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DR. JOHNSON'S WORKS.



THE

ADVENTURER AND IDLER.



THE

WORKS

OF

SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D.

IN NINE VOLUMES.

VOLUME THE FOURTH.


MDCCCXXV.



PREFATORY NOTICE

TO

THE ADVENTURER.

The Adventurer was projected in the year 1752, by Dr. John Hawkesworth.
He was partly induced to undertake the work by his admiration of the
Rambler, which had now ceased to appear, the style and sentiments of
which evidently, from his commencement, he made the models of his
imitation.

The first number was published on the seventh of November, 1752. The
quantity and price were the same as the Rambler, and also the days of
its appearance. He was joined in his labours by Dr. Johnson in 1753,
whose first paper is dated March 3, of that year; and after its
publication Johnson applied to his friend, Dr. Joseph Warton, for his
assistance, which was afforded: and the writers then were, besides the
projector Dr. Hawkesworth, Dr. Johnson, Dr. Joseph Warton, Dr. Bathurst,
Colman, Mrs. Chapone and the Hon. Hamilton Boyle, the accomplished son
of Lord Orrery [1].

Our business, however, in the present pages, does not lie with the
Adventurer in general, but only with Dr. Johnson's contributions; which
amount to the number of twenty-nine, beginning with No. 34, and ending
with No. 138.

Much criticism has been employed in appropriating some of them, and the
carelessness of editors has overlooked several that have been
satisfactorily proved to be Johnson's own[2].

Mr. Boswell relies on internal evidence, which is unnecessary, since in
Dr. Warton's copy (and his authority on the subject will scarcely be
disputed) the following remark was found at the end: "The papers marked
T were written by Mr. S. Johnson." Mrs. Anna Williams asserted that he
dictated most of these to Dr. Bathurst, to whom he presented the
profits. The anecdote may well be believed from the usual benevolence of
Johnson and his well-known attachment to that amiable physician, whose
professional knowledge might undoubtedly have enabled him to offer hints
to Johnson in the progress of composition. Thus we may account for the
references to recondite medical writers in No. 39, which so staggered
Boswell and Malone in pronouncing on the genuineness of this paper.
Those who are familiar with Johnson's writings can have little
hesitation, we conceive, in recognising his style, and manner, and
sentiments in those papers which are now published under his name. They
may be considered as a continuation of the Rambler. The same subjects
are discussed; the interests of literature and of literary men, the
emptiness of praise and the vanity of human wishes. The same intimate
knowledge, of the town and its manners is displayed[3]; and occasionally
we are amused with humorous delineation of adventure and of
character[4].

From the greater variety of its subjects, aided, perhaps, by a growing
taste for periodical literature, the sale of the Adventurer was greater
than that of the Rambler on its first appearance. But still there were
those, who "talked of it as a catch-penny performance, carried on by a
set of needy and obscure scribblers[5]." So slowly is a national taste
for letters diffused, and so hardly do works of sterling merit, which
deal not in party-politics, nor exemplify their ethical discussions by
holding out living characters to censure or contempt, win the applause
of those, whose passions leave them no leisure for abstracted truth, and
whom virtue itself cannot please by its naked dignity. But, by such,
Johnson professed, that he had little expectation of his writings being
perused. Keeping then our main object more immediately in view, the
elucidation of Johnson's real character and motives, we cannot but
admire the prompt benevolence, with which he joined Hawkesworth in his
task, and the ready zeal, with which he embraced any opportunity of
promoting the interests of morality and virtue. "To a benevolent
disposition every state of life will afford some opportunities of
contributing to the welfare of mankind," is the characteristic opening
of his first Adventurer. And when we have admired the real excellence of
his heart, we must wonder at the vigour of a mind, which could so
abstract itself from its own sorrows and misfortunes, which too often
deaden our feelings of pity, as to sympathize with others in affliction,
and even to promote innocent cheerfulness. Bowed down by the loss of a
wife[6], on whom he had called from amidst the horrors of a hopeless
melancholy, to "hide him from the ills of life," and depressed by
poverty, "that numbs the soul with icy hand," his genius sank not
beneath a load, which might have crushed the loftiest; but the
"incumbrances of his fortune were shaken from his mind, 'as dew-drops
from a lion's mane[7].'"

The same pure and exalted morality, which stamps their chief value on
the pages of the Rambler, instructs us in the lessons of the Adventurer.
Here is no cold doctrine of expediency or dangerous speculations on
moral approbation, no easy virtue which can be practised without a
struggle, and which interdicts the gratification of no passion but
malice: here is no compromise of personal sensuality, for an endurance
of others' frailties, amounting to an indifference of moral distinctions
altogether. Johnson boldly and, at once, propounds the real motives to
Christian conduct; and does not, with some ethical writers, in a slavish
dread of interfering with the more immediate office of the divine, hold
out slender inducements to virtuous action, which can never give us
strength to stem the torrent of passion; but holding with the acute Owen
Feltham[8], "that, as true religion cannot be without morality, no more
can morality, that is right, be without religion," Johnson ever directs
our attention, not to the world's smile or frown, but to the discharge
of the duty which Providence assigns us, by the consideration of the
awful approach of that night when no man can work. To conclude with the
appropriate words of an eloquent writer, "in his sublime discussions of
the most sacred truths, as no style can be too lofty nor conceptions too
grand for such a subject, so has the great master never exerted the
powers of his great genius with more signal success. Impiety shrinks
beneath his rebuke; the atheist trembles and repents; the dying sinner
catches a gleam of revealed hope; and all acknowledge the just
dispensations of eternal Wisdom[9]."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] For the general history of the Adventurer, the reader may be
    referred to Chalmers' British Essayists, xxiii, Dr. Drake's Essays
    on Rambler, Adventurer, &c. ii, and Boswell's Journal, 3rd edit. p.
    240.

[2] Five of these, Nos. 39, 67, 74, 81, and 128, which Sir John Hawkins
    omitted to arrange among the writings of Johnson, are given in this
    edition.

[3] See particularly the Letters of Misagargyrus.

[4] The description in No. 84, of the incidents of a stage-coach
    journey, so often imitated by succeeding writers, but, perhaps,
    never surpassed, will exemplify the above remark.

[5] See Lounger, No. 30.

[6] "I have heard, he means to occasionally throw some papers into the
    Daily Advertiser; but he has not begun yet, as he is in great
    affliction, I fear, poor man, for the loss of his wife."--Letter
    from Miss Talbot to Mrs. Carter. Mrs. Johnson died March 17, 1752.

[7] See the Preface to Shakespeare.

[8] Owen Feltham's Resolves.

[9] Indian Observer, No. 1, 1793. See likewise Adventurers, Nos. 120,
    126, 128.




PREFATORY NOTICE

TO

THE IDLER.


The Idler may be ranked among the best attempts which have been made to
render our common newspapers the medium of rational amusement; and it
maintained its ground in this character longer than any of the papers
which have been brought forward by Colman and others on the same
plan[1]. Dr. Johnson first inserted this production in the Universal
Chronicle, or Weekly Gazette, April 15, 1758, four years after he had
desisted from his labours as an essayist. It would seem probable, that
Newbery, the publisher of the Chronicle, projected it as a vehicle for
Johnson's essays, since it ceased to appear when its pages were no
longer enlivened by the humour of the Idler.

It is well known, that Johnson was not "built of the press and pen[2]"
when he composed the Rambler; but his sphere of observation had been
much enlarged since its publication, and his more ample means no longer
suffered his genius to be "limited by the narrow conversation, to which
men in want are inevitably condemned[3]." "The sublime philosophy of the
Rambler cannot properly be said to have portrayed the manners of the
times; it has seldom touched on subjects so transient and fugitive, but
has displayed the more fixed and invariable operations of the human
heart[4]." But the Idler breathes more of a worldly spirit, and savours
less of the closet than Johnson's earlier essays; and, accordingly, we
find delineated in its diversified pages the manners and characters of
the day in amusing variety and contrast.

Written professedly for a paper of miscellaneous intelligence, the Idler
dwells on the passing incidents of the day, whether serious or light[5],
and abounds with party and political allusion. Johnson ever surveyed
mankind with the eye of a philosopher; but his own easier circumstances
would now present the world's aspect to him in brighter, fairer colours.
Besides, he could, with more propriety and less risk of misapprehension,
venture to trifle now, than when first he addressed the public.

The World[6] had diffused its precepts, and corrected the fluctuating
manners of fashion, in the tone of fashionable raillery; and the
Connoisseur[7], by its gay and sparkling effusions, had forwarded the
advance of the public mind to that last stage of intellectual
refinement, in which alone a relish exists for delicate and half latent
irony. The plain and literal citizens of an earlier period, who conned
over what was "so nominated in the bend," would have misapprehended that
graceful playfulness of satire, elegant and fanciful as ever charmed the
leisure of the literary loungers of Athens. For, in the writings of
Bonnel Thornton and Colman, the philosophy of Aristippus may indeed be
said to be revived[8]. We would not, however, be supposed, by these
allusions, to imply that all the papers of the Idler are light and
sportive; or that Johnson for a moment lost sight of a grand moral end
in all his discussions. His mind only accommodated itself to the
circumstances in which it was placed, and diligently sought to avail
itself of each varying opportunity to admonish and to benefit, whether
from the chair of philosophic reproof or in the cheerful, social circle.
Whatever faults have been charged upon the Idler may be traced, we
conceive, to this source. Nobody at times, said Johnson, talks more
laxly than I do[9]. And this acknowledged propensity may well be
presumed to have affected the humorous and almost conversational tone of
the work before us. In the conscious pride of mental might and in the
easier moments of conversations, that illuminated the minds of
Reynolds[10] and of Burke, Johnson delighted to indulge in a lively
sophistry which might sometimes deceive himself, when at first he merely
wished to sport in elegant raillery or ludicrous paradox. When these
sallies were recorded and brought to bear against him on future
occasions, irritated at their misconstruction and conscious to himself
of an upright intention, or at most of only a wish to promote innocent
cheerfulness, he was too stubborn in retracting what he had thus
advanced. Hence, when menaced with a prosecution for his definition of
Excise in his Dictionary, so far from offering apology or promising
alteration, he called, in his Idler, a Commissioner of Excise the lowest
of human beings, and classes him with the scribbler for a party[11]. So
strange a definition and still less pardonable adherence to it can only
be justified on the ground of Johnson's warm feelings for the comfort of
the middle class of society. He knew that the execution of the excise
laws involved an intrusion into the privacies of domestic life, and
often violated the fireside of the unoffending and quiet tradesman. He,
therefore, disliked those laws altogether, and his warm-hearted
disposition would not allow him to calculate on their abstract
advantages with modern political economists, who, in their generalizing
doctrines, too frequently overlook individual comfort and interests. His
remarks, in the same paper, on the edition of the Pleas of the Crown
cannot be thus vindicated, and we must here lament an error in an
otherwise honest and well-intentioned mind[12]. Every impartial reader
of his works may thus easily trace to their origin Johnson's chief
political errors, and his research must terminate in admiration of a
writer, who never prostituted his pen to fear or favour; and who, though
erroneous often in his estimate of men and measures, still, in his
support of a party, firmly believed himself to be the advocate of
morality and right. His tenderness of spirit, his firm principles and
his deep sense of the emptiness of human pursuits are visible amidst the
lighter papers of the Idler, and his serious reflections are, perhaps,
more strikingly affecting as contrasted with mirthfulness and
pleasantry.

His concluding paper and the one[13] on the death of his mother have,
perhaps, never been surpassed. Here is no affectation of sentimentality,
no morbid and puling complaints, but the dignified and chastened
expression of sorrow, which a mind, constituted as Johnson's, must have
experienced on the departure of a mother. A heart, tender and
susceptible of pathetic emotion, as his was, must have deeply felt, how
dreary it is to walk downward to the grave unregarded by her "who has
looked on our childhood." Occasions for more violent and perturbed grief
may occur to us in our passage through life, but the gentle, quiet death
of a mother speaks to us with "still small voice" of our wasting years,
and breaks completely and, at once, our earliest and most cherished
associations. This tenderness of spirit seems ever to have actuated
Johnson, and he is surely greatest when he breathes it forth over the
sorrows and miseries of man. Even in his humorous papers, he never
wounds feeling for the sake of raising a laugh, nor sports with folly,
but in the hope of reclaiming the vicious and with the design of warning
the young of the delusion and danger of an example, which can only be
imitated by the forfeiture of virtue and the practice of vice. "In
whatever he undertook, it was his determined purpose to rectify the
heart, to purify the passions, to give ardour to virtue and confidence
to truth[14]."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The Genius was published by Colman in the St. James's Chronicle,
    1761, 1762. The Gentleman, by the same author, came out in the
    London-Packet, 1775. The Grumbler was the production of the
    Antiquary Grose, and appeared in the English Chronicle, 1791.

[2] Owen Feltham.

[3] Preface to Shakespeare.

[4] Country Spectator, No. 1.

[5] Idler, No. 6.

[6] The World was published in 1753.

[7] The Connoisseur appeared in 1754.

[8] See Dr. Drake's Essays, II.

[9] Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides.

[10] See life of Sir Joshua Reynolds, prefixed to his Works by Malone,
     i. 28, &c.

[11] See Idler, No. 65 and Mr. Chalmers' Preface to vol. 33 of the
     British Essayists.

[12] See Gentleman's Magazine 1706. p. 272.

[13] Idler, No. 41.

[14] See Pursuits of Literature, Dialogue I. note.





CONTENTS OF THE FOURTH VOLUME.


THE ADVENTURER.


