffused through all the ranks of life, but which many seem to
consider as a vulgar and ignoble virtue, below the ambition of greatness
or attention of wit, scarcely requisite among men of gaiety and spirit,
and sold at its highest rate when it is sacrificed to a frolick or a
jest.

Every man has daily occasion to remark what vexations arise from this
privilege of deceiving one another. The active and vivacious have so
long disdained the restraints of truth, that promises and appointments
have lost their cogency, and both parties neglect their stipulations,
because each concludes that they will be broken by the other.

Negligence is first admitted in small affairs, and strengthened by petty
indulgences. He that is not yet hardened by custom, ventures not on the
violation of important engagements, but thinks himself bound by his word
in cases of property or danger, though he allows himself to forget at
what time he is to meet ladies in the park, or at what tavern his
friends are expecting him.

This laxity of honour would be more tolerable, if it could be restrained
to the play-house, the ball-room, or the card-table; yet even there it
is sufficiently troublesome, and darkens those moments with expectation,
suspense, and resentment, which are set aside for pleasure, and from
which we naturally hope for unmingled enjoyment, and total relaxation.
But he that suffers the slightest breach in his morality, can seldom
tell what shall enter it, or how wide it shall be made; when a passage
is open, the influx of corruption is every moment wearing down
opposition, and by slow degrees deluges the heart.

Aliger entered the world a youth of lively imagination, extensive views,
and untainted principles. His curiosity incited him to range from place
to place, and try all the varieties of conversation; his elegance of
address and fertility of ideas gained him friends wherever he appeared;
or at least he found the general kindness of reception always shown to a
young man whose birth and fortune give him a claim to notice, and who
has neither by vice nor folly destroyed his privileges. Aliger was
pleased with this general smile of mankind, and was industrious to
preserve it by compliance and officiousness, but did not suffer his
desire of pleasing to vitiate his integrity. It was his established
maxim, that a promise is never to be broken; nor was it without long
reluctance that he once suffered himself to be drawn away from a festal
engagement by the importunity of another company.

He spent the evening, as is usual in the rudiments of vice, in
perturbation and imperfect enjoyment, and met his disappointed friends
in the morning with confusion and excuses. His companions, not
accustomed to such scrupulous anxiety, laughed at his uneasiness,
compounded the offence for a bottle, gave him courage to break his word
again, and again levied the penalty. He ventured the same experiment
upon another society, and found them equally ready to consider it as a
venial fault, always incident to a man of quickness and gaiety; till, by
degrees, he began to think himself at liberty to follow the last
invitation, and was no longer shocked at the turpitude of falsehood. He
made no difficulty to promise his presence at distant places, and if
listlessness happened to creep upon him, would sit at home with great
tranquillity, and has often sunk to sleep in a chair, while he held ten
tables in continual expectations of his entrance.

It was so pleasant to live in perpetual vacancy, that he soon dismissed
his attention as an useless incumbrance, and resigned himself to
carelessness and dissipation, without any regard to the future or the
past, or any other motive of action than the impulse of a sudden desire,
or the attraction of immediate pleasure. The absent were immediately
forgotten, and the hopes or fears felt by others, had no influence upon
his conduct. He was in speculation completely just, but never kept his
promise to a creditor; he was benevolent, but always deceived those
friends whom he undertook to patronise or assist; he was prudent, but
suffered his affairs to be embarrassed for want of regulating his
accounts at stated times. He courted a young lady, and when the
settlements were drawn, took a ramble into the country on the day
appointed to sign them. He resolved to travel, and sent his chests on
shipboard, but delayed to follow them till he lost his passage. He was
summoned as an evidence in a cause of great importance, and loitered on
the way till the trial was past. It is said that when he had, with great
expense, formed an interest in a borough, his opponent contrived, by
some agents who knew his temper, to lure him away on the day of
election.

His benevolence draws him into the commission of a thousand crimes,
which others less kind or civil would escape. His courtesy invites
application; his promises produce dependence; he has his pockets filled
with petitions, which he intends some time to deliver and enforce, and
his table covered with letters of request, with which he purposes to
comply; but time slips imperceptibly away, while he is either idle or
busy; his friends lose their opportunities, and charge upon him their
miscarriages and calamities.

This character, however contemptible, is not peculiar to Aliger. They
whose activity of imagination is often shifting the scenes of
expectation, are frequently subject to such sallies of caprice as make
all their actions fortuitous, destroy the value of their friendship,
obstruct the efficacy of their virtues, and set them below the meanest
of those that persist in their resolutions, execute what they design,
and perform what they have promised.



No. 202. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 1752.

  [Greek: Pros apanta deilos estin o penaes pragmata,
  Kai pantas autou kataphronein upolambanei
  O de metrios pratton periskegesteron
  Apanta t aniara, dampria, phepei.] CALLIMACHUS.

  From no affliction is the poor exempt,
  He thinks each eye surveys him with contempt;
  Unmanly poverty subdues the heart,
  Cankers each wound, and sharpen's[1] ev'ry dart. F. LEWIS.
[1] Transcriber's note: sic.

Among those who have endeavoured to promote learning, and rectify
judgment, it has been long customary to complain of the abuse of words,
which are often admitted to signify things so different, that, instead
of assisting the understanding as vehicles of knowledge, they produce
errour, dissention, and perplexity, because what is affirmed in one
sense, is received in another.

If this ambiguity sometimes embarrasses the most solemn controversies,
and obscures the demonstrations of science, it may well be expected to
infest the pompous periods of declaimers, whose purpose is often only to
amuse with fallacies, and change the colours of truth and falsehood; or
the musical compositions of poets, whose style is professedly
figurative, and whose art is imagined to consist in distorting words
from their original meaning.

There are few words of which the reader believes himself better to know
the import, than of _poverty_; yet, whoever studies either the poets or
philosophers, will find such an account of the condition expressed by
that term as his experience or observation will not easily discover to
be true. Instead of the meanness, distress, complaint, anxiety, and
dependance, which have hitherto been combined in his ideas of poverty,
he will read of content, innocence, and cheerfulness, of health and
safety, tranquillity and freedom; of pleasures not known but to men
unencumbered with possessions; and of sleep that sheds his balsamick
anodynes only on the cottage. Such are the blessings to be obtained by
the resignation of riches, that kings might descend from their thrones,
and generals retire from a triumph, only to slumber undisturbed in the
elysium of poverty.

