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The Works of Samuel Johnson, LL.D. in Nine Volumes, Volume 03

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Title: The Works of Samuel Johnson, LL.D. in Nine Volumes, Volume 03

Author: Samuel Johnson


        
Release date: March 1, 2004 [eBook #11397]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. IN NINE VOLUMES, VOLUME 03 ***

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, th

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