34. Folly of extravagance. The story of Misargyrus

39. On sleep

41. Sequel of the story of Misargyrus

45. The difficulty of forming confederacies

50. On lying

53. Misargyrus' account of his companions in the Fleet

58. Presumption of modern criticism censured. Ancient poetry necessarily
    obscure. Examples from Horace

62. Misargyrus' account of his companions concluded

67. On the trades of London

69. Idle hope

74. Apology for neglecting officious advice

81. Incitement to enterprise and emulation. Some account of the
    admirable Crichton

84. Folly of false pretences to importance. A journey in a stagecoach

85. Study, composition, and converse equally necessary to intellectual
    accomplishment

92. Criticism on the Pastorals of Virgil

95. Apology for apparent plagiarism. Sources of literary variety

99. Projectors injudiciously censured and applauded

102. Infelicities of retirement to men of business

107. Different opinions equally plausible

108. On the uncertainty of human things

111. The pleasures and advantages of industry

115. The itch of writing universal

119. The folly of creating artificial wants

120. The miseries of life

126. Solitude not eligible

128. Men differently employed unjustly censured by each other

131. Singularities censured

137. Writers not a useless generation

138. Their happiness and infelicity



THE IDLER.

1. The Idler's character.

2. Invitation to correspondents.

3. Idler's reason for writing.

4. Charities and hospitals.

5. Proposal for a female army.

6. Lady's performance on horseback.

7. Scheme for news-writers.

8. Plan of military discipline.

9. Progress of idleness.

10. Political credulity.

11. Discourses on the weather.

12. Marriages, why advertised.

13. The imaginary housewife.

14. Robbery of time.

15. Treacle's complaint of his wife.

16. Drugget's retirement.

17. Expedients of idlers.

18. Drugget vindicated.

19. Whirler's character.

20. Capture of Louisbourg.

21. Linger's history of listlessness.

22. Imprisonment of debtors.

23. Uncertainty of friendship.

24. Man does not always think.

25. New actors on the stage.

26. Betty Broom's history.

27. Power of habits.

28. Wedding-day. Grocer's wife. Chairman.

29. Betty Broom's history continued.

30. Corruption of news-writers.

31. Disguises of idleness. Sober's character.

32. On Sleep.

33. Journal of a fellow of a college.

34. Punch and conversation compared.

35. Auction-hunter described and ridiculed.

36. The terrific diction ridiculed.

37. Useful things easy of attainment.

38. Cruelty shown to debtors in prison.

39. The various uses of the bracelet.

40. The art of advertising exemplified.

41. Serious reflections on the death of a friend.

42. Perdita's complaint of her father.

43. Monitions on the flight of time.

44. The use of memory considered.

45. On painting. Portraits defended.

46. Molly Quick's complaint of her mistress.

47. Deborah Ginger's account of city-wits.

48. The bustle of idleness described and ridiculed.

49. Marvel's journey narrated.

50. Marvel's journey paralleled.

51. Domestick greatness unattainable.

52. Self-denial necessary.

53. Mischiefs of good company.

54. Mrs. Savecharges' complaint.

55. Authors' mortifications.

56. Virtuosos whimsical.

57. Character of Sophron.

58. Expectations of pleasure frustrated.

59. Books fall into neglect.

60. Minim the critic.

61. Minim the critic.

62. Hanger's account of the vanity of riches.

63. Progress of arts and language.

64. Ranger's complaint concluded.

65. Fate of posthumous works.

66. Loss of ancient writings.

67. Scholar's journal.

68. History of translation.

69. History of translation.

70. Hard words defended.

71. Dick Shifter's rural excursion.

72. Regulation of memory.

73. Tranquil's use of riches.

74. Memory rarely deficient.

75. Gelaleddin of Bassora.

76. False criticisms on painting.

77. Easy writing.

78. Steady, Snug, Startle, Solid and Misty.

79. Grand style of painting.

80. Ladies' journey to London.

81. Indian's speech to his countrymen.

82. The true idea of beauty.

83. Scruple, Wormwood, Sturdy and Gentle.

84. Biography, how best performed.

85. Books multiplied by useless compilations.

86. Miss Heartless' want of a lodging.

87. Amazonian bravery revived.

88. What have ye done?

89. Physical evil moral good.

90. Rhetorical action considered.

91. Sufficiency of the English language.

92. Nature of cunning.

93. Sam Softly's history.

94. Obstructions of learning.

95. Tim Wainscot's son a fine gentleman.

96. Hacho of Lapland.

97. Narratives of travellers considered.

98. Sophia Heedful.

99. Ortogrul of Basra.

100. The good sort of woman.

101. Omar's plan of life.

102. Authors inattentive to themselves.

103. Honour of the last.





THE

ADVENTURER.



No. 34. SATURDAY, MARCH 3, 1753.

  _Has toties optata exegit gloria pænas._      Juv. Sat. x. 187.
  Such fate pursues the votaries of praise.

TO THE ADVENTURER.

SIR,

Fleet Prison, Feb. 24.

To a benevolent disposition, every state of life will afford some
opportunities of contributing to the welfare of mankind. Opulence and
splendour are enabled to dispel the cloud of adversity, to dry up the
tears of the widow and the orphan, and to increase the felicity of all
around them: their example will animate virtue, and retard the progress
of vice. And even indigence and obscurity, though without power to
confer happiness, may at least prevent misery, and apprize those who are
blinded by their passions, that they are on the brink of irremediable
calamity. Pleased, therefore, with the thought of recovering others from
that folly which has embittered my own days, I have presumed to address
the ADVENTURER from the dreary mansions of wretchedness and despair, of
which the gates are so wonderfully constructed, as to fly open for the
reception of strangers, though they are impervious as a rock of adamant
to such as are within them:

 --_Facilis descensus Averni:
  Noctes utque dies patet atri janua Ditis:
  Sed revocare gradum, superasque evadere ad auras,
  Hoc opus, hic labor est_.--VIRG. Æn. vi. 126.

  The gates of hell are open night and day;
  Smooth the descent, and easy is the way:
  But to return and view the cheerful skies;
  In this the task and mighty labour lies.   DRYDEN.

Suffer me to acquaint you, Sir, that I have glittered at the ball, and
sparkled in the circle; that I have had the happiness to be the unknown
favourite of an unknown lady at the masquerade, have been the delight of
tables of the first fashion, and envy of my brother beaux; and to
descend a little lower, it is, I believe, still remembered, that Messrs.
Velours and d'Espagne stand indebted for a great part of their present
influence at Guildhall, to the elegance of my shape, and the graceful
freedom of my carriage.

 --_Sed quæ præclara et prospera tanti,
  Ut rebus lætis par sit mensura malorum_?    Juv. Sat. x. 97.

  See the wild purchase of the bold and vain,
  Where every bliss is bought with equal pain!

As I entered into the world very young, with an elegant person and a
large estate, it was not long before I disentangled myself from the
shackles of religion; for I was determined to the pursuit of pleasure,
which according to my notions consisted in the unrestrained and
unlimited gratifications of every passion and every appetite; and as
this could not be obtained under the frowns of a perpetual dictator, I
considered religion as my enemy; and proceeding to treat her with
contempt and derision, was not a little delighted, that the
unfashionableness of her appearance, and the unanimated uniformity of
her motions, afforded frequent opportunities for the sallies of my
imagination.

Conceiving now that I was sufficiently qualified to laugh away scruples,
I imparted my remarks to those among my female favourites, whose virtue
I intended to attack; for I was well assured, that pride would be able
to make but a weak defence, when religion was subverted; nor was my
success below my expectation: the love of pleasure is too strongly
implanted in the female breast, to suffer them scrupulously to examine
the validity of arguments designed to weaken restraint; all are easily
led to believe, that whatever thwarts their inclination must be wrong:
little more, therefore, was required, than by the addition of some
circumstances, and the exaggeration of others, to make merriment supply
the place of demonstration; nor was I so senseless as to offer arguments
to such as could not attend to them, and with whom a repartee or catch
would more effectually answer the same purpose. This being effected,
there remained only "the dread of the world:" but Roxana soared too
high, to think the opinion of others worthy her notice; Lætitia seemed
to think of it only to declare, that "if all her hairs were worlds," she
should reckon them "well lost for love;" and Pastorella fondly
conceived, that she could dwell for ever by the side of a bubbling
fountain, content with her swain and fleecy care; without considering
that stillness and solitude can afford satisfaction only to innocence.

It is not the desire of new acquisitions, but the glory of conquests,
that fires the soldier's breast; as indeed the town is seldom worth
much, when it has suffered the devastations of a siege; so that though I
did not openly declare the effects of my own prowess, which is forbidden
by the laws of honour, it cannot be supposed that I was very solicitous
to bury my reputation, or to hinder accidental discoveries. To have
gained one victory, is an inducement to hazard a second engagement: and
though the success of the general should be a reason for increasing the
strength of the fortification, it becomes, with many, a pretence for an
immediate surrender, under the notion that no power is able to withstand
so formidable an adversary; while others brave the danger, and think it
mean to surrender, and dastardly to fly. Melissa, indeed, knew better;
and though she could not boast the apathy, steadiness, and inflexibility
of a Cato, wanted not the more prudent virtue of Scipio, and gained the
victory by declining the contest.

You must not, however, imagine, that I was, during this state of
abandoned libertinism, so fully convinced of the fitness of my own
conduct, as to be free from uneasiness. I knew very well, that I might
justly be deemed the pest of society, and that such proceedings must
terminate in the destruction of my health and fortune; but to admit
thoughts of this kind was to live upon the rack: I fled, therefore, to
the regions of mirth and jollity, as they are called, and endeavoured
with Burgundy, and a continual rotation of company, to free myself from
the pangs of reflection. From these orgies we frequently sallied forth
in quest of adventures, to the no small terrour and consternation of all
the sober stragglers that came in our way: and though we never injured,
like our illustrious progenitors, the Mohocks, either life or limbs; yet
we have in the midst of Covent Garden buried a tailor, who had been
troublesome to some of our fine gentlemen, beneath a heap of
cabbage-leaves and stalks, with this conceit,

  _Satia te caule quem semper cupisti_.

  Glut yourself with cabbage, of which you have always been greedy.

There can be no reason for mentioning the common exploits of breaking
windows and bruising the watch; unless it be to tell you of the device
of producing before the justice broken lanterns, which have been paid
for an hundred times; or their appearances with patches on their heads,
under pretence of being cut by the sword that was never drawn: nor need
I say any thing of the more formidable attack of sturdy chairmen, armed
with poles; by a slight stroke of which, the pride of Ned Revel's face
was at once laid flat, and that effected in an instant, which its most
mortal foe had for years assayed in vain. I shall pass over the
accidents that attended attempts to scale windows, and endeavours to
dislodge signs from their hooks: there are many "hair-breadth 'scapes,"
besides those in the "imminent deadly breach;" but the rake's life,
though it be equally hazardous with that of the soldier, is neither
accompanied with present honour nor with pleasing retrospect; such is,
and such ought to be, the difference between the enemy and the preserver
of his country.

Amidst such giddy and thoughtless extravagance, it will not seem
strange, that I was often the dupe of coarse flattery. When Mons.
L'Allonge assured me, that I thrust quart over arm better than any man
in England, what could I less than present him with a sword that cost me
thirty pieces? I was bound for a hundred pounds for Tom Trippet, because
he had declared that he would dance a minuet with any man in the three
kingdoms except myself. But I often parted with money against my
inclination, either because I wanted the resolution to refuse, or
dreaded the appellation of a niggardly fellow; and I may be truly said
to have squandered my estate, without honour, without friends, and
without pleasure. The last may, perhaps, appear strange to men
unacquainted with the masquerade of life: I deceived others, and I
endeavoured to deceive myself; and have worn the face of pleasantry and
gaiety, while my heart suffered the most exquisite torture.

By the instigation and encouragement of my friends, I became at length
ambitious of a seat in parliament; and accordingly set out for the town
of Wallop in the west, where my arrival was welcomed by a thousand
throats, and I was in three days sure of a majority: but after drinking
out one hundred and fifty hogsheads of wine, and bribing two-thirds of
the corporation twice over, I had the mortification to find that the
borough had been before sold to Mr. Courtly.

In a life of this kind, my fortune, though considerable, was presently
dissipated; and as the attraction grows more strong the nearer any body
approaches the earth, when once a man begins to sink into poverty, he
falls with velocity always increasing; every supply is purchased at a
higher and higher price, and every office of kindness obtained with
greater and greater difficulty. Having now acquainted you with my state
of elevation, I shall, if you encourage the continuance of my
correspondence, shew you by what steps I descended from a first floor in
Pall-Mall to my present habitation[1].

I am, Sir,

Your humble servant,

MISARGYRUS.

[1] For an account of the disputes raised on this paper, and on the
    other letters of Misargyrus, see Preface.




No. 39. TUESDAY, MARCH 20, 1753.

 --[Greek: Oduseus phulloisi kalupsato to d ar Athaenae
  Hypnon ep ommasi cheu, ina min pauseie tachista
  Dusponeos kamatoio.]--HOM. E. 491

 --Pallas pour'd sweet slumbers on his soul;
  And balmy dreams, the gift of soft repose,
  Calm'd all his pains, and banish'd all his woes. POPE.

If every day did not produce fresh instances of the ingratitude of
mankind, we might, perhaps, be at a loss, why so liberal and impartial a
benefactor as sleep, should meet with so few historians or panegyrists.
Writers are so totally absorbed by the business of the day, as never to
turn their attention to that power, whose officious hand so seasonably
suspends the burthen of life; and without whose interposition man would
not be able to endure the fatigue of labour, however rewarded, or the
struggle with opposition, however successful.

Night, though she divides to many the longest part of life, and to
almost all the most innocent and happy, is yet unthankfully neglected,
except by those who pervert her gifts.