If these authors do not deceive us, nothing can be more absurd than that
perpetual contest for wealth which keeps the world in commotion; nor any
complaints more justly censured than those which proceed from want of
the gifts of fortune, which we are taught by the great masters of moral
wisdom to consider as golden shackles, by which the wearer is at once
disabled and adorned; as luscious poisons which may for a time please
the palate, but soon betray their malignity by languor and by pain.  It
is the great privilege of poverty to be happy unenvied, to be healthful
without physick, and secure without a guard; to obtain from the bounty
of nature, what the great and wealthy are compelled to procure by the
help of artists and attendants, of flatterers and spies.

But it will be found upon a nearer view, that they who extol the
happiness of poverty, do not mean the same state with those who deplore
its miseries. Poets have their imaginations filled with ideas of
magnificence; and being accustomed to contemplate the downfall of
empires, or to contrive forms of lamentations, for monarchs in distress,
rank all the classes of mankind in a state of poverty, who make no
approaches to the dignity of crowns. To be poor, in the epick language,
is only not to command the wealth of nations, nor to have fleets and
armies in pay.

Vanity has perhaps contributed to this impropriety of style. He that
wishes to become a philosopher at a cheap rate, easily gratifies his
ambition by submitting to poverty when he does not feel it, and by
boasting his contempt of riches when he has already more than he enjoys.
He who would shew the extent of his views, and grandeur of his
conceptions, or discover his acquaintance with splendour and
magnificence, may talk like Cowley, of an humble station and quiet
obscurity, of the paucity of nature's wants, and the inconveniencies of
superfluity, and at last, like him, limit his desires to five hundred
pounds a year; a fortune, indeed, not exuberant, when we compare it with
the expenses of pride and luxury, but to which it little becomes a
philosopher to affix the name of poverty, since no man can, with any
propriety, be termed poor, who does not see the greater part of mankind
richer than himself.

As little is the general condition of human life understood by the
panegyrists and historians, who amuse us with accounts of the poverty of
heroes and sages. Riches are of no value in themselves, their use is
discovered only in that which they procure. They are not coveted, unless
by narrow understandings, which confound the means with the end, but for
the sake of power, influence, and esteem; or, by some of less elevated
and refined sentiments, as necessary to sensual enjoyment.

The pleasures of luxury, many have, without uncommon virtue, been able
to despise, even when affluence and idleness have concurred to tempt
them; and therefore he who feels nothing from indigence but the want of
gratifications which he could not in any other condition make consistent
with innocence, has given no proof of eminent patience. Esteem and
influence every man desires, but they are equally pleasing, and equally
valuable, by whatever means they are obtained; and whoever has found the
art of securing them without the help of money, ought, in reality, to be
accounted rich, since he has all that riches can purchase to a wise man.
Cincinnatus, though he lived upon a few acres cultivated by his own
hand, was sufficiently removed from all the evils generally comprehended
under the name of poverty, when his reputation was such, that the voice
of his country called him from his farm to take absolute command into
his hand; nor was Diogenes much mortified by his residence in a tub,
where he was honoured with the visit of Alexander the Great.

The same fallacy has conciliated veneration to the religious orders.
When we behold a man abdicating the hope of terrestrial possessions, and
precluding himself, by an irrevocable vow, from the pursuit and
acquisition of all that his fellow-beings consider as worthy of wishes
and endeavours, we are immediately struck with the purity, abstraction,
and firmness of his mind, and regard him as wholly employed in securing
the interests of futurity, and devoid of any other care than to gain, at
whatever price, the surest passage to eternal rest.

Yet, what can the votary be justly said to have lost of his present
happiness? If he resides in a convent, he converses only with men whose
condition is the same with his own; he has, from the munificence of the
founder, all the necessaries of life, and is safe from that destitution,
which Hooker declares to be "such an impediment to virtue, as, till it
be removed, suffereth not the mind of man to admit any other care." All
temptations to envy and competition are shut out from his retreat; he is
not pained with the sight of unattainable dignity, nor insulted with the
bluster of insolence, or the smile of forced familiarity. If he wanders
abroad, the sanctity of his character amply compensates all other
distinctions; he is seldom seen but with reverence, nor heard but with
submission.

It has been remarked, that death, though often defied in the field,
seldom fails to terrify when it approaches the bed of sickness in its
natural horrour; so poverty may easily be endured, while associated with
dignity and reputation, but will always be shunned and dreaded, when it
is accompanied with ignominy and contempt.



No. 203. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 1752.

   _Cum volet illa dies, quae nil nisi corporis hujus
  Jus habet, incerti spatium mihi finiat avi_. OVID. Met. xv. 873.

  Come, soon or late, death's undetermin'd day,
  This mortal being only can decay. WELSTED.

It seems to be the fate of man to seek all his consolations in futurity.
The time present is seldom able to fill desire or imagination with
immediate enjoyment, and we are forced to supply its deficiencies by
recollection or anticipation.

Every one has so often detected the fallaciousness of hope, and the
inconvenience of teaching himself to expect what a thousand accidents
may preclude, that, when time has abated the confidence with which youth
rushes out to take possession of the world, we endeavour, or wish, to
find entertainment in the review of life, and to repose upon real facts,
and certain experience. This is perhaps one reason, among many, why age
delights in narratives.

But so full is the world of calamity, that every source of pleasure is
polluted, and every retirement of tranquillity disturbed. When time has
supplied us with events sufficient to employ our thoughts, it has
mingled them with so many disasters, that we shrink from their
remembrance, dread their intrusion upon our minds, and fly from them as
from enemies that pursue us with torture.

No man past the middle point of life can sit down to feast upon the
pleasures of youth without finding the banquet embittered by the cup of
sorrow; he may revive lucky accidents, and pleasing extravagancies; many
days of harmless frolick, or nights of honest festivity, will perhaps
recur; or, if he has been engaged in scenes of action, and acquainted
with affairs of difficulty and vicissitudes of fortune, he may enjoy the
nobler pleasure of looking back upon distress firmly supported, dangers
resolutely encountered, and opposition artfully defeated. Aeneas
properly comforts his companions, when, after the horrours of a storm,
they have landed on an unknown and desolate country, with the hope that
their miseries will be at some distant time recounted with delight.
There are few higher gratifications, than that of reflection on
surmounted evils, when they are not incurred nor protracted by our
fault, and neither reproach us with cowardice nor guilt.

But this felicity is almost always abated by the reflection that they
with whom we should be most pleased to share it are now in the grave. A
few years make such havock in human generations, that we soon see
ourselves deprived of those with whom we entered the world, and whom the
participation of pleasures or fatigues had endeared to our remembrance.
The man of enterprise recounts his adventures and expedients, but is
forced, at the close of the relation, to pay a sigh to the names of
those that contributed to his success; he that passes his life among the
gayer part of mankind, has his remembrance stored with remarks and
repartees of wits, whose sprightliness and merriment are now lost in
perpetual silence; the trader, whose industry has supplied the want of
inheritance, repines in solitary plenty at the absence of companions,
with whom he had planned out amusements for his latter years; and the
scholar, whose merit, after a long series of efforts, raises him from
obscurity, looks round in vain from his exaltation for his old friends
or enemies, whose applause or mortification would heighten his triumph.

Among Martial's requisites to happiness is, _Res non parta labore, sed
relicta_, "an estate not gained by industry, but left by inheritance."
It is necessary to the completion of every good, that it be timely
obtained; for whatever comes at the close of life will come too late to
give much delight; yet all human happiness has its defects. Of what we
do not gain for ourselves we have only a faint and imperfect fruition,
because we cannot compare the difference between want and possession, or
at least can derive from it no conviction of our own abilities, nor any
increase of self-esteem; what we acquire by bravery or science, by
mental or corporeal diligence, comes at last when we cannot communicate,
and, therefore, cannot enjoy it.

Thus every period of life is obliged to borrow its happiness from the
time to come. In youth we have nothing past to entertain us, and in age,
we derive little from retrospect but hopeless sorrow. Yet the future
likewise has its limits, which the imagination dreads to approach, but
which we see to be not far distant. The loss of our friends and
companions impresses hourly upon us the necessity of our own departure;
we know that the schemes of man are quickly at an end, that we must soon
lie down in the grave with the forgotten multitudes of former ages, and
yield our place to others, who, like us, shall be driven awhile by hope
or fear about the surface of the earth, and then like us be lost in the
shades of death.

Beyond this termination of our material existence, we are therefore
obliged to extend our hopes; and almost every man indulges his
imagination with something, which is not to happen till he has changed
his manner of being: some amuse themselves with entails and settlements,
provide for the perpetuation of families and honours, or contrive to
obviate the dissipation of the fortunes, which it has been their
business to accumulate; others, more refined or exalted, congratulate
their own hearts upon the future extent of their reputation, the
reverence of distant nations, and the gratitude of unprejudiced
posterity.

They whose souls are so chained down to coffers and tenements, that they
cannot conceive a state in which they shall look upon them with less
solicitude, are seldom attentive or flexible to arguments; but the
votaries of fame are capable of reflection, and therefore may be called
to reconsider the probability of their expectations.

Whether to be remembered in remote times be worthy of a wise man's wish,
has not yet been satisfactorily decided; and, indeed, to be long
remembered, can happen to so small a number, that the bulk of mankind
has very little interest in the question. There is never room in the
world for more than a certain quantity or measure of renown. The
necessary business of life, the immediate pleasures or pains of every
condition, leave us not leisure beyond a fixed proportion for
contemplations which do not forcibly influence our present welfare. When
this vacuity is filled, no characters can be admitted into the
circulation of fame, but by occupying the place of some that must be
thrust into oblivion. The eye of the mind, like that of the body, can
only extend its view to new objects, by losing sight of those which are
now before it.

Reputation is therefore a meteor, which blazes a while and disappears
for ever; and, if we except a few transcendent and invincible names,
which no revolutions of opinion or length of time is able to suppress;
all those that engage our thoughts, or diversify our conversation, are
every moment hasting to obscurity, as new favourites are adopted by
fashion.

It is not therefore from this world, that any ray of comfort can
proceed, to cheer the gloom of the last hour. But futurity has still its
prospects; there is yet happiness in reserve, which, if we transfer our
attention to it, will support us in the pains of disease, and the
languor of decay. This happiness we may expect with confidence, because
it is out of the power of chance, and may be attained by all that
sincerely desire and earnestly pursue it. On this therefore every mind
ought finally to rest. Hope is the chief blessing of man, and that hope
only is rational, of which we are certain that it cannot deceive us.



No. 204. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 29, 1752

  _Nemo tam divos habuit faventes,
  Crastinum ut possit sibi polliceit_. SENECA.

  Of heaven's protection who can be
  So confident to utter this?--
  To-morrow I will spend in bliss. F. LEWIS.

Seged, lord of Ethiopia, to the inhabitants of the world: To the sons of
_Presumption_, humility and fear; and to the daughters of _Sorrow_,
content and acquiescence.

Thus, in the twenty-seventh year of his reign, spoke Seged, the monarch
of forty nations, the distributor of the waters of the Nile: "At length,
Seged, thy toils are at an end; thou hast reconciled disaffection, thou
hast suppressed rebellion, thou hast pacified the jealousies of thy
courtiers, thou hast chased war from thy confines, and erected
fortresses in the lands of thine enemies. All who have offended thee
tremble in thy presence, and wherever thy voice is heard, it is obeyed.
Thy throne is surrounded by armies, numerous as the locusts of the
summer, and resistless as the blasts of pestilence. Thy magazines are
stored with ammunition, thy treasures overflow with the tribute of
conquered kingdoms. Plenty waves upon thy fields, and opulence glitters
in thy cities. Thy nod is as the earthquake that shakes the mountains,
and thy smile as the dawn of the vernal day. In thy hand is the strength
of thousands, and thy health is the health of millions. Thy palace is
gladdened by the song of praise, and thy path perfumed by the breath of
benediction. Thy subjects gaze upon thy greatness, and think of danger
or misery no more. Why, Seged, wilt not thou partake the blessings thou
bestowest? Why shouldst thou only forbear to rejoice in this general
felicity? Why should thy face be clouded with anxiety, when the meanest
of those who call thee sovereign, gives the day to festivity, and the
night to peace? At length, Seged, reflect and be wise. What is the gift
of conquest but safety? Why are riches collected but to purchase
happiness?"

Seged then ordered the house of pleasure, built in an island of the lake
of Dambea, to be prepared for his reception. "I will retire," says he,
"for ten days from tumult and care, from counsels and decrees. Long
quiet is not the lot of the governours of nations, but a cessation of
ten days cannot be denied me. This short interval of happiness may
surely be secured from the interruption of fear or perplexity, sorrow or
disappointment. I will exclude all trouble from my abode, and remove
from my thoughts whatever may confuse the harmony of the concert, or
abate the sweetness of the banquet. I will fill the whole capacity of my
soul with enjoyment, and try what it is to live without a wish
unsatisfied."