The astronomers, indeed, expect her with impatience, and felicitate
themselves upon her arrival: Fontenelle has not failed to celebrate her
praises; and to chide the sun for hiding from his view the worlds, which
he imagines to appear in every constellation. Nor have the poets been
always deficient in her praises: Milton has observed of the night, that
it is "the pleasant time, the cool, the silent."

These men may, indeed, well be expected to pay particular homage to
night; since they are indebted to her, not only for cessation of pain,
but increase of pleasure; not only for slumber, but for knowledge. But
the greater part of her avowed votaries are the sons of luxury; who
appropriate to festivity the hours designed for rest; who consider the
reign of pleasure as commencing when day begins to withdraw her busy
multitudes, and ceases to dissipate attention by intrusive and unwelcome
variety; who begin to awake to joy when the rest of the world sinks into
insensibility; and revel in the soft affluence of flattering and
artificial lights, which "more shadowy set off the face of things."

Without touching upon the fatal consequences of a custom, which, as
Ramazzini observes, will be for ever condemned, and for ever retained;
it may be observed, that however sleep may be put off from time to time,
yet the demand is of so importunate a nature, as not to remain long
unsatisfied: and if, as some have done, we consider it as the tax of
life, we cannot but observe it as a tax that must be paid, unless we
could cease to be men; for Alexander declared, that nothing convinced
him that he was not a divinity, but his not being able to live without
sleep.

To live without sleep in our present fluctuating state, however
desirable it might seem to the lady in Clelia, can surely be the wish
only of the young or the ignorant; to every one else, a perpetual vigil
will appear to be a state of wretchedness, second only to that of the
miserable beings, whom Swift has in his travels so elegantly described,
as "supremely cursed with immortality."

Sleep is necessary to the happy to prevent satiety, and to endear life
by a short absence; and to the miserable, to relieve them by intervals
of quiet. Life is to most, such as could not be endured without frequent
intermission of existence: Homer, therefore, has thought it an office
worthy of the goddess of wisdom, to lay Ulysses asleep when landed on
Phaeacia.

It is related of Barretier, whose early advances in literature scarce
any human mind has equalled, that he spent twelve hours of the
four-and-twenty in sleep: yet this appears from the bad state of his
health, and the shortness of his life, to have been too small a respite
for a mind so vigorously and intensely employed: it is to be regretted,
therefore, that he did not exercise his mind less, and his body more:
since by this means, it is highly probable, that though he would not then
have astonished with the blaze of a comet, he would yet have shone with
the permanent radiance of a fixed star.

Nor should it be objected, that there have been many men who daily spend
fifteen or sixteen hours in study: for by some of whom this is reported
it has never been done; others have done it for a short time only; and
of the rest it appears, that they employed their minds in such
operations as required neither celerity nor strength, in the low
drudgery of collating copies, comparing authorities, digesting
dictionaries, or accumulating compilations.

Men of study and imagination are frequently upbraided by the industrious
and plodding sons of care, with passing too great a part of their life
in a state of inaction. But these defiers of sleep seem not to remember
that though it must be granted them that they are crawling about before
the break of day, it can seldom be said that they are perfectly awake;
they exhaust no spirits, and require no repairs; but lie torpid as a
toad in marble, or at least are known to live only by an inert and
sluggish locomotive faculty, and may be said, like a wounded snake, to
"drag their slow length along."

Man has been long known among philosophers by the appellation of the
microcosm, or epitome of the world: the resemblance between the great
and little world might, by a rational observer, be detailed to many
particulars; and to many more by a fanciful speculatist. I know not in
which of these two classes I shall be ranged for observing, that as the
total quantity of light and darkness allotted in the course of the year
to every region of the earth is the same, though distributed at various
times and in different portions; so, perhaps, to each individual of the
human species, nature has ordained the same quantity of wakefulness and
sleep; though divided by some into a total quiescence and vigorous
exertion of their faculties, and, blended by others in a kind of
twilight of existence, in a state between dreaming and reasoning, in
which they either think without action, or act without thought.

The poets are generally well affected to sleep: as men who think with
vigour, they require respite from thought; and gladly resign themselves
to that gentle power, who not only bestows rest, but frequently leads
them to happier regions, where patrons are always kind, and audiences
are always candid; where they are feasted in the bowers of imagination,
and crowned with flowers divested of their prickles, and laurels of
unfading verdure.

The more refined and penetrating part of mankind, who take wide surveys
of the wilds of life, who see the innumerable terrours and distresses
that are perpetually preying on the heart of man, and discern with
unhappy perspicuity, calamities yet latent in their causes, are glad to
close their eyes upon the gloomy prospect, and lose in a short
insensibility the remembrance of others' miseries and their own. The
hero has no higher hope, than that, after having routed legions after
legions, and added kingdom to kingdom, he shall retire to milder
happiness, and close his days in social festivity. The wit or the sage
can expect no greater happiness, than that, after having harassed his
reason in deep researches, and fatigued his fancy in boundless
excursions, he shall sink at night in the tranquillity of sleep.

The poets, among all those that enjoy the blessings of sleep, have been
least ashamed to acknowledge their benefactor. How much Statius
considered the evils of life as assuaged and softened by the balm of
slumber, we may discover by that pathetick invocation, which he poured
out in his waking nights: and that Cowley, among the other felicities of
his darling solitude, did not forget to number the privilege of sleeping
without disturbance, we may learn from the rank that he assigns among
the gifts of nature to the poppy, "which is scattered," says he, "over
the fields of corn, that all the needs of man may be easily satisfied,
and that bread and sleep may be found together."

  Si quis invisum Cereri benignæ
  Me putat germen, vehementer errat;
  Illa me in partem recipit libenter
                       Fertilis agri.

  Meque frumentumque simul per omnes
  Consulens mundo Dea spargit oras;
  Crescite, O! dixit, duo magna sustentaculu
                                 vitæ,

  Carpe, mortalis, mea dona lætus,
  Carpe, nec plantas alias require,
  Sed satur panis, satur et soporis,
                        Cætera sperue,

  He wildly errs who thinks I yield
  Precedence in the well-cloth'd field,
    Tho' mix'd with wheat I grow:
  Indulgent Ceres knew my worth,
  And to adorn the teeming earth,
    She bade the Poppy blow.

  Nor vainly gay the sight to please,
  But blest with pow'r mankind to ease,
    The goddess saw me rise:
  "Thrive with the life-supporting grain,"
  She cried, "the solace of the swain,
    The cordial of his eyes.

  Seize, happy mortal, seize the good;
  My hand supplies thy sleep and food,
    And makes thee truly blest:
  With plenteous meals enjoy the day,
  In slumbers pass the night away,
    And leave to fate the rest."        C. B.

Sleep, therefore, as the chief of all earthly blessings, is justly
appropriated to induustry and temperance; the refreshing rest, and the
peaceful night, are the portion only of him who lies down weary with
honest labour, and free from the fumes of indigested luxury; it is the
just doom of laziness and gluttony, to be inactive without ease, and
drowsy without tranquillity.

Sleep has been often mentioned as the image of death[1]; "so like it,"
says Sir Thomas Brown, "that I dare not trust it without my prayers:"
their resemblance is, indeed, apparent and striking; they both, when
they seize the body, leave the soul at liberty: and wise is he that
remembers of both, that they can be safe and happy only by virtue.

[1]
  Lovely sleep! thou beautiful image of terrible death,
  Be thou my pillow-companion, my angel of rest!
  Come, O sleep! for thine are the joys of living and dying:
  Life without sorrow, and death with no anguish, no pain.
               _From the German of Schmidt_




No. 41. TUESDAY, MARCH 27, 1753.

 --_Si mutabile pectus
  Est tibi, consiliis, non curribus, utere nostris;
  Dum potes, et solidis etiamnum sedibus adstas,
  Dumque male optatos nondum premis inscius axes._ OVID. Met. ii. 143.

 --Th' attempt forsake,
  And not my chariot but my counsel take;
  While yet securely on the earth you stand;
  Nor touch the horses with too rash a hand.     ADDISON.

TO THE ADVENTURER.

Sir, Fleet, March 24.

I now send you the sequel of my story, which had not been so long
delayed, if I could have brought myself to imagine, that any real
impatience was felt for the fate of Misargyrus; who has travelled no
unbeaten track to misery, and consequently can present the reader only
with such incidents as occur in daily life. You have seen me, Sir, in
the zenith of my glory, not dispensing the kindly warmth of an
all-cheering sun: but, like another Phaeton, scorching and blasting
every thing round me. I shall proceed, therefore, to finish my career,
and pass as rapidly as possible through the remaining vicissitudes of my
life.

When I first began to be in want of money, I made no doubt of an
immediate supply. The newspapers were perpetually offering directions to
men, who seemed to have no other business than to gather heaps of gold
for those who place their supreme felicity in scattering it. I posted
away, therefore, to one of these advertisers, who by his proposals
seemed to deal in thousands; and was not a little chagrined to find,
that this general benefactor would have nothing to do with any larger
sum than thirty pounds, nor would venture that without a joint note from
myself and a reputable housekeeper, or for a longer time than three
months.

It was not yet so bad with me, as that I needed to solicit surety for
thirty pounds: yet partly from the greediness that extravagance always
produces, and partly from a desire of seeing the humour of a petty
usurer, a character of which I had hitherto lived in ignorance, I
condescended to listen to his terms. He proceeded to inform me of my
great felicity in not falling into the hands of an extortioner; and
assured me, that I should find him extremely moderate in his demands: he
was not, indeed, certain that he could furnish me with the whole sum,
for people were at this particular time extremely pressing and
importunate for money: yet, as I had the appearance of a gentleman, he
would try what he could do, and give me his answer in three days.

At the expiration of the time, I called upon him again; and was again
informed of the great demand for money, and that, "money was money now:"
he then advised me to be punctual in my payment, as that might induce
him to befriend me hereafter; and delivered me the money, deducting at
the rate of five and thirty _per cent_. with another panegyrick upon his
own moderation.

I will not tire you with the various practices of usurious oppression;
but cannot omit my transaction with Squeeze on Tower-hill, who, finding
me a young man of considerable expectations, employed an agent to
persuade me to borrow five hundred pounds, to be refunded by an annual
payment of twenty per cent_. during the joint lives of his daughter
Nancy Squeeze and myself. The negociator came prepared to enforce his
proposal with all his art; but, finding that I caught his offer with the
eagerness of necessity, he grew cold and languid; "he had mentioned it
out of kindness; he would try to serve me: Mr. Squeeze was an honest
man, but extremely cautious." In three days he came to tell me, that his
endeavours had been ineffectual, Mr. Squeeze having no good opinion of
my life; but that there was one expedient remaining: Mrs. Squeeze could
influence her husband, and her good will might be gained by a
compliment. I waited that afternoon on Mrs. Squeeze, and poured out
before her the flatteries which usually gain access to rank and beauty:
I did not then know, that there are places in which the only compliment
is a bribe. Having yet credit with a jeweller, I afterwards procured a
ring of thirty guineas, which I humbly presented, and was soon admitted
to a treaty with Mr. Squeeze. He appeared peevish and backward, and my
old friend whispered me, that he would never make a dry bargain: I
therefore invited him to a tavern. Nine times we met on the affair; nine
times I paid four pounds for the supper and claret; and nine guineas I
gave the agent for good offices. I then obtained the money, paying ten
_per cent_. advance; and at the tenth meeting gave another supper, and
disbursed fifteen pounds for the writings.

Others who styled themselves brokers, would only trust their money upon
goods: that I might, therefore, try every art of expensive folly, I took
a house and furnished it. I amused myself with despoiling my moveables
of their glossy appearance, for fear of alarming the lender with
suspicions: and in this I succeeded so well, that he favoured me with
one hundred and sixty pounds upon that which was rated at seven hundred.
I then found that I was to maintain a guardian about me to prevent the
goods from being broken or removed. This was, indeed, an unexpected tax;
but it was too late to recede: and I comforted myself, that I might
prevent a creditor, of whom I had some apprehensions, from seizing, by
having a prior execution always in the house.

By such means I had so embarrassed myself, that my whole attention was
engaged in contriving excuses, and raising small sums to quiet such as
words would no longer mollify. It cost me eighty pounds in presents to
Mr. Leech the attorney, for his forbearance of one hundred, which he
solicited me to take when I had no need. I was perpetually harassed with
importunate demands, and insulted by wretches, who a few months before
would not have dared to raise their eyes from the dust before me. I
lived in continual terrour, frighted by every noise at the door, and
terrified at the approach of every step quicker than common. I never
retired to rest without feeling the justness of the Spanish proverb,
"Let him who sleeps too much, borrow the pillow of a debtor:" my
solicitude and vexation kept me long waking; and when I had closed my
eyes, I was pursued or insulted by visionary bailiffs.

When I reflected upon the meanness of the shifts I had reduced myself
to, I could not but curse the folly and extravagance that had
overwhelmed me in a sea of troubles, from which it was highly improbable
that I should ever emerge. I had some time lived in hopes of an estate,
at the death of my uncle; but he disappointed me by marrying his
housekeeper; and, catching an opportunity soon after of quarrelling with
me, for settling twenty pounds a year upon a girl whom I had seduced,
told me that he would take care to prevent his fortune from being
squandered upon prostitutes.

Nothing now remained, but the chance of extricating myself by marriage;
a scheme which, I flattered myself, nothing but my present distress
would have made me think on with patience. I determined, therefore, to
look out for a tender novice, with a large fortune, at her own disposal;
and accordingly fixed my eyes upon Miss Biddy Simper. I had now paid her
six or seven visits; and so fully convinced her of my being a gentleman
and a rake, that I made no doubt that both her person and fortune would
be soon mine.