In a few days the orders were performed, and Seged hasted to the palace
of Dambea, which stood in an island cultivated only for pleasure,
planted with every flower that spreads its colours to the sun, and every
shrub that sheds fragrance in the air. In one part of this extensive
garden, were open walks for excursions in the morning; in another, thick
groves, and silent arbours, and bubbling fountains for repose at noon.
All that could solace the sense, or flatter the fancy, all that industry
could extort from nature, or wealth furnish to art, all that conquest
could seize, or beneficence attract, was collected together, and every
perception of delight was excited and gratified.

Into this delicious region Seged summoned all the persons of his court,
who seemed eminently qualified to receive or communicate pleasure. His
call was readily obeyed; the young, the fair, the vivacious, and the
witty, were all in haste to be sated with felicity. They sailed jocund
over the lake, which seemed to smooth its surface before them: their
passage was cheered with musick, and their hearts dilated with
expectation.

Seged, landing here with his band of pleasure, determined from that hour
to break off all acquaintance with discontent, to give his heart for ten
days to ease and jollity, and then fall back to the common state of man,
and suffer his life to be diversified, as before, with joy and sorrow.

He immediately entered his chamber, to consider where he should begin
his circle of happiness. He had all the artists of delight before him,
but knew not whom to call, since he could not enjoy one, but by delaying
the performance of another. He chose and rejected, he resolved and
changed his resolution, till his faculties were harassed, and his
thoughts confused; then returned to the apartment where his presence was
expected, with languid eyes and clouded countenance, and spread the
infection of uneasiness over the whole assembly. He observed their
depression, and was offended, for he found his vexation increased by
those whom he expected to dissipate and relieve it. He retired again to
his private chamber, and sought for consolation in his own mind; one
thought flowed in upon another; a long succession of images seized his
attention; the moments crept imperceptibly away through the gloom of
pensiveness, till, having recovered his tranquillity, he lifted his
head, and saw the lake brightened by the setting sun. "Such," said
Seged, sighing, "is the longest day of human existence: before we have
learned to use it, we find it at, an end."

The regret which he felt for the loss of so great a part of his first
day, took from him all disposition to enjoy the evening; and, after
having endeavoured, for the sake of his attendants, to force an air of
gaiety, and excite that mirth which he could not share, he resolved to
refer his hopes to the next morning, and lay down to partake with the
slaves of labour and poverty the blessing of sleep.

He rose early the second morning, and resolved now to be happy. He
therefore fixed upon the gate of the palace an edict, importing, that
whoever, during nine days, should appear in the presence of the king
with a dejected countenance, or utter any expression of discontent or
sorrow, should be driven for ever from the palace of Dambea.

This edict was immediately made known in every chamber of the court, and
bower of the gardens. Mirth was frighted away, and they who were before
dancing in the lawns, or singing in the shades, were at once engaged in
the care of regulating their looks, that Seged might find his will
punctually obeyed, and see none among them liable to banishment.

Seged now met every face settled in a smile; but a smile that betrayed
solicitude, timidity, and constraint. He accosted his favourites with
familiarity and softness; but they durst not speak without
premeditation, lest they should be convicted of discontent or sorrow. He
proposed diversions, to which no objection was made, because objection
would have implied uneasiness; but they were regarded with indifference
by the courtiers, who had no other desire than to signalize themselves
by clamorous exultation. He offered various topicks of conversation, but
obtained only forced jests, and laborious laughter; and after many
attempts to animate his train to confidence and alacrity, was obliged to
confess to himself the impotence of command, and resign another day to
grief and disappointment.

He at last relieved his companions from their terrours, and shut himself
up in his chamber to ascertain, by different measures, the felicity of
the succeeding days. At length he threw himself on the bed, and closed
his eyes, but imagined, in his sleep, that his palace and gardens were
overwhelmed by an inundation, and waked with all the terrours of a man
struggling in the water. He composed himself again to rest, but was
affrighted by an imaginary irruption into his kingdom; and striving, as
is usual in dreams, without ability to move, fancied himself betrayed to
his enemies, and again started up with horrour and indignation.

It was now day, and fear was so strongly impressed on his mind, that he
could sleep no more. He rose, but his thoughts were filled with the
deluge and invasion, nor was he able to disengage his attention, or
mingle with vacancy and ease in any amusement. At length his
perturbation gave way to reason, and he resolved no longer to be
harassed by visionary miseries; but, before this resolution could be
completed, half the day had elapsed: he felt a new conviction of the
uncertainty of human schemes, and could not forbear to bewail the
weakness of that being whose quiet was to be interrupted by vapours of
the fancy. Having been first disturbed by a dream, he afterwards grieved
that a dream could disturb him. He at last discovered, that his terrours
and grief were equally vain, and that to lose the present in lamenting
the past, was voluntarily to protract a melancholy vision. The third day
was now declining, and Seged again resolved to be happy on the morrow.



No. 205. TUESDAY, MARCH 3, 1752.

  _Volat ambiguis
  Mobilis alis hora, nec ulli
  Præstat velox Fortuna fidem_. SENECA. Hippol. 1141.

  On fickle wings the minutes haste,
  And fortune's favours never last. F. LEWIS.

On the fourth morning Seged rose early, refreshed with sleep, vigorous
with health, and eager with expectation. He entered the garden, attended
by the princes and ladies of his court, and seeing nothing about him but
airy cheerfulness, began to say to his heart, "This day shall be a day
of pleasure." The sun played upon the water, the birds warbled in the
groves, and the gales quivered among the branches. He roved from walk to
walk as chance directed him, and sometimes listened to the songs,
sometimes mingled with the dancers, sometimes let loose his imagination
in flights of merriment; and sometimes uttered grave reflections, and
sententious maxims, and feasted on the admiration with which they were
received.

Thus the day rolled on, without any accident of vexation, or intrusion
of melancholy thoughts. All that beheld him caught gladness from his
looks, and the sight of happiness conferred by himself filled his heart
with satisfaction: but having passed three hours in this harmless
luxury, he was alarmed on a sudden by an universal scream among the
women, and turning back saw the whole assembly flying in confusion. A
young crocodile had risen out of the lake, and was ranging the garden in
wantonness or hunger. Seged beheld him with indignation, as a disturber
of his felicity, and chased him back into the lake, but could not
persuade his retinue to stay, or free their hearts from the terrour
which had seized upon them. The princesses inclosed themselves in the
palace, and could yet scarcely believe themselves in safety. Every
attention was fixed upon the late danger and escape, and no mind was any
longer at leisure for gay sallies or careless prattle.

Seged had now no other employment than to contemplate the innumerable
casualties which lie in ambush on every side to intercept the happiness
of man, and break in upon the hour of delight and tranquillity. He had,
however, the consolation of thinking, that he had not been now
disappointed by his own fault, and that the accident which had blasted
the hopes of the day, might easily be prevented by future caution.

That he might provide for the pleasure of the next morning, he resolved
to repeal his penal edict, since he had already found that discontent
and melancholy were not to be frighted away by the threats of authority,
and that pleasure would only reside where she was exempted from control.
He therefore invited all the companions of his retreat to unbounded
pleasantry, by proposing prizes for those who should, on the following
day, distinguish themselves by any festive performances; the tables of
the antechamber were covered with gold and pearls, and robes and
garlands decreed the rewards of those who could refine elegance or
heighten pleasure.

At this display of riches every eye immediately sparkled, and every
tongue was busied in celebrating the bounty and magnificence of the
emperour. But when Seged entered, in hopes of uncommon entertainment
from universal emulation, he found that any passion too strongly
agitated, puts an end to that tranquillity which is necessary to mirth,
and that the mind, that is to be moved by the gentle ventilations of
gaiety, must be first smoothed by a total calm. Whatever we ardently
wish to gain, we must in the same degree be afraid to lose, and fear and
pleasure cannot dwell together.

All was now care and solicitude. Nothing was done or spoken, but with so
visible an endeavour at perfection, as always failed to delight, though
it sometimes forced admiration: and Seged could not but observe with
sorrow, that his prizes had more influence than himself. As the evening
approached, the contest grew more earnest, and those who were forced to
allow themselves excelled, began to discover the malignity of defeat,
first by angry glances, and at last by contemptuous murmurs. Seged
likewise shared the anxiety of the day, for considering himself as
obliged to distribute with exact justice the prizes which had been so
zealously sought, he durst never remit his attention, but passed his
time upon the rack of doubt, in balancing different kinds of merit, and
adjusting the claims of all the competitors.

At last, knowing that no exactness could satisfy those whose hopes he
should disappoint, and thinking that on a day set apart for happiness,
it would be cruel to oppress any heart with sorrow, he declared that all
had pleased him alike, and dismissed all with presents of equal value.

Seged soon saw that his caution had not been able to avoid offence. They
who had believed themselves secure of the highest prizes, were not
pleased to be levelled with the crowd: and though, by the liberality of
the king, they received more than his promise had entitled them to
expect, they departed unsatisfied, because they were honoured with no
distinction, and wanted an opportunity to triumph in the mortification
of their opponents. "Behold here," said Seged, "the condition of him who
places his happiness in the happiness of others." He then retired to
meditate, and, while the courtiers were repining at his distributions,
saw the fifth sun go down in discontent.

The next dawn renewed his resolution to be happy. But having learned how
little he could effect by settled schemes or preparatory measures, he
thought it best to give up one day entirely to chance, and left every
one to please and be pleased his own way.

This relaxation of regularity diffused a general complacence through the
whole court, and the emperour imagined that he had at last found the
secret of obtaining an interval of felicity. But as he was roving in
this careless assembly with equal carelessness, he overheard one of his
courtiers in a close arbour murmuring alone: "What merit has Seged above
us, that we should thus fear and obey him, a man, whom, whatever he may
have formerly performed, his luxury now shows to have the same weakness
with ourselves." This charge affected him the more, as it was uttered by
one whom he had always observed among the most abject of his flatterers.
At first his indignation prompted him to severity; but reflecting, that
what was spoken without intention to be heard, was to be considered as
only thought, and was perhaps but the sudden burst of casual and
temporary vexation, he invented some decent pretence to send him away,
that his retreat might not be tainted with the breath of envy, and,
after the struggle of deliberation was past, and all desire of revenge
utterly suppressed, passed the evening not only with tranquillity, but
triumph, though none but himself was conscious of the victory.

The remembrance of his clemency cheered the beginning of the seventh
day, and nothing happened to disturb the pleasure of Seged, till,
looking on the tree that shaded him, he recollected, that, under a tree
of the same kind he had passed the night after his defeat in the kingdom
of Goiama. The reflection on his loss, his dishonour, and the miseries
which his subjects suffered from the invader, filled him with sadness.
At last he shook off the weight of sorrow, and began to solace himself
with his usual pleasures, when his tranquillity was again disturbed by
jealousies which the late contest for the prizes had produced, and
which, having in vain tried to pacify them by persuasion, he was forced
to silence by command.

On the eighth morning Seged was awakened early by an unusual hurry in
the apartments, and inquiring the cause, was told that the princess
Balkis was seized with sickness. He rose, and calling the physicians,
found that they had little hope of her recovery. Here was an end of
jollity: all his thoughts were now upon his daughter, whose eyes he
closed on the tenth day.

Such were the days which Seged of Ethiopia had appropriated to a short
respiration from the fatigues of war and the cares of government. This
narrative he has bequeathed to future generations, that no man hereafter
may presume to say, "This day shall be a day of happiness."



No. 206. SATURDAY, MARCH 7, 1752.

  _--Propositi nondum pudet, atque eadem est mens,
  Ut bona summa putes, alienâ vivere quadrâ_. JUV. Sat. v. 1.

  But harden'd by affronts, and still the same,
  Lost to all sense of honour and of fame,
  Thou yet canst love to haunt the great man's board,
  And think no supper good but with a lord. BOWLES.

When Diogenes was once asked, what kind of wine he liked best? he
answered, "That which is drunk at the cost of others."

Though the character of Diogenes has never excited any general zeal of
imitation, there are many who resemble him in his taste of wine; many
who are frugal, though not abstemious; whose appetites, though too
powerful for reason, are kept under restraint by avarice; and to whom
all delicacies lose their flavour, when they cannot be obtained but at
their own expense.

Nothing produces more singularity of manners and inconstancy of life,
than the conflict of opposite vices in the same mind. He that uniformly
pursues any purpose, whether good or bad, has a settled principle of
action; and as he may always find associates who are travelling the same
way, is countenanced by example, and sheltered in the multitude; but a
man, actuated at once by different desires, must move in a direction
peculiar to himself, and suffer that reproach which we are naturally
inclined to bestow on those who deviate from the rest of the world, even
without inquiring whether they are worse or better.