At this critical time, Miss Gripe called upon me, in a chariot bought
with my money, and loaded with trinkets that I had, in my days of
affluence, lavished on her. Those days were now over; and there was
little hope that they would ever return. She was not able to withstand
the temptation of ten pounds that Talon the bailiff offered her, but
brought him into my apartment disguised in a livery; and taking my sword
to the window, under pretence of admiring the workmanship, beckoned him
to seize me.

Delay would have been expensive without use, as the debt was too
considerable for payment or bail: I, therefore, suffered myself to be
immediately conducted to gaol.

  _Vestibulum ante ipsum, primisque in faucibus Orci,
  Luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia curae:
  Pallentesque habitant morbi, tristisque senectus,
  Et metus, et malesuada fames, et turpis egestas._  VIRG. Aen. vi. 273.

  Just in the gate and in the jaws of hell,
  Revengeful cares and sullen sorrows dwell;
  And pale diseases, and repining age;
  Want, fear, and famine's unresisted rage.   DRYDEN.

Confinement of any kind is dreadful; a prison is sometimes able to shock
those, who endure it in a good cause: let your imagination, therefore,
acquaint you with what I have not words to express, and conceive, if
possible, the horrours of imprisonment attended with reproach and
ignominy, of involuntary association with the refuse of mankind, with
wretches who were before too abandoned for society, but, being now freed
from shame or fear, are hourly improving their vices by consorting with
each other.

There are, however, a few, whom, like myself, imprisonment has rather
mortified than hardened: with these only I converse; and of these you
may, perhaps, hereafter receive some account from

Your humble servant, MISARGYRUS.




No. 45. TUESDAY, APRIL 10, 1753

  _Nulla fides regni sociis, omnisque potestas
  Impatiens consortis erit._--LUCAN. Lib. i. 92.

  No faith of partnership dominion owns:
  Still discord hovers o'er divided thrones.

It is well known, that many things appear plausible in speculation,
which can never be reduced to practice; and that of the numberless
projects that have flattered mankind with theoretical speciousness, few
have served any other purpose than to show the ingenuity of their
contrivers. A voyage to the moon, however romantick and absurd the
scheme may now appear, since the properties of air have been better
understood, seemed highly probable to many of the aspiring wits in the
last century, who began to dote upon their glossy plumes, and fluttered
with impatience for the hour of their departure:

   --_Pereunt vestigia mille
  Ante fugam, absentemque ferit gravis ungula campum._

  Hills, vales and floods appear already crost;
  And, ere he starts, a thousand steps are lost.      POPE.

Among the fallacies which only experience can detect, there are some, of
which scarcely experience itself can destroy the influence; some which,
by a captivating show of indubitable certainty, are perpetually gaining
upon the human mind; and which, though every trial ends in
disappointment, obtain new credit as the sense of miscarriage wears
gradually away, persuade us to try again what we have tried already, and
expose us by the same failure to double vexation.

Of this tempting, this delusive kind, is the expectation of great
performances by confederated strength. The speculatist, when he has
carefully observed how much may be performed by a single hand,
calculates by a very easy operation the force of thousands, and goes on
accumulating power till resistance vanishes before it; then rejoices in
the success of his new scheme, and wonders at the folly or idleness of
former ages, who have lived in want of what might so readily be
procured, and suffered themselves to be debarred from happiness by
obstacles which one united effort would have so easily surmounted.

But this gigantick phantom of collective power vanishes at once into air
and emptiness, at the first attempt to put it into action. The different
apprehensions, the discordant passions, the jarring interests of men,
will scarcely permit that many should unite in one undertaking.

Of a great and complicated design, some will never be brought to discern
the end; and of the several means by which it may be accomplished, the
choice will be a perpetual subject of debate, as every man is swayed in
his determination by his own knowledge or convenience. In a long series
of action some will languish with fatigue, and some be drawn off by
present gratifications; some will loiter because others labour, and some
will cease to labour because others loiter: and if once they come within
prospect of success and profit, some will be greedy and others envious;
some will undertake more than they can perform, to enlarge their claims
of advantage; some will perform less than they undertake, lest their
labours should chiefly turn to the benefit of others.

The history of mankind informs us that a single power is very seldom
broken by a confederacy. States of different interests, and aspects
malevolent to each other, may be united for a time by common distress;
and in the ardour of self-preservation fall unanimously upon an enemy,
by whom they are all equally endangered. But if their first attack can
be withstood, time will never fail to dissolve their union: success and
miscarriage will be equally destructive: after the conquest of a
province, they will quarrel in the division; after the loss of a battle,
all will be endeavouring to secure themselves by abandoning the rest.

From the impossibility of confining numbers to the constant and uniform
prosecution of a common interest, arises the difficulty of securing
subjects against the encroachment of governours. Power is always
gradually stealing away from the many to the few, because the few are
more vigilant and consistent; it still contracts to a smaller number,
till in time it centres in a single person.

Thus all the forms of governments instituted among mankind, perpetually
tend towards monarchy; and power, however diffused through the whole
community, is, by negligence or corruption, commotion or distress,
reposed at last in the chief magistrate.

"There never appear," says Swift, "more than five or six men of genius
in an age; but if they were united, the world could not stand before
them." It is happy, therefore, for mankind, that of this union there is
no probability. As men take in a wider compass of intellectual survey,
they are more likely to choose different objects of pursuit; as they see
more ways to the same end, they will be less easily persuaded to travel
together; as each is better qualified to form an independent scheme of
private greatness, he will reject with greater obstinacy the project of
another; as each is more able to distinguish himself as the head of a
party, he will less readily be made a follower or an associate.

The reigning philosophy informs us, that the vast bodies which
constitute the universe, are regulated in their progress through the
ethereal spaces by the perpetual agency of contrary forces; by one of
which they are restrained from deserting their orbits, and losing
themselves in the immensity of heaven; and held off by the other from
rushing together, and clustering round their centre with everlasting
cohesion.

The same contrariety of impulse may be perhaps discovered in the motions
of men: we are formed for society, not for combination; we are equally
unqualified to live in a close connexion with our fellow-beings, and in
total separation from them; we are attracted towards each other by
general sympathy, but kept back from contact by private interests.

Some philosophers have been foolish enough to imagine, that improvements
might be made in the system of the universe, by a different arrangement
of the orbs of heaven; and politicians, equally ignorant and equally
presumptuous, may easily be led to suppose, that the happiness of our
world would be promoted by a different tendency of the human mind. It
appears, indeed, to a slight and superficial observer, that many things
impracticable in our present state, might be easily effected, if mankind
were better disposed to union and co-operation: but a little reflection
will discover, that if confederacies were easily formed, they would lose
their efficacy, since numbers would be opposed to numbers, and unanimity
to unanimity; and instead of the present petty competitions of
individuals or single families, multitudes would be supplanting
multitudes, and thousands plotting against thousands.

There is no class of the human species, of which the union seems to have
been more expected, than of the learned: the rest of the world have
almost always agreed to shut scholars up together in colleges and
cloisters; surely not without hope, that they would look for that
happiness in concord, which they were debarred from finding in variety;
and that such conjunctions of intellect would recompense the munificence
of founders and patrons, by performances above the reach of any single
mind.

But discord, who found means to roll her apple into the banqueting
chamber of the goddesses, has had the address to scatter her laurels in
the seminaries of learning. The friendship of students and of beauties
is for the most part equally sincere, and equally durable: as both
depend for happiness on the regard of others, on that of which the value
arises merely from comparison, they are both exposed to perpetual
jealousies, and both incessantly employed in schemes to intercept the
praises of each other.

I am, however, far from intending to inculcate that this confinement of
the studious to studious companions, has been wholly without advantage
to the publick: neighbourhood, where it does not conciliate friendship,
incites competition; and he that would contentedly rest in a lower
degree of excellence, where he had no rival to dread, will be urged by
his impatience of inferiority to incessant endeavours after great
attainments.

These stimulations of honest rivalry are, perhaps, the chief effects of
academies and societies; for whatever be the bulk of their joint
labours, every single piece is always the production of an individual,
that owes nothing to his colleagues but the contagion of diligence, a
resolution to write, because the rest are writing, and the scorn of
obscurity while the rest are illustrious[1].


[1] It may not be uninteresting to place in immediate comparison with
    this finished paper its first rough draught as given in Boswell,
    vol. i.

    "_Confederacies difficult; why_.

    "Seldom in war a match for single persons--nor in peace; therefore
    kings make themselves absolute. Confederacies in learning--every
    great work the work of one. _Bruy_. Scholars friendship like
    ladies. Scribebamus,  &c. Mart. The apple of discord--the laurel of
    discord--the poverty of criticism. Swift's opinion of the power of
    six geniuses united. That union scarce possible. His remarks just;
   --man a social, not steady nature. Drawn to man by words, repelled
    by passions. Orb drawn by attraction, rep. [_repelled_] by
    centrifugal.

    "Common danger unites by crushing other passions--but they return.
    Equality hinders compliance. Superiority produces insolence and
    envy. Too much regard in each to private interest;--too little.

    "The mischiefs of private and exclusive societies.--The fitness of
    social attraction diffused through the whole. The mischiefs of too
    partial love of our country. Contraction of moral duties.
     [Greek: Oi philoi, ou philos].

    "Every man moves upon his own centre, and therefore repels others
    from too near a contact, though he may comply with some general
    laws. Of confederacy with superiors every one knows the
    inconvenience. With equals no authority;--every man his own
    opinion--his own interest.

    "Man and wife hardly united;--scarce ever without children.
    Computation, if two to one against two, how many against five? If
    confederacies were easy--useless;--many oppresses many.--If possible
    only to some, dangerous. _Principum amicitias_."




No. 50. SATURDAY, APRIL 28, 1753.

  _Quicunque turpi fraude semel innotuit,
  Etiamsi verum dicit, amittit fidem._   PHÆD. Lib. i. Fab. x. l.

  The wretch that often has deceiv'd,
  Though truth he speaks, is ne'er believ'd.

When Aristotle was once asked, what a man could gain by uttering
falsehoods? he replied, "Not to be credited when he shall tell the
truth."

The character of a liar is at once so hateful and contemptible, that
even of those who have lost their virtue it might be expected that from
the violation of truth they should be restrained by their pride. Almost
every other vice that disgraces human nature, may be kept in countenance
by applause and association: the corrupter of virgin innocence sees
himself envied by the men, and at least not detested by the women; the
drunkard may easily unite with beings, devoted like himself to noisy
merriments or silent insensibility, who will celebrate his victories
over the novices of intemperance, boast themselves the companions of his
prowess, and tell with rapture of the multitudes whom unsuccessful
emulation has hurried to the grave; even the robber and the cut-throat
have their followers, who admire their address and intrepidity, their
stratagems of rapine, and their fidelity to the gang.

The liar, and only the liar, is invariably and universally despised,
abandoned, and disowned: he has no domestick consolations, which he can
oppose to the censure of mankind; he can retire to no fraternity, where
his crimes may stand in the place of virtues; but is given up to the
hisses of the multitude, without friend and without apologist. It is the
peculiar condition of falsehood, to be equally detested by the good and
bad: "The devils," says Sir Thomas Brown, "do not tell lies to one
another; for truth is necessary to all societies: nor can the society of
hell subsist without it."

It is natural to expect, that a crime thus generally detested should be
generally avoided; at least, that none should expose himself to unabated
and unpitied infamy, without an adequate temptation; and that to guilt
so easily detected, and so severely punished, an adequate temptation
would not readily be found.

Yet so it is, that in defiance of censure and contempt, truth is
frequently violated; and scarcely the most vigilant and unremitted
circumspection will secure him that mixes with mankind, from being
hourly deceived by men of whom it can scarcely be imagined, that they
mean any injury to him or profit to themselves: even where the subject
of conversation could not have been expected to put the passions in
motion, or to have excited either hope or fear, or zeal or malignity,
sufficient to induce any man to put his reputation in hazard, however
little he might value it, or to overpower the love of truth, however
weak might be its influence.

The casuists have very diligently distinguished lies into their several
classes, according to their various degrees of malignity: but they have,
I think, generally omitted that which is most common, and perhaps, not
least mischievous; which, since the moralists have not given it a name,
I shall distinguish as the _lie of vanity_.

To vanity may justly be imputed most of the falsehoods which every man
perceives hourly playing upon his ear, and, perhaps, most of those that
are propagated with success. To the lie of commerce, and the lie of
malice, the motive is so apparent, that they are seldom negligently or
implicitly received; suspicion is always watchful over the practices of
interest; and whatever the hope of gain, or desire of mischief, can
prompt one man to assert, another is by reasons equally cogent incited
to refute. But vanity pleases herself with such slight gratifications,
and looks forward to pleasure so remotely consequential, that her
practices raise no alarm, and her stratagems are not easily discovered.

Vanity is, indeed, often suffered to pass unpursued by suspicion,
because he that would watch her motions, can never be at rest: fraud and
malice are bounded in their influence; some opportunity of time and
place is necessary to their agency; but scarce any man is abstracted one
moment from his vanity; and he, to whom truth affords no gratifications,
is generally inclined to seek them in falsehoods.

It is remarked by Sir Kenelm Digby, "that every man has a desire to
appear superior to others, though it were only in having seen what they
have not seen." Such an accidental advantage, since it neither implies
merit, nor confers dignity, one would think should not be desired so
much as to be counterfeited: yet even this vanity, trifling as it is,
produces innumerable narratives, all equally false; but more or less
credible in proportion to the skill or confidence of the relater. How
many may a man of diffusive conversation count among his acquaintances,
whose lives have been signalized by numberless escapes; who never cross
the river but in a storm, or take a journey into the country without
more adventures than befel the knights-errant of ancient times in
pathless forests or enchanted castles! How many must he know, to whom
portents and prodigies are of daily occurrence; and for whom nature is
hourly working wonders invisible to every other eye, only to supply them
with subjects of conversation.