Yet this conflict of desires sometimes produces wonderful efforts. To
riot in far-fetched dishes, or surfeit with unexhausted variety, and yet
practise the most rigid economy, is surely an art which may justly draw
the eyes of mankind upon them whose industry or judgment has enabled
them to attain it. To him, indeed, who is content to break open the
chests, or mortgage the manours, of his ancestors, that he may hire the
ministers of excess at the highest price, gluttony is an easy science;
yet we often hear the votaries of luxury boasting of the elegance which
they owe to the taste of others, relating with rapture the succession of
dishes with which their cooks and caterers supply them; and expecting
their share of praise with the discoverers of arts and the civilizers of
nations. But to shorten the way to convivial happiness, by eating
without cost, is a secret hitherto in few hands, but which certainly
deserves the curiosity of those whose principal enjoyment is their
dinner, and who see the sun rise with no other hope than that they shall
fill their bellies before it sets.

Of them that have within my knowledge attempted this scheme of
happiness, the greater part have been immediately obliged to desist; and
some, whom their first attempts flattered with success, were reduced by
degrees to a few tables, from which they were at last chased to make way
for others; and having long habituated themselves to superfluous plenty,
growled away their latter years in discontented competence.

None enter the regions of luxury with higher expectations than men of
wit, who imagine, that they shall never want a welcome to that company
whose ideas they can enlarge, or whose imaginations they can elevate,
and believe themselves able to pay for their wine with the mirth which
it qualifies them to produce. Full of this opinion, they crowd with
little invitation, wherever the smell of a feast allures them, but are
seldom encouraged to repeat their visits, being dreaded by the pert as
rivals, and hated by the dull as disturbers of the company.

No man has been so happy in gaining and keeping the privilege of living
at luxurious houses as Gulosulus, who, after thirty years of continual
revelry, has now established, by uncontroverted prescription, his claim
to partake of every entertainment, and whose presence they who aspire to
the praise of a sumptuous table are careful to procure on a day of
importance, by sending the invitation a fortnight before.

Gulosulus entered the world without any eminent degree of merit; but was
careful to frequent houses where persons of rank resorted. By being
often seen, he became in time known; and, from sitting in the same room,
was suffered to mix in idle conversation, or assisted to fill up a
vacant hour, when better amusement was not readily to be had. From the
coffee-house he was sometimes taken away to dinner; and as no man
refuses the acquaintance of him whom he sees admitted to familiarity by
others of equal dignity, when he had been met at a few tables, he with
less difficulty found the way to more, till at last he was regularly
expected to appear wherever preparations are made for a feast, within
the circuit of his acquaintance.

When he was thus by accident initiated in luxury, he felt in himself no
inclination to retire from a life of so much pleasure, and therefore
very seriously considered how he might continue it. Great qualities, or
uncommon accomplishments, he did not find necessary; for he had already
seen that merit rather enforces respect than attracts fondness; and as
he thought no folly greater than that of losing a dinner for any other
gratification, he often congratulated himself, that he had none of that
disgusting excellence which impresses awe upon greatness, and condemns
its possessors to the society of those who are wise or brave, and
indigent as themselves.

Gulosulus, having never allotted much of his time to books or
meditation, had no opinion in philosophy or politicks, and was not in
danger of injuring his interest by dogmatical positions or violent
contradiction. If a dispute arose, he took care to listen with earnest
attention; and, when either speaker grew vehement and loud, turned
towards him with eager quickness, and uttered a short phrase of
admiration, as if surprised by such cogency of argument as he had never
known before. By this silent concession, he generally preserved in
either controvertist such a conviction of his own superiority, as
inclined him rather to pity than irritate his adversary, and prevented
those outrages which are sometimes produced by the rage of defeat, or
petulance of triumph.

Gulosulus was never embarrassed but when he was required to declare his
sentiments before he had been able to discover to which side the master
of the house inclined, for it was his invariable rule to adopt the
notions of those that invited him.

It will sometimes happen that the insolence of wealth breaks into
contemptuousness, or the turbulence of wine requires a vent; and
Gulosulus seldom fails of being singled out on such emergencies, as one
on whom any experiment of ribaldry may be safely tried. Sometimes his
lordship finds himself inclined to exhibit a specimen of raillery for
the diversion of his guests, and Gulosulus always supplies him with a
subject of merriment. But he has learned to consider rudeness and
indignities as familiarities that entitle him to greater freedom: he
comforts himself, that those who treat and insult him pay for their
laughter, and that he keeps his money while they enjoy their jest.

His chief policy consists in selecting some dish from every course, and
recommending it to the company, with an air so decisive, that no one
ventures to contradict him. By this practice he acquires at a feast a
kind of dictatorial authority; his taste becomes the standard of pickles
and seasoning, and he is venerated by the professors of epicurism, as
the only man who understands the niceties of cookery.

Whenever a new sauce is imported, or any innovation made in the culinary
system, he procures the earliest intelligence, and the most authentick
receipt; and, by communicating his knowledge under proper injunctions of
secrecy, gains a right of tasting his own dish whenever it is prepared,
that he may tell whether his directions have been fully understood.

By this method of life Gulosulus has so impressed on his imagination the
dignity of feasting, that he has no other topick of talk, or subject of
meditation. His calendar is a bill of fare; he measures the year by
successive dainties. The only common-places of his memory are his meals;
and if you ask him at what time an event happened, he considers whether
he heard it after a dinner of turbot or venison. He knows, indeed, that
those who value themselves upon sense, learning, or piety, speak of him
with contempt; but he considers them as wretches, envious or ignorant,
who do not know his happiness, or wish to supplant him; and declares to
his friends, that he is fully satisfied with his own conduct, since he
has fed every day on twenty dishes, and yet doubled his estate.



No. 207. TUESDAY, MARCH 10, 1752.

  _Solve senescentem mature sanus equum, ne
  Peccet ad extremum ridendus.--_ HOR. Lib. i. Ep. i. 8.

  The voice of reason cries with winning force,
  Loose from the rapid car your aged horse,
  Lest, in the race derided, left behind,
  He drag his jaded limbs, and burst his wind. FRANCIS.

Such is the emptiness of human enjoyment, that we are always impatient
of the present. Attainment is followed by neglect, and possession by
disgust; and the malicious remark of the Greek epigrammatist on marriage
may be applied to every other course of life, that its two days of
happiness are the first and the last.

Few moments are more pleasing than those in which the mind is concerting
measures for a new undertaking. From the first hint that wakens the
fancy, till the hour of actual execution, all is improvement and
progress, triumph and felicity. Every hour brings additions to the
original scheme, suggests some new expedient to secure success, or
discovers consequential advantages not hitherto foreseen. While
preparations are made, and materials accumulated, day glides after day
through elysian prospects, and the heart dances to the song of hope.

Such is the pleasure of projecting, that many content themselves with a
succession of visionary schemes, and wear out their allotted time in the
calm amusement of contriving what they never attempt or hope to execute.

Others, not able to feast their imagination with pure ideas, advance
somewhat nearer to the grossness of action, with great diligence collect
whatever is requisite to their design, and, after a thousand researches
and consultations, are snatched away by death, as they stand _in
procinctu_, waiting for a proper opportunity to begin.

If there were no other end of life, than to find some adequate solace
for every day, I know not whether any condition could be preferred to
that of the man who involves himself in his own thoughts, and never
suffers experience to show him the vanity of speculation; for no sooner
are notions reduced to practice, than tranquillity and confidence
forsake the breast; every day brings its task, and often without
bringing abilities to perform it: difficulties embarrass, uncertainty
perplexes, opposition retards, censure exasperates, or neglect
depresses. We proceed because we have begun; we complete our design,
that the labour already spent may not be vain; but as expectation
gradually dies away, the gay smile of alacrity disappears, we are
compelled to implore severer powers, and trust the event to patience and
constancy.

When once our labour has begun, the comfort that enables us to endure it
is the prospect of its end; for though in every long work there are some
joyous intervals of self-applause, when the attention is recreated by
unexpected facility, and the imagination soothed by incidental
excellencies; yet the toil with which performance struggles after idea,
is so irksome and disgusting, and so frequent is the necessity of
resting below that perfection which we imagined within our reach, that
seldom any man obtains more from his endeavours than a painful
conviction of his defects, and a continual resuscitation of desires
which he feels himself unable to gratify.

So certainly is weariness the concomitant of our undertakings, that
every man, in whatever he is engaged, consoles himself with the hope of
change; if he has made his way by assiduity to publick employment, he
talks among his friends of the delight of retreat; if by the necessity
of solitary application he is secluded from the world, he listens with a
beating heart to distant noises, longs to mingle with living beings, and
resolves to take hereafter his fill of diversions, or display his
abilities on the universal theatre, and enjoy the pleasure of
distinction and applause.

Every desire, however innocent, grows dangerous, as by long indulgence
it becomes ascendant in the mind. When we have been much accustomed to
consider any thing as capable of giving happiness, it is not easy to
restrain our ardour, or to forbear some precipitation in our advances,
and irregularity in our pursuits. He that has cultivated the tree,
watched the swelling bud and opening blossom, and pleased himself with
computing how much every sun and shower add to its growth, scarcely
stays till the fruit has obtained its maturity, but defeats his own
cares by eagerness to reward them. When we have diligently laboured for
any purpose, we are willing to believe that we have attained it, and,
because we have already done much, too suddenly conclude that no more is
to be done.

All attraction is increased by the approach of the attracting body. We
never find ourselves so desirous to finish as in the latter part of our
work, or so impatient of delay, as when we know that delay cannot be
long. This unseasonable importunity of discontent may be partly imputed
to languor and weariness, which must always oppress those more whose
toil has been longer continued; but the greater part usually proceeds
from frequent contemplation of that ease which is now considered as
within reach, and which, when it has once flattered our hopes, we cannot
suffer to be withheld.

In some of the noblest compositions of wit, the conclusion falls below
the vigour and spirit of the first books; and as a genius is not to be
degraded by the imputation of human failings, the cause of this
declension is commonly sought in the structure of the work, and
plausible reasons are given why, in the defective part, less ornament
was necessary, or less could be admitted. But, perhaps, the author would
have confessed, that his fancy was tired, and his perseverance broken;
that he knew his design to be unfinished, but that, when he saw the end
so near, he could no longer refuse to be at rest.

Against the instillations of this frigid opiate, the heart should be
secured by all the considerations which once concurred to kindle the
ardour of enterprise. Whatever motive first incited action, has still
greater force to stimulate perseverance; since he that might have lain
still at first in blameless obscurity, cannot afterwards desist but with
infamy and reproach. He, whom a doubtful promise of distant good could
encourage to set difficulties at defiance, ought not to remit his
vigour, when he has almost obtained his recompense. To faint or loiter,
when only the last efforts are required, is to steer the ship through
tempests, and abandon it to the winds in sight of land; it is to break
the ground and scatter the seed, and at last to neglect the harvest.

The masters of rhetorick direct, that the most forcible arguments be
produced in the latter part of an oration, lest they should be effaced
or perplexed by supervenient images. This precept may be justly extended
to the series of life: nothing is ended with honour, which does not
conclude better than it began. It is not sufficient to maintain the
first vigour; for excellence loses its effect upon the mind by custom,
as light after a time ceases to dazzle. Admiration must be continued by
that novelty which first produced it, and how much soever is given,
there must always be reason to imagine that more remains.

We not only are most sensible of the last impressions, but such is the
unwillingness of mankind to admit transcendant merit, that, though it be
difficult to obliterate the reproach of miscarriages by any subsequent
achievement, however illustrious, yet the reputation raised by a long
train of success may be finally ruined by a single failure; for weakness
or errour will be always remembered by that malice and envy which it
gratifies.

For the prevention of that disgrace, which lassitude and negligence may
bring at last upon the greatest performances, it is necessary to
proportion carefully our labour to our strength. If the design comprises
many parts, equally essential, and, therefore, not to be separated, the
only time for caution is before we engage; the powers of the mind must
be then impartially estimated, and it must be remembered that, not to
complete the plan, is not to have begun it; and that nothing is done
while any thing is omitted.

But, if the task consists in the repetition of single acts, no one of
which derives its efficacy from the rest, it may be attempted with less
scruple, because there is always opportunity to retreat with honour. The
danger is only, lest we expect from the world the indulgence with which
most are disposed to treat themselves; and in the hour of listlessness
imagine, that the diligence of one day will atone for the idleness of
another, and that applause begun by approbation will be continued by
habit.

He that is himself weary will soon weary the publick. Let him therefore
lay down his employment, whatever it be, who can no longer exert his
former activity or attention; let him not endeavour to struggle with
censure, or obstinately infest the stage till a general hiss commands
him to depart.



No. 208. SATURDAY, MARCH 14, 1752.

  [Greek: Aerakleitos ego ti me o kato helket amousoi,
    Ouch hymin eponoun, tois de m' episgamenoi;
  Eis emoi anthropos trismurioi; oi d' anarithmoi
    Oudeis; taut audo kai para Persephonae] DIOG. LAERT.