Others there are that amuse themselves with the dissemination of
falsehood, at greater hazard of detection and disgrace; men marked out
by some lucky planet for universal confidence and friendship, who have
been consulted in every difficulty, intrusted with every secret, and
summoned to every transaction: it is the supreme felicity of these men,
to stun all companies with noisy information; to still doubt, and
overbear opposition, with certain knowledge or authentick intelligence.
A liar of this kind, with a strong memory or brisk imagination, is often
the oracle of an obscure club, and, till time discovers his impostures,
dictates to his hearers with uncontrouled authority; for if a publick
question be started, he was present at the debate; if a new fashion be
mentioned, he was at court the first day of its appearance; if a new
performance of literature draws the attention of the publick, he has
patronized the author, and seen his work in manuscript; if a criminal of
eminence be condemned to die, he often predicted his fate, and
endeavoured his reformation: and who that lives at a distance from the
scene of action, will dare to contradict a man, who reports from his own
eyes and ears, and to whom all persons and affairs are thus intimately
known?

This kind of falsehood is generally successful for a time, because it is
practised at first with timidity and caution: but the prosperity of the
liar is of short duration; the reception of one story is always an
incitement to the forgery of another less probable; and he goes on to
triumph over tacit credulity, till pride or reason rises up against him,
and his companions will no longer endure to see him wiser than
themselves.

It is apparent, that the inventors of all these fictions intend some
exaltation of themselves, and are led off by the pursuit of honour from
their attendance upon truth: their narratives always imply some
consequence in favour of their courage, their sagacity, or their
activity, their familiarity with the learned, or their reception among
the great; they are always bribed by the present pleasure of seeing
themselves superior to those that surround them, and receiving the
homage of silent attention and envious admiration.

But vanity is sometimes excited to fiction by less visible
gratifications: the present age abounds with a race of liars who are
content with the consciousness of falsehood, and whose pride is to
deceive others without any gain or glory to themselves. Of this tribe it
is the supreme pleasure to remark a lady in the playhouse or the park,
and to publish, under the character of a man suddenly enamoured, an
advertisement in the news of the next day, containing a minute
description of her person and her dress. From this artifice, however, no
other effect can be expected, than perturbations which the writer can
never see, and conjectures of which he never can be informed; some
mischief, however, he hopes he has done; and to have done mischief, is
of some importance. He sets his invention to work again, and produces a
narrative of a robbery or a murder, with all the circumstances of time
and place accurately adjusted. This is a jest of greater effect and
longer duration: if he fixes his scene at a proper distance, he may for
several days keep a wife in terrour for her husband, or a mother for her
son; and please himself with reflecting, that by his abilities and
address some addition is made to the miseries of life.

There is, I think, an ancient law of Scotland, by which _leasing-making_
was capitally punished. I am, indeed, far from desiring to increase in
this kingdom the number of executions; yet I cannot but think, that they
who destroy the confidence of society, weaken the credit of
intelligence, and interrupt the security of life; harass the delicate
with shame, and perplex the timorous with alarms; might very properly be
awakened to a sense of their crimes, by denunciations of a whipping-post
or pillory: since many are so insensible of right and wrong, that they
have no standard of action but the law; nor feel guilt, but as they
dread punishment.




No. 53. TUESDAY, MAY 8, 1753.

  _Quisque suos patimur manes_.     VIRG. Aen. Lib. vi. 743.

  Each has his lot, and bears the fate he drew.

Sir, Fleet, May 6.

In consequence of my engagements, I address you once more from the
habitations of misery. In this place, from which business and pleasure
are equally excluded, and in which our only employment and diversion is
to hear the narratives of each other, I might much sooner have gathered
materials for a letter, had I not hoped to have been reminded of my
promise; but since I find myself placed in the regions of oblivion,
where I am no less neglected by you than by the rest of mankind, I
resolved no longer to wait for solicitation, but stole early this
evening from between gloomy sullenness and riotous merriment, to give
you an account of part of my companions.

One of the most eminent members of our club is Mr. Edward Scamper, a man
of whose name the Olympick heroes would not have been ashamed. Ned was
born to a small estate, which he determined to improve; and therefore,
as soon as he became of age, mortgaged part of his land to buy a mare
and stallion, and bred horses for the course. He was at first very
successful, and gained several of the king's plates, as he is now every
day boasting, at the expense of very little more than ten times their
value. At last, however, he discovered, that victory brought him more
honour than profit: resolving, therefore, to be rich as well as
illustrious, he replenished his pockets by another mortgage, became on a
sudden a daring bettor, and resolving not to trust a jockey with his
fortune, rode his horse himself, distanced two of his competitors the
first heat, and at last won the race by forcing his horse on a descent
to full speed at the hazard of his neck. His estate was thus repaired,
and some friends that had no souls advised him to give over; but Ned now
knew the way to riches, and therefore without caution increased his
expenses. From this hour he talked and dreamed of nothing but a
horse-race; and rising soon to the summit of equestrian reputation, he
was constantly expected on every course, divided all his time between
lords and jockeys, and, as the unexperienced regulated their bets by his
example, gained a great deal of money by laying openly on one horse and
secretly on the other. Ned was now so sure of growing rich, that he
involved his estate in a third mortgage, borrowed money of all his
friends, and risked his whole fortune upon Bay Lincoln. He mounted with
beating heart, started fair, and won the first heat; but in the second,
as he was pushing against the foremost of his rivals, his girth broke,
his shoulder was dislocated, and before he was dismissed by the surgeon,
two bailiffs fastened upon him, and he saw Newmarket no more. His daily
amusement for four years has been to blow the signal for starting, to
make imaginary matches, to repeat the pedigree of Bay Lincoln, and to
form resolutions against trusting another groom with the choice of his
girth.

The next in seniority is Mr. Timothy Snug, a man of deep contrivance and
impenetrable secrecy. His father died with the reputation of more wealth
than he possessed: Tim, therefore, entered the world with a reputed
fortune of ten thousand pounds. Of this he very well knew that eight
thousand was imaginary: but being a man of refined policy, and knowing
how much honour is annexed to riches, he resolved never to detect his
own poverty; but furnished his house with elegance, scattered his money
with profusion, encouraged every scheme of costly pleasure, spoke of
petty losses with negligence, and on the day before an execution entered
his doors, had proclaimed at a public table his resolution to be jolted
no longer in a hackney coach.

Another of my companions is the magnanimous Jack Scatter, the son of a
country gentleman, who, having no other care than to leave him rich,
considered that literature could not be had without expense; masters
would not teach for nothing; and when a book was bought and read, it
would sell for little. Jack was, therefore, taught to read and write by
the butler; and when this acquisition was made, was left to pass his
days in the kitchen and the stable, where he heard no crime censured but
covetousness and distrust of poor honest servants, and where all the
praise was bestowed on good housekeeping, and a free heart. At the death
of his father, Jack set himself to retrieve the honour of his family: he
abandoned his cellar to the butler, ordered his groom to provide hay and
corn at discretion, took his housekeeper's word for the expenses of the
kitchen, allowed all his servants to do their work by deputies,
permitted his domesticks to keep his house open to their relations and
acquaintance, and in ten years was conveyed hither, without having
purchased by the loss of his patrimony either honour or pleasure, or
obtained any other gratification than that of having corrupted the
neighbouring villagers by luxury and idleness.

Dick Serge was a draper in Cornhill, and passed eight years in
prosperous diligence, without any care but to keep his books, or any
ambition but to be in time an alderman: but then, by some unaccountable
revolution in his understanding, he became enamoured of wit and humour,
despised the conversation of pedlars and stock-jobbers, and rambled
every night to the regions of gaiety, in quest of company suited to his
taste. The wits at first flocked about him for sport, and afterwards for
interest; some found their way into his books, and some into his
pockets; the man of adventure was equipped from his shop for the
pursuit, of a fortune; and he had sometimes the honour to have his
security accepted when his friends were in distress. Elated with these
associations, he soon learned to neglect his shop; and having drawn his
money out of the funds, to avoid the necessity of teasing men of honour
for trifling debts, he has been forced at last to retire hither, till
his friends can procure him a post at court.

Another that joins in the same mess is Bob Cornice, whose life has been
spent in fitting up a house. About ten years ago Bob purchased the
country habitation of a bankrupt: the mere shell of a building Bob holds
no great matter; the inside is the test of elegance. Of this house he
was no sooner master than he summoned twenty workmen to his assistance,
tore up the floors and laid them anew, stripped off the wainscot, drew
the windows from their frames, altered the disposition of doors and
fire-places, and cast the whole fabrick into a new form: his next care
was to have his ceilings painted, his pannels gilt, and his
chimney-pieces carved: every thing was executed by the ablest hands:
Bob's business was to follow the workmen with a microscope, and call
upon them to retouch their performances, and heighten excellence to
perfection.

The reputation of his house now brings round him a daily confluence of
visitants, and every one tells him of some elegance which he has
hitherto overlooked, some convenience not yet procured, or some new mode
in ornament or furniture. Bob, who had no wish but to be admired, nor
any guide but the fashion, thought every thing beautiful in proportion
as it was new, and considered his work as unfinished, while any observer
could suggest an addition; some alteration was therefore every day made,
without any other motive than the charms of novelty. A traveller at last
suggested to him the convenience of a grotto: Bob immediately ordered
the mount of his garden to be excavated: and having laid out a large sum
in shells and minerals, was busy in regulating the disposition of the
colours and lustres, when two gentlemen, who had asked permission to see
his gardens, presented him a writ, and led him off to less elegant
apartments.

I know not, Sir, whether among this fraternity of sorrow you will think
any much to be pitied; nor indeed do many of them appear to solicit
compassion, for they generally applaud their own conduct, and despise
those whom want of taste or spirit suffers to grow rich. It were happy
if the prisons of the kingdom were filled only with characters like
these, men whom prosperity could not make useful, and whom ruin cannot
make wise: but there are among us many who raise different sensations,
many that owe their present misery to the seductions of treachery, the
strokes of casualty, or the tenderness of pity; many whose sufferings
disgrace society, and whose virtues would adorn it: of these, when
familiarity shall have enabled me to recount their stories without
horrour, you may expect another narrative from

Sir,

Your most humble servant,

MISARGYRUS.




No. 58. SATURDAY, MAY 25, 1753.

  _Damnant quod non intelligunt_. CIC.

  They condemn what they do not understand.

Euripides, having presented Socrates with the writings of Heraclitus[1],
a philosopher famed for involution and obscurity, inquired afterwards
his opinion of their merit. "What I understand," said Socrates, "I find
to be excellent; and, therefore, believe that to be of equal value which
I cannot understand."

The reflection of every man who reads this passage will suggest to him
the difference between the practice of Socrates, and that of modern
criticks: Socrates, who had, by long observation upon himself and
others, discovered the weakness of the strongest, and the dimness of the
most enlightened intellect, was afraid to decide hastily in his own
favour, or to conclude that an author had written without meaning,
because he could not immediately catch his ideas; he knew that the
faults of books are often more justly imputable to the reader, who
sometimes wants attention, and sometimes penetration; whose
understanding is often obstructed by prejudice, and often dissipated by
remissness; who comes sometimes to a new study, unfurnished with
knowledge previously necessary; and finds difficulties insuperable, for
want of ardour sufficient to encounter them.

Obscurity and clearness are relative terms: to some readers scarce any
book is easy, to others not many are difficult: and surely they, whom
neither any exuberant praise bestowed by others, nor any eminent
conquests over stubborn problems, have entitled to exalt themselves
above the common orders of mankind, might condescend to imitate the
candour of Socrates; and where they find incontestable proofs of
superior genius, be content to think that there is justness in the
connexion which they cannot trace, and cogency in the reasoning which
they cannot comprehend.

This diffidence is never more reasonable than in the perusal of the
authors of antiquity; of those whose works have been the delight of
ages, and transmitted as the great inheritance of mankind from one
generation to another: surely, no man can, without the utmost arrogance,
imagine that he brings any superiority of understanding to the perusal
of these books which have been preserved in the devastation of cities,
and snatched up from the wreck of nations; which those who fled before
barbarians have been careful to carry off in the hurry of migration, and
of which barbarians have repented the destruction. If in books thus made
venerable by the uniform attestation of successive ages, any passages
shall appear unworthy of that praise which they have formerly received,
let us not immediately determine, that they owed their reputation to
dulness or bigotry; but suspect at least that our ancestors had some
reasons for their opinions, and that our ignorance of those reasons
makes us differ from them.

It often happens that an author's reputation is endangered in succeeding
times, by that which raised the loudest applause among his
contemporaries: nothing is read with greater pleasure than allusions to
recent facts, reigning opinions, or present controversies; but when
facts are forgotten, and controversies extinguished, these favourite
touches lose all their graces; and the author in his descent to
posterity must be left to the mercy of chance, without any power of
ascertaining the memory of those things, to which he owed his luckiest
thoughts and his kindest reception.

On such occasions, every reader should remember the diffidence of
Socrates, and repair by his candour the injuries of time: he should
impute the seeming defects of his author to some chasm of intelligence,
and suppose that the sense which is now weak was once forcible, and the
expression which is now dubious formerly determinate.

How much the mutilation of ancient history has taken away from the
beauty of poetical performances, may be conjectured from the light which
a lucky commentator sometimes effuses, by the recovery of an incident
that had been long forgotten: thus, in the third book of Horace, Juno's
denunciations against, those that should presume to raise again the
walls of Troy, could for many ages please only by splendid images and
swelling language, of which no man discovered the use or propriety, till
Le Fevre, by showing on what occasion the Ode was written, changed
wonder to rational delight. Many passages yet undoubtedly remain in the
same author, which an exacter knowledge of the incidents of his time
would clear from objections. Among these I have always numbered the
following lines:

  _Aurum per medios ire satellites,
  Et perrumpere amat saxa, potentius
    Ictu fulmineo. Concidit auguris
      Argivi domus ob lucrum
  Demersa exitio. Diffidit urbium
  Portas vir Macedo, et subruit aemulos
    Regis muneribus_: Munera navium
      Saevos illaqueant duces.                 HOR. Lib. iii. Ode xvi. 9.

  Stronger than thunder's winged force,
  All-powerful gold can spread its course,
  Thro' watchful guards its passage make,
  And loves thro' solid walls to break:
  From gold the overwhelming woes
  That crush'd the Grecian augur rose:
  Philip with gold thro' cities broke,
  And rival monarchs felt his yoke;
  _Captains of ships to gold are slaves,
  Tho' fierce as their own winds and waves._   FRANCIS.

The close of this passage, by which every reader is now disappointed and
offended, was probably the delight of the Roman Court: it cannot be
imagined, that Horace, after having given to gold the force of thunder,
and told of its power to storm cities and to conquer kings, would have
concluded his account of its efficacy with its influence over naval
commanders, had he not alluded to some fact then current in the mouths
of men, and therefore more interesting for a time than the conquests of
Philip. Of the like kind may be reckoned another stanza in the same
book:

 --_Jussa coram non sine conscio
  Surgit marito, seu vocat_ institor,
    _Seu_ navis Hispanae magister,
      _Dedecorum pretiosus emptor_.            HOR. Lib. iii. Ode. vi. 29.

  The conscious husband bids her rise,
  _When some rich factor courts her charms_,
  Who calls the wanton to his arms,
  And, prodigal of wealth and fame,
  Profusely buys the costly shame.             FRANCIS.

He has little knowledge of Horace who imagines that the _factor_, or the
_Spanish merchant_, are mentioned by chance: there was undoubtedly some
popular story of an intrigue, which those names recalled to the memory
of his reader.

The flame of his genius in other parts, though somewhat dimmed by time,
is not totally eclipsed; his address and judgment yet appear, though
much of the spirit and vigour of his sentiment is lost: this has
happened in the twentieth Ode of the first book:

  _Vile potabis modicis Sabinum
  Cantharis, Graecâ quod ego ipse testâ
  Conditum levi, datus in theatro
      Cum tibi plausus,
  Care Maecenas eques: ut paterni
  Fluminis ripae, simul et jocosa
  Redderet laudes tibi Vaticani
      Montis imago._

  A poet's beverage humbly cheap,
    (Should great Maecenas be my guest,)
  The vintage of the Sabine grape,
    But yet in sober cups shall crown the feast:
  'Twas rack'd into a Grecian cask,
    Its rougher juice to melt away;
  I seal'd it too--a pleasing task!
    With annual joy to mark the glorious day,
  When in applausive shouts thy name
    Spread from the theatre around,
  Floating on thy own Tiber's stream,
    And Echo, playful nymph, return'd the sound.    FRANCIS.

We here easily remark the intertexture of a happy compliment with an
humble invitation; but certainly are less delighted than those, to whom
the mention of the applause bestowed upon Maecenas, gave occasion to
recount the actions or words that produced it.

Two lines which have exercised the ingenuity of modern criticks, may, I
think, be reconciled to the judgment, by an easy supposition: Horace
thus addresses Agrippa:

_Scriberis Vario fortis, et hostium
Victor_, Maeonii carminis alite.               HOR. Lib. i. Ode vi. 1.

Varius, a _swan of Homer's wing_,
Shall brave Agrippa's conquests sing.

That Varius should be called "A bird of Homeric song," appears so harsh
to modern ears, that an emendation of the text has been proposed: but
surely the learning of the ancients had been long ago obliterated, had
every man thought himself at liberty to corrupt the lines which he did
not understand. If we imagine that Varius had been by any of his
contemporaries celebrated under the appellation of _Musarum ales_, "the
swan of the Muses," the language of Horace becomes graceful and
familiar; and that such a compliment was at least possible, we know from
the transformation feigned by Horace of himself.

The most elegant compliment that was paid to Addison, is of this obscure
and perishable kind;

  When panting Virtue her last efforts made,
  You brought your Clio to the virgin's aid.

These lines must please as long as they are understood; but can be
understood only by those that have observed Addison's signatures in the
Spectator.

The nicety of these minute allusions I shall exemplify by another
instance, which I take this occasion to mention, because, as I am told,
the commentators have omitted it. Tibullus addressed Cynthia in this
manner:

  _Te spectem, suprema mihi cum venerit hora,
    Te teneam moriens deficiente manu._        Lib. i. El. i. 73.

  Before my closing eyes dear Cynthia stand,
  Held weakly by my fainting trembling hand.

To these lines Ovid thus refers in his Elegy on the death of Tibullus:

  Cynthia discedens, Felicius, inquit, amata
    Sum tibi; vixisti dum tuus ignis eram.
  Cui Nemesis, quid, ait, tibi sint mea damna dolori?
    Me tenuit moriens deficiente manu.         Am. Lib. in. El. ix. 56.

  Blest was my reign, retiring Cynthia cry'd;
  Not till he left my breast, Tibullus dy'd.
  Forbear, said Nemesis, my loss to moan,
  The _fainting trembling hand_ was mine alone.

The beauty of this passage, which consists in the appropriation made by
Nemesis of the line originally directed to Cynthia, had been wholly
imperceptible to succeeding ages, had chance, which has destroyed so
many greater volumes, deprived us likewise of the poems of Tibullus.

[1] The obscurity of this philosopher's style is complained of by
    Aristotle in his treatise on Rhetoric, iii. 5. We make the reference
    with the view of recommending to attention the whole of that book,
    which is interspersed with the most acute remarks, and with rules of
    criticism founded deeply on the workings of the human mind. It is
    undervalued only by those who have not scholarship to read it, and
    surely merits this slight tribute of admiration from an Editor of
    Johnson's works, with whom a Translation of the Rhetoric was long a
    favourite project.




No. 62. SATURDAY, JUNE 9, 1753.

  _O fortuna viris, invida fortibus
  Quam non aequa bonis praemia dividis._    SENECA.

  Capricious Fortune ever joys,
  With partial hand to deal the prize,
  To crush the brave and cheat the wise.

TO THE ADVENTURER.

Fleet, June 6.

SIR,

To the account of such of my companions as are imprisoned without being
miserable, or are miserable without any claim to compassion, I promised
to add the histories of those, whose virtue has made them unhappy or
whose misfortunes are at least without a crime. That this catalogue
should be very numerous, neither you nor your readers ought to expect:
_rari quippe boni_; "the good are few." Virtue is uncommon in all the
classes of humanity; and I suppose it will scarcely be imagined more
frequent in a prison than in other places.

Yet in these gloomy regions is to be found the tenderness, the
generosity, the philanthropy of Serenus, who might have lived in
competence and ease, if he could have looked without emotion on the
miseries of another. Serenus was one of those exalted minds, whom
knowledge and sagacity could not make suspicious; who poured out his
soul in boundless intimacy, and thought community of possessions the law
of friendship. The friend of Serenus was arrested for debt, and after
many endeavours to soften his creditor, sent his wife to solicit that
assistance which never was refused. The tears and importunity of female
distress were more than was necessary to move the heart of Serenus; he
hasted immediately away, and conferring a long time with his friend,
found him confident that if the present pressure was taken off, he
should soon be able to reestablish his affairs. Serenus, accustomed to
believe, and afraid to aggravate distress, did not attempt to detect the
fallacies of hope, nor reflect that every man overwhelmed with calamity
believes, that if that was removed he shall immediately be happy: he,
therefore, with little hesitation offered himself as surety.

In the first raptures of escape all was joy, gratitude, and confidence:
the friend of Serenus displayed his prospects, and counted over the sums
of which he should infallibly be master before the day of payment.
Serenus in a short time began to find his danger, but could not prevail
with himself to repent of beneficence; and therefore suffered himself
still to be amused with projects which he durst not consider, for fear
of finding them impracticable. The debtor, after he had tried every
method of raising money which art or indigence could prompt, wanted
either fidelity or resolution to surrender himself to prison, and left
Serenus to take his place.

Serenus has often proposed to the creditor, to pay him whatever he shall
appear to have lost by the flight of his friend: but however reasonable
this proposal may be thought, avarice and brutality have been hitherto
inexorable, and Serenus still continues to languish in prison. In this
place, however, where want makes almost every man selfish, or
desperation gloomy, it is the good fortune of Serenus not to live
without a friend: he passes most of his hours in the conversation of
Candidus, a man whom the same virtuous ductility has, with some
difference of circumstances, made equally unhappy. Candidus, when he was
young, helpless, and ignorant, found a patron that educated, protected,
and supported him; his patron being more vigilant for others than
himself, left at his death an only son, destitute and friendless.
Candidus was eager to repay the benefits he had received; and having
maintained the youth for a few years at his own house, afterwards placed
him with a merchant of eminence, and gave bonds to a great value as a
security for his conduct.

The young man, removed too early from the only eye of which he dreaded
the observation, and deprived of the only instruction which he heard
with reverence, soon learned to consider virtue as restraint, and
restraint as oppression: and to look with a longing eye at every expense
to which he could not reach, and every pleasure which he could not
partake: by degrees he deviated from his first regularity, and unhappily
mingling among young men busy in dissipating the gains of their fathers'
industry, he forgot the precepts of Candidus, spent the evening in
parties of pleasure, and the morning in expedients to support his riots.
He was, however, dexterous and active in business: and his master, being
secured against any consequences of dishonesty, was very little
solicitous to inspect his manners, or to inquire how he passed those
hours, which were not immediately devoted to the business of his
profession: when he was informed of the young man's extravagance or
debauchery, "let his bondsman look to that," said he, "I have taken care
of myself."

Thus the unhappy spendthrift proceeded from folly to folly, and from
vice to vice, with the connivance, if not the encouragement, of his
master; till in the heat of a nocturnal revel he committed such
violences in the street as drew upon him a criminal prosecution. Guilty
and unexperienced, he knew not what course to take; to confess his crime
to Candidus, and solicit his interposition, was little less dreadful
than to stand before the frown of a court of justice. Having, therefore,
passed the day with anguish in his heart and distraction in his looks,
he seized at night a very large sum of money in the compting-house, and
setting out he knew not whither, was heard of no more.

The consequence of his flight was the ruin of Candidus; ruin surely
undeserved and irreproachable, and such as the laws of a just government
ought either to prevent or repair: nothing is more inequitable than that
one man should suffer for the crimes of another, for crimes which he
neither prompted nor permitted, which he could neither foresee nor
prevent. When we consider the weakness of human resolutions and the
inconsistency of human conduct, it must appear absurd that one man shall
engage for another, that he will not change his opinions or alter his
conduct.

It is, I think, worthy of consideration, whether, since no wager is
binding without a possibility of loss on each side, it is not equally
reasonable, that no contract should be valid without reciprocal
stipulations; but in this case, and others of the same kind, what is
stipulated on his side to whom the bond is given? he takes advantage of
the security, neglects his affairs, omits his duty, suffers timorous
wickedness to grow daring by degrees, permits appetite to call for new
gratifications, and, perhaps, secretly longs for the time in which he
shall have power to seize the forfeiture; and if virtue or gratitude
should prove too strong for temptation, and a young man persist in
honesty, however instigated by his passions, what can secure him at last
against a false accusation? I for my part always shall suspect, that he
who can by such methods secure his property, will go one step further to
increase it; nor can I think that man safely trusted with the means of
mischief, who, by his desire to have them in his hands, gives an evident
proof how much less he values his neighbour's happiness than his own.

Another of our companions is Lentulus, a man whose dignity of birth was
very ill supported by his fortune. As some of the first offices in the
kingdom were filled by his relations, he was early invited to court, and
encouraged by caresses and promises to attendance and solicitation; a
constant appearance in splendid company necessarily required
magnificence of dress; and a frequent participation of fashionable
amusements forced him into expense: but these measures were requisite to
his success; since every body knows, that to be lost to sight is to be
lost to remembrance, and that he who desires to fill a vacancy, must be
always at hand, lest some man of greater vigilance should step in before
him.

By this course of life his little fortune was every day made less: but
he received so many distinctions in publick, and was known to resort so
familiarly to the houses of the great, that every man looked on his
preferment as certain, and believed that its value would compensate for
its slowness: he, therefore, found no difficulty in obtaining credit for
all that his rank or his vanity made necessary: and, as ready payment
was not expected, the bills were proportionably enlarged, and the value
of the hazard or delay was adjusted solely by the equity of the
creditor. At length death deprived Lentulus of one of his patrons, and a
revolution in the ministry of another; so that all his prospects
vanished at once, and those that had before encouraged his expenses,
began to perceive that their money was in danger; there was now no other
contention but who should first seize upon his person, and, by forcing
immediate payment, deliver him up naked to the vengeance of the rest.

In pursuance of this scheme, one of them invited him to a tavern, and
procured him to be arrested at the door; but Lentulus, instead of
endeavouring secretly to pacify him by payment, gave notice to the rest,
and offered to divide amongst them the remnant of his fortune: they
feasted six hours at his expense, to deliberate on his proposal; and at
last determined, that as he could not offer more than five shillings in
the pound, it would be more prudent to keep him in prison, till he could
procure from his relations the payment of his debts.