  Begone, ye blockheads, Heraclitus cries,
  And leave my labours to the learn'd and wise;
  By wit, by knowledge, studious to be read,
  I scorn the multitude, alive and dead.

 Time, which puts an end to all human pleasures and sorrows, has
likewise concluded the labours of the Rambler. Having supported, for two
years, the anxious employment of a periodical writer, and multiplied my
essays to upwards of two hundred, I have now determined to desist.

The reasons of this resolution it is of little importance to declare,
since justification is unnecessary when no objection is made. I am far
from supposing, that the cessation of my performances will raise any
inquiry, for I have never been much a favourite of the publick, nor can
boast that, in the progress of my undertaking, I have been animated by
the rewards of the liberal, the caresses of the great, or the praises of
the eminent.

But I have no design to gratify pride by submission, or malice by
lamentation; nor think it reasonable to complain of neglect from those
whose regard I never solicited. If I have not been distinguished by the
distributors of literary honours, I have seldom descended to the arts by
which favour is obtained. I have seen the meteors of fashions rise and
fall, without any attempt to add a moment to their duration. I have
never complied with temporary curiosity, nor enabled my readers to
discuss the topick of the day; I have rarely exemplified my assertions
by living characters; in my papers, no man could look for censures of
his enemies, or praises of himself; and they only were expected to
peruse them, whose passions left them leisure for abstracted truth, and
whom virtue could please by its naked dignity.

To some, however, I am indebted for encouragement, and to others for
assistance. The number of my friends was never great, but they have been
such as would not suffer me to think that I was writing in vain, and I
did not feel much dejection from the want of popularity.

My obligations having not been frequent, my acknowledgments may be soon
despatched. I can restore to all my correspondents their productions,
with little diminution of the bulk of my volumes, though not without the
loss of some pieces to which particular honours have been paid.

The parts from which I claim no other praise than that of having given
them an opportunity of appearing, are the four billets in the tenth
paper, the second letter in the fifteenth, the thirtieth, the
forty-fourth, the ninety-seventh, and the hundredth papers, and the
second letter in the hundred and seventh.

Having thus deprived myself of many excuses which candour might have
admitted for the inequality of my compositions, being no longer able to
allege the necessity of gratifying correspondents, the importunity with
which publication was solicited, or obstinacy with which correction was
rejected, I must remain accountable for all my faults, and submit,
without subterfuge, to the censures of criticism, which, however, I
shall not endeavour to soften by a formal deprecation, or to overbear by
the influence of a patron. The supplications of an author never yet
reprieved him a moment from oblivion; and, though greatness has
sometimes sheltered guilt, it can afford no protection to ignorance or
dulness. Having hitherto attempted only the propagation of truth, I will
not at last violate it by the confession of terrours which I do not
feel; having laboured to maintain the dignity of virtue, I will not now
degrade it by the meanness of dedication.

The seeming vanity with which I have sometimes spoken of myself, would
perhaps require an apology, were it not extenuated by the example of
those who have published essays before me, and by the privilege which
every nameless writer has been hitherto allowed. "A mask," says
Castiglione, "confers a right of acting and speaking with less
restraint, even when the wearer happens to be known." He that is
discovered without his own consent, may claim some indulgence, and
cannot be rigorously called to justify those sallies or frolicks which
his disguise must prove him desirous to conceal.

But I have been cautious lest this offence should be frequently or
grossly committed; for, as one of the philosophers directs us to live
with a friend, as with one that is some time to become an enemy, I have
always thought it the duty of an anonymous author to write, as if he
expected to be hereafter known.

I am willing to flatter myself with hopes, that, by collecting these
papers, I am not preparing, for my future life, either shame or
repentance. That all are happily imagined, or accurately polished, that
the same sentiments have not sometimes recurred, or the same expressions
been too frequently repeated, I have not confidence in my abilities
sufficient to warrant. He that condemns himself to compose on a stated
day, will often bring to his task an attention dissipated, a memory
embarrassed, an imagination overwhelmed, a mind distracted with
anxieties, a body languishing with disease: he will labour on a barren
topick, till it is too late to change it; or, in the ardour of
invention, diffuse his thoughts into wild exuberance, which the pressing
hour of publication cannot suffer judgment to examine or reduce.

Whatever shall be the final sentence of mankind, I have at least
endeavoured to deserve their kindness. I have laboured to refine our
language to grammatical purity, and to clear it from colloquial
barbarisms, licentious idioms, and irregular combinations. Something,
perhaps, I have added to the elegance of its construction, and something
to the harmony of its cadence. When common words were less pleasing to
the ear, or less distinct in their signification, I have familiarized
the terms of philosophy, by applying them to popular ideas, but have
rarely admitted any words not authorized by former writers; for I
believe that whoever knows the English tongue in its present extent,
will be able to express his thoughts without further help from other
nations.

As it has been my principal design to inculcate wisdom or piety, I have
allotted few papers to the idle sports of imagination. Some, perhaps,
may be found, of which the highest excellence is harmless merriment; but
scarcely any man is so steadily serious as not to complain, that the
severity of dictatorial instruction has been too seldom relieved, and
that he is driven by the sternness of the Rambler's philosophy to more
cheerful and airy companions.

Next to the excursions of fancy are the disquisitions of criticism,
which, in my opinion, is only to be ranked among the subordinate and
instrumental arts. Arbitrary decision and general exclamation I have
carefully avoided, by asserting nothing without a reason, and
establishing all my principles of judgment on unalterable and evident
truth.

In the pictures of life I have never been so studious of novelty or
surprise, as to depart wholly from all resemblance; a fault which
writers deservedly celebrated frequently commit, that they may raise, as
the occasion requires, either mirth or abhorrence. Some enlargement may
be allowed to declamation, and some exaggeration to burlesque; but as
they deviate farther from reality, they become less useful, because
their lessons will fail of application. The mind of the reader is
carried away from the contemplation of his own manners; he finds in
himself no likeness to the phantom before him; and though he laughs or
rages, is not reformed.

The essays professedly serious, if I have been able to execute my own
intentions, will be found exactly conformable to the precepts of
Christianity, without any accommodation to the licentiousness and levity
of the present age. I therefore look back on this part of my work with
pleasure, which no blame or praise of man shall diminish or augment. I
shall never envy the honours which wit and learning obtain in any other
cause, if I can be numbered among the writers who have given ardour to
virtue, and confidence to truth.

  [Greek: Auton ek makaron autaxios eiae amoibae.]

  Celestial pow'rs! that piety regard,
  From you my labours wait their last reward.

END OF VOL. III.