Lentulus is not the only man confined within these walls, on the same
account: the like procedure, upon the like motives, is common among men
whom yet the law allows to partake the use of fire and water with the
compassionate and the just; who frequent the assemblies of commerce in
open day, and talk with detestation and contempt of highwaymen or
housebreakers: but, surely, that man must be confessedly robbed, who is
compelled, by whatever means, to pay the debts which he does not owe:
nor can I look with equal hatred upon him, who, at the hazard of his
life, holds out his pistol and demands my purse, as on him who plunders
under shelter of the law, and by detaining my son or my friend in
prison, extorts from me the price of their liberty. No man can be more
an enemy to society than he, by whose machinations our virtues are
turned to our disadvantage; he is less destructive to mankind that
plunders cowardice, than he that preys upon compassion.

I believe, Mr. Adventurer, you will readily confess, that though not one
of these, if tried before a commercial judicature, can be wholly
acquitted from imprudence or temerity; yet that, in the eye of all who
can consider virtue as distinct from wealth, the fault of two of them,
at least, is outweighed by the merit; and that of the third is so much
extenuated by the circumstances of his life, as not to deserve a
perpetual prison: yet must these, with multitudes equally blameless,
languish in confinement, till malevolence shall relent, or the law be
changed.

I am, Sir,

Your humble servant, MISARGYRUS.




No. 67. TUESDAY, JUNE 26, 1753.

  _Inventas--vitam excolucre per artes_.   VIRG. Aen. vi. 663.

  They polish life by useful arts.

That familiarity produces neglect, has been long observed. The effect of
all external objects, however great or splendid, ceases with their
novelty; the courtier stands without emotion in the royal presence; the
rustick tramples under his foot the beauties of the spring with little
attention to their colours or their fragrance; and the inhabitant of the
coast darts his eye upon the immense diffusion of waters, without awe,
wonder, or terrour.

Those who have past much of their lives in this great city, look upon
its opulence and its multitudes, its extent and variety, with cold
indifference; but an inhabitant of the remoter parts of the kingdom is
immediately distinguished by a kind of dissipated curiosity, a busy
endeavour to divide his attention amongst a thousand objects, and a wild
confusion of astonishment and alarm.

The attention of a new comer is generally first struck by the
multiplicity of cries that stun him in the streets, and the variety of
merchandize and manufactures which the shopkeepers expose on every hand;
and he is apt, by unwary bursts of admiration, to excite the merriment
and contempt of those who mistake the use of their eyes for effects of
their understanding, and confound accidental knowledge with just
reasoning.

But, surely, these are subjects on which any man may without reproach
employ his meditations: the innumerable occupations, among which the
thousands that swarm in the streets of London, are distributed, may
furnish employment to minds of every cast, and capacities of every
degree. He that contemplates the extent of this wonderful city, finds it
difficult to conceive, by what method plenty is maintained in our
markets, and how the inhabitants are regularly supplied with the
necessaries of life; but when he examines the shops and warehouses, sees
the immense stores of every kind of merchandize piled up for sale, and
runs over all the manufactures of art and products of nature, which are
every where attracting his eye and soliciting his purse, he will be
inclined to conclude, that such quantities cannot easily be exhausted,
and that part of mankind must soon stand still for want of employment,
till the wares already provided shall be worn out and destroyed.

As Socrates was passing through the fair at Athens, and casting his eyes
over the shops and customers, "how many things are here," says he, "that
I do not want!" The same sentiment is every moment rising in the mind of
him that walks the streets of London, however inferior in philosophy to
Socrates: he beholds a thousand shops crowded with goods, of which he
can scarcely tell the use, and which, therefore, he is apt to consider
as of no value: and indeed, many of the arts by which families are
supported, and wealth is heaped together, are of that minute and
superfluous kind, which nothing but experience could evince possible to
be prosecuted with advantage, and which, as the world might easily want,
it could scarcely be expected to encourage.

But so it is, that custom, curiosity, or wantonness, supplies every art
with patrons, and finds purchasers for every manufacture; the world is
so adjusted, that not only bread, but riches may be obtained without
great abilities or arduous performances: the most unskilful hand and
unenlightened mind have sufficient incitements to industry; for he that
is resolutely busy, can scarcely be in want. There is, indeed, no
employment, however despicable, from which a man may not promise himself
more than competence, when he sees thousands and myriads raised to
dignity, by no other merit than that of contributing to supply their
neighbours with the means of sucking smoke through a tube of clay; and
others raising contributions upon those, whose elegance disdains the
grossness of smoky luxury, by grinding the same materials into a. powder
that may at once gratify and impair the smell.

Not only by these popular and modish trifles, but by a thousand unheeded
and evanescent kinds of business, are the multitudes of this city
preserved from idleness, and consequently from want. In the endless
variety of tastes and circumstances that diversify mankind, nothing is
so superfluous, but that some one desires it: or so common, but that
some one is compelled to buy it. As nothing is useless but because it is
in improper hands, what is thrown away by one is gathered up by another;
and the refuse of part of mankind furnishes a subordinate class with the
materials necessary to their support.

When I look round upon those who are thus variously exerting their
qualifications, I cannot but admire the secret concatenation of society
that links together the great and the mean, the illustrious and the
obscure; and consider with benevolent satisfaction, that no man, unless
his body or mind be totally disabled, has need to suffer the
mortification of seeing himself useless or burthensome to the community:
he that will diligently labour, in whatever occupation, will deserve the
sustenance which he obtains, and the protection which he enjoys; and may
lie down every night with the pleasing consciousness of having
contributed something to the happiness of life.

Contempt and admiration are equally incident to narrow minds: he whose
comprehension can take in the whole subordination of mankind, and whose
perspicacity can pierce to the real state of things through the thin
veils of fortune or of fashion, will discover meanness in the highest
stations, and dignity in the meanest; and find that no man can become
venerable but by virtue, or contemptible but by wickedness.

In the midst of this universal hurry, no man ought to be so little
influenced by example, or so void of honest emulation, as to stand a
lazy spectator of incessant labour; or please himself with the mean
happiness of a drone, while the active swarms are buzzing about him: no
man is without some quality, by the due application of which he might
deserve well of the world; and whoever he be that has but little in his
power, should be in haste to do that little, lest he be confounded with
him that can do nothing.

By this general concurrence of endeavours, arts of every kind have been
so long cultivated, that all the wants of man may be immediately
supplied; idleness can scarcely form a wish which she may not gratify by
the toil of others, or curiosity dream of a toy, which the shops are not
ready to afford her.

Happiness is enjoyed only in proportion as it is known; and such is the
state or folly of man, that it is known only by experience of its
contrary: we who have long lived amidst the conveniencies of a town
immensely populous, have scarce an idea of a place where desire cannot
be gratified by money. In order to have a just sense of this artificial
plenty, it is necessary to have passed some time in a distant colony, or
those parts of our island which are thinly inhabited: he that has once
known how many trades every man in such situations is compelled to
exercise, with how much labour the products of nature must be
accommodated to human use, how long the loss or defect of any common
utensil must be endured, or by what awkward expedients it must be
supplied, how far men may wander with money in their hands before any
can sell them what they wish to buy, will know how to rate at its proper
value the plenty and ease of a great city.

But that the happiness of man may still remain imperfect, as wants in
this place are easily supplied, new wants likewise are easily created;
every man, in surveying the shops of London, sees numberless instruments
and conveniencies, of which, while he did not know them, he never felt
the need; and yet, when use has made them familiar, wonders how life
could be supported without them. Thus it comes to pass, that our desires
always increase with our possessions; the knowledge that something
remains yet unenjoyed, impairs our enjoyment of the good before us.

They who have been accustomed to the refinements of science, and
multiplications of contrivance, soon lose their confidence in the
unassisted powers of nature, forget the paucity of our real necessities,
and overlook the easy methods by which they may be supplied. It were a
speculation worthy of a philosophical mind, to examine how much is taken
away from our native abilities, as well as added to them, by artificial
expedients. We are so accustomed to give and receive assistance, that
each of us singly can do little for himself; and there is scarce any one
among us, however contracted may be his form of life, who does not enjoy
the labour of a thousand artists.

But a survey of the various nations that inhabit the earth will inform
us, that life may be supported with less assistance; and that the
dexterity, which practice enforced by necessity produces, is able to
effect much by very scanty means. The nations of Mexico and Peru erected
cities and temples without the use of iron; and at this day the rude
Indian supplies himself with all the necessaries of life: sent like the
rest of mankind naked into the world, as soon as his parents have nursed
him up to strength, he is to provide by his own labour for his own
support. His first care is to find a sharp flint among the rocks; with
this he undertakes to fell the trees of the forest; he shapes his bow,
heads his arrows, builds his cottage, and hollows his canoe, and from
that time lives in a state of plenty and prosperity; he is sheltered
from the storms, he is fortified against beasts of prey, he is enabled
to pursue the fish of the sea, and the deer of the mountains; and as he
does not know, does not envy the happiness of polished nations, where
gold can supply the want of fortitude and skill, and he whose laborious
ancestors have made him rich, may lie stretched upon a couch, and see
all the treasures of all the elements poured down before him.

This picture of a savage life if it shows how much individuals may
perform, shows likewise how much society is to be desired. Though the
perseverance and address of the Indian excite our admiration, they
nevertheless cannot procure him the conveniencies which are enjoyed by
the vagrant beggar of a civilized country: he hunts like a wild beast to
satisfy his hunger; and when he lies down to rest after a successful
chase, cannot pronounce himself secure against the danger of perishing
in a few days: he is, perhaps, content with his condition, because he
knows not that a better is attainable by man; as he that is born blind
does not long for the perception of light, because he cannot conceive
the advantages which light would afford him; but hunger, wounds, and
weariness, are real evils, though he believes them equally incident to
all his fellow-creatures; and when a tempest compels him to lie starving
in his hut, he cannot justly be concluded equally happy with those whom
art has exempted from the power of chance, and who make the foregoing
year provide for the following.

To receive and to communicate assistance, constitutes the happiness of
human life: man may, indeed, preserve his existence in solitude, but can
enjoy it only in society; the greatest understanding of an individual,
doomed to procure food and clothing for himself, will barely supply him
with expedients to keep off death from day to day; but as one of a large
community performing only his share of the common business, he gains
leisure for intellectual pleasures, and enjoys the happiness of reason
and reflection.




No. 69. TUESDAY, JULY 3, 1753.

  _Fere libenter homines id quod volunt credunt._     Cæsar.

  Men willingly believe what they wish to be true.

Tully has long ago observed, that no man, however weakened by long life,
is so conscious of his own decrepitude, as not to imagine that he may
yet hold his station in the world for another year.

Of the truth of this remark every day furnishes new confirmation: there
is no time of life, in which men for the most part seem less to expect
the stroke of death, than when every other eye sees it impending; or are
more busy in providing for another year, than when it is plain to all
but themselves, that at another year they cannot arrive. Though every
funeral that passes before their eyes evinces the deceitfulness of such
expectations, since every man who is born to the grave thought himself
equally certain of living at least to the next year; the survivor still
continues to flatter himself, and is never at a loss for some reason why
his life should be protracted, and the voracity of death continue to be
pacified with some other prey.

But this is only one of the innumerable artifices practised in the
universal conspiracy of mankind against themselves: every age and every
condition indulges some darling fallacy; every man amuses himself with
projects which he knows to be improbable, and which, therefore, he
resolves to pursue without daring to examine them. Whatever any man
ardently desires, he very readily believes that he shall some time
attain: he whose intemperance has overwhelmed him with diseases, while
he languishes in the spring, expects vigour and recovery from the summer
sun; and while he melts away in the summer, transfers his hopes to the
frosts of winter: he that gazes upon elegance or pleasure, which want of
money hinders him from imitating or partaking, comforts himself that the
time of distress will soon be at an end, and that every day brings him
nearer to a state of happiness;  though he knows it has passed not only
without acquisition of advantage, but perhaps without endeavours after
it, in the formation of schemes that cannot be executed, and in the
contemplation of prospects which cannot be approached.

Such is the general dream in which we all slumber out our time: every
man thinks the day coming, in which he shall be gratified with all his
wishes, in which he shall leave all those competitors behind, who are
now rejoicing like himself in the expectation of victory; the day is
always coming to the servile in which they shall be powerful, to the
obscure in which they shall be eminent, and to the deformed in which
they shall be beautiful.

If any of my readers has looked with so little attention on the world
about him, as to imagine this representation exaggerated beyond
probability, let him reflect a little upon his own life; let him
consider what were his hopes and prospects ten years ago, and what
additions he then expected to be made by ten years to his happiness;
those years are now elapsed; have they made good the promise that was
extorted from them? have they advanced his fortune, enlarged his
knowledge, or reformed his conduct, to the degree that was once
expected? I am afraid, every man that recollects his hopes must confess
his disappointment; and own that day has glided unprofitably after day,
and that he is still at the same distance from the point of happiness.

With what consolations can those, who have thus miscarried in their
chief design, elude the memory of their ill success? with what
amusements can they pacify their discontent, after the loss of so large
a portion of life? they can give themselves up again to the same
delusions, they can form new schemes of airy gratifications, and fix
another period of felicity; they can again resolve to trust the promise
which they know will be broken, they can walk in a circle with their
eyes shut, and persuade themselves to think that they go forward.

Of every great and complicated event, part depends upon causes out of
our power, and part must be effected by vigour and perseverance. With
regard to that which is styled in common language the work of chance,
men will always find reasons for confidence or distrust, according to
their different tempers or inclinations; and he that has been long
accustomed to please himself with possibilities of fortuitous happiness,
will not easily or willingly be reclaimed from his mistake. But the
effects of human industry and skill are more easily subjected to
calculation: whatever can be completed in a year, is divisible into
parts, of which each may be performed in the compass of a day; he,
therefore, that has passed the day without attention to the task
assigned him, may be certain, that the lapse of life has brought him no
nearer to his object; for whatever idleness may expect from time, its
produce will be only in proportion to the diligence with which it has
been used. He that floats lazily down the stream, in pursuit of
something borne along by the same current, will find himself indeed move
forward; but unless he lays his hand to the oar, and increases his speed
by his own labour, must be always at the same distance from that which
he is following.

There have happened in every age some contingencies of unexpected and
undeserved success, by which those who are determined to believe
whatever favours their inclinations, have been encouraged to delight
themselves with future advantages; they support confidence by
considerations, of which the only proper use is to chase away despair:
it is equally absurd to sit down in idleness because some have been
enriched without labour, as to leap a precipice because some have fallen
and escaped with life, or to put to sea in a storm because some have
been driven from a wreck upon the coast to which they are bound.

We are all ready to confess, that belief ought to be proportioned to
evidence or probability: let any man, therefore, compare the number of
those who have been thus favoured by fortune, and of those who have
failed of their expectations, and he will easily determine, with what
justness he has registered himself in the lucky catalogue.

But there is no need on these occasions for deep inquiries or laborious
calculations; there is a far easier method of distinguishing the hopes
of folly from those of reason, of finding the difference between
prospects that exist before the eyes, and those that are only painted on
a fond imagination. Tom Drowsy had accustomed himself to compute the
profit of a darling project till he had no longer any doubt of its
success; it was at last matured by close consideration, all the measures
were accurately adjusted, and he wanted only five hundred pounds to
become master of a fortune that might be envied by a director of a
trading company. Tom was generous and grateful, and was resolved to
recompense this small assistance with an ample fortune; he, therefore,
deliberated for a time, to whom amongst his friends he should declare
his necessities; not that he suspected a refusal, but because he could
not suddenly determine which of them would make the best use of riches,
and was, therefore, most worthy of his favour. At last his choice was
settled; and knowing that in order to borrow he must shew the
probability of repayment, he prepared for a minute and copious
explanation of his project. But here the golden dream was at an end: he
soon discovered the impossibility of imposing upon others the notions by
which he had so long imposed upon himself; which way soever he turned
his thoughts, impossibility and absurdity arose in opposition on every
side; even credulity and prejudice were at last forced to give way, and
he grew ashamed of crediting himself what shame would not suffer him to
communicate to another.

To this test let every man bring his imaginations, before they have been
too long predominant in his mind. Whatever is true will bear to be
related, whatever is rational will endure to be explained; but when we
delight to brood in secret over future happiness, and silently to employ
our meditations upon schemes of which we are conscious that the bare
mention would expose us to derision and contempt; we should then
remember, that we are cheating ourselves by voluntary delusions; and
giving up to the unreal mockeries of fancy, those hours in which solid
advantages might be attained by sober thought and rational assiduity.

There is, indeed, so little certainty in human affairs, that the most
cautious and severe examiner may be allowed to indulge some hopes which
he cannot prove to be much favoured by probability; since, after his
utmost endeavours to ascertain events, he must often leave the issue in
the hands of chance. And so scanty is our present allowance of
happiness, that in many situations life could scarcely be supported, if
hope were not allowed to relieve the present hour by pleasures borrowed
from futurity; and reanimate the languor of dejection to new efforts, by
pointing to distant regions of felicity, which yet no resolution or
perseverance shall ever reach.

But these, like all other cordials, though they may invigorate in a
small quantity, intoxicate in a greater; these pleasures, like the rest,
are lawful only in certain circumstances, and to certain degrees; they
may be useful in a due subserviency to nobler purposes, but become
dangerous and destructive when once they gain the ascendant in the
heart: to soothe the mind to tranquillity by hope, even when that hope
is likely to deceive us, may be sometimes useful; but to lull our
faculties in a lethargy is poor and despicable.

Vices and errours are differently modified, according to the state of
the minds to which they are incident; to indulge hope beyond the warrant
of reason, is the failure alike of mean and elevated understandings; but
its foundation and its effects are totally different: the man of high
courage and great abilities is apt to place too much confidence in
himself, and to expect, from a vigorous exertion of his powers, more
than spirit or diligence can attain: between him and his wish he sees
obstacles indeed, but he expects to overleap or break them; his mistaken
ardour hurries him forward; and though, perhaps, he misses his end, he
nevertheless obtains some collateral good, and performs something useful
to mankind, and honourable to himself.

The drone of timidity presumes likewise to hope, but without ground and
without consequence; the bliss with which he solaces his hours he always
expects from others, though very often he knows not from whom: he folds
his arms about him, and sits in expectation of some revolution in the
state that shall raise him to greatness, or some golden shower that
shall load him with wealth; he dozes away the day in musing upon the
morrow; and at the end of life is roused from his dream only to discover
that the time of action is past, and that he can now shew his wisdom
only by repentance.




No. 74. SATURDAY, JULY 21, 1753.

  _Insanientis dun sapientæ
  Consultus erro.--_     HOR. Lib. i. Od. xxxiv. 2.

  I miss'd my end, and lost my way,
  By crack-brain'd wisdom led astray.

TO THE ADVENTURER.

SIR,

It has long been charged by one part of mankind upon the other, that
they will not take advice; that counsel and instruction are generally
thrown away; and that, in defiance both of admonition and example, all
claim the right to choose their own measures, and to regulate their own
lives.

That there is something in advice very useful and salutary, seems to be
equally confessed on all hands: since even those that reject it, allow
for the most part that rejection to be wrong, but charge the fault upon
the unskilful manner in which it is given: they admit the efficacy of
the medicine, but abhor the nauseousness of the vehicle.

Thus mankind have gone on from century to century: some have been
advising others how to act, and some have been teaching the advisers how
to advise; yet very little alteration has been made in the world. As we
must all by the law of nature enter life in ignorance, we must all make
our way through it by the light of our own experience; and for any
security that advice has been yet able to afford, must endeavour after
success at the hazard of miscarriage, and learn to do right by venturing
to do wrong.

By advice I would not be understood to mean, the everlasting and
invariable principles of moral and religious truth, from which no change
of external circumstances can justify any deviation; but such directions
as respect merely the prudential part of conduct, and which may he
followed or neglected without any violation of essential duties.

It is, indeed, not so frequently to make us good as to make us wise,
that our friends employ the officiousness of counsel; and among the
rejectors of advice, who are mentioned by the grave and sententious with
so much acrimony, you will not so often find the vicious and abandoned,
as the pert and the petulant, the vivacious and the giddy.

As the great end of female education is to get a husband, this likewise
is the general subject of female advice: and the dreadful denunciation
against those volatile girls, who will not listen patiently to the
lectures of wrinkled wisdom, is, that they will die unmarried, or throw
themselves away upon some worthless fellow, who will never be able to
keep them a coach.

I being naturally of a ductile and easy temper, without strong desires
or quick resentments, was always a favourite amongst the elderly ladies,
because I never rebelled against seniority, nor could be charged with
thinking myself wise before my time; but heard every opinion with
submissive silence, professed myself ready to learn from all who seemed
inclined to teach me, paid the same grateful acknowledgments for
precepts contradictory to each other, and if any controversy arose, was
careful to side with her who presided in the company.

Of this compliance I very early found the advantage; for my aunt Matilda
left me a very large addition to my fortune, for this reason chiefly, as
she herself declared, because I was not above hearing good counsel, but
would sit from morning till night to be instructed, while my sister
Sukey, who was a year younger than myself, and was, therefore, in
greater want of information, was so much conceited of her own knowledge,
that whenever the good lady in the ardour of benevolence reproved or
instructed her, she would pout or titter, interrupt her with questions,
or embarrass her with objections.

I had no design to supplant my sister by this complaisant attention;
nor, when the consequence of my obsequiousness came to be known, did
Sukey so much envy as despise me: I was, however, very well pleased with
my success; and having received, from the concurrent opinion of all
mankind, a notion that to be rich was to be great and happy, I thought I
had obtained my advantages at an easy rate, and resolved to continue the
same passive attention, since I found myself so powerfully recommended
by it to kindness and esteem.

The desire of advising has a very extensive prevalence; and since advice
cannot be given but to those that will hear it, a patient listener is
necessary to the accommodation of all those who desire to be confirmed
in the opinion of their own wisdom: a patient listener, however, is not
always to be had; the present age, whatever age is present, is so
vitiated and disordered that young people are readier to talk than to
attend, and good counsel is only thrown away upon those who are full of
their own perfections.

I was, therefore, in this scarcity of good sense, a general favourite;
and seldom saw a day in which some sober matron did not invite me to her
house, or take me out in her chariot, for the sake of instructing me how
to keep my character in this censorious age, how to conduct myself in
the time of courtship, how to stipulate for a settlement, how to manage
a husband of every character, regulate my family, and educate my
children.

We are all naturally credulous in our own favour. Having been so often
caressed and applauded for docility, I was willing to believe myself
really enlightened by instruction, and completely qualified for the task
of life. I did not doubt but I was entering the world with a mind
furnished against all exigencies, with expedients to extricate myself
from every difficulty, and sagacity to provide against every danger; I
was, therefore, in haste to give some specimen of my prudence, and to
show that this liberality of instruction had not been idly lavished upon
a mind incapable of improvement.

My purpose, for why should I deny it? was like that of other women, to
obtain a husband of rank and fortune superior to my own; and in this I
had the concurrence of all those that had assumed the province of
directing me. That the woman was undone who married below herself, was
universally agreed: and though some ventured to assert, that the richer
man ought invariably to be preferred, and that money was a sufficient
compensation for a defective ancestry; yet the majority declared warmly
for a gentleman, and were of opinion that upstarts should not be
encouraged.

With regard to other qualifications I had an irreconcilable variety of
instructions. I was sometimes told that deformity was no defect in a
man; and that he who was not encouraged to intrigue by an opinion of his
person, was more likely to value the tenderness of his wife: but a
grave-widow directed me to choose a man who might imagine himself
agreeable to me, for that the deformed were always insupportably
vigilant, and apt to sink into sullenness, or burst into rage, if they
found their wife's eye wandering for a moment to a good face or a
handsome shape.

They were, however, all unanimous in warning me, with repeated cautions,
against all thoughts of union with a wit, as a being with whom no
happiness could possibly be enjoyed: men of every other kind I was
taught to govern, but a wit was an animal for whom no arts of taming had
been yet discovered: the woman whom he could once get within his power,
was considered as lost to all hope of dominion or of quiet: for he would
detect artifice and defeat allurement; and if once he discovered any
failure of conduct, would believe his own eyes, in defiance of tears,
caresses, and protestations.

In pursuance of these sage principles, I proceeded to form my schemes;
and while I was yet in the first bloom of youth, was taken out at an
assembly by Mr. Frisk. I am afraid my cheeks glowed, and my eyes
sparkled; for I observed the looks of all my superintendants fixed
anxiously upon me; and I was next day cautioned against him from all
hands, as a man of the most dangerous and formidable kind, who had writ
verses to one lady, and then forsaken her only because she could not
read them, and had lampooned another for no other fault than defaming
his sister.

Having been hitherto accustomed to obey, I ventured to dismiss Mr.
Frisk, who happily did not think me worth the labour of a lampoon. I was
then addressed by Mr. Sturdy, and congratulated by all my friends on the
manors of which I was shortly to be lady: but Sturdy's conversation was
so gross, that after the third visit I could endure him no longer; and
incurred, by dismissing him, the censure of all my friends, who declared
that my nicety was greater than my prudence, and that they feared it
would be my fate at last to be wretched with a wit.

By a wit, however, I was never afterwards attacked, but lovers of every
other class, or pretended lovers, I have often had; and, notwithstanding
the advice constantly given me, to have no regard in my choice to my own
inclinations, I could not forbear to discard some for vice, and some for
rudeness. I was once loudly censured for refusing an old gentleman who
offered an enormous jointure, and died of the phthisic a year after; and
was so baited with incessant importunities, that I should have given my
hand to Drone the stock-jobber, had not the reduction of interest made
him afraid of the expenses of matrimony.

Some, indeed, I was permitted to encourage; but miscarried of the main
end, by treating them according to the rules of art which had been
prescribed me. Altilis, an old maid, infused into me so much haughtiness
and reserve, that some of my lovers withdrew themselves from my frown,
and returned no more; others were driven away, by the demands of
settlement which the widow Trapland directed me to make; and I have
learned, by many experiments, that to ask advice is to lose opportunity.

I am, Sir,

Your humble servant,

PERDITA.




No. 81. TUESDAY, AUGUST 14, 1753.

  _Nil desperandum.      Lib. i. Od. vii. 27.

  Avaunt despair!_

I have sometimes heard it disputed in conversation, whether it be more
laudable or desirable, that a man should think too highly or too meanly
of himself: it is on all hands agreed to be best, that he should think
rightly; but since a fallible being will always make some deviations
from exact rectitude, it is not wholly useless to inquire towards which
side it is safer to decline.

The prejudices of mankind seem to favour him who errs by under-rating
his own powers: he is considered as a modest and harmless member of
society, not likely to break the peace by competition, to endeavour
after such splendour of reputation as may dim the lustre of others, or
to interrupt any in the enjoyment of themselves; he is no man's rival,
and, therefore, may be every man's friend.

The opinion which a man entertains of himself ought to be distinguished,
in order to an accurate discussion of this question, as it relates to
persons or to things. To think highly of ourselves in comparison with
others, to assume by our own authority that precedence which none is
willing to grant, must be always invidious and offensive; but to rate
our powers high in proportion to things, and imagine ourselves equal to
great undertakings, while we leave others in possession of the same
abilities, cannot with equal justice provoke censure.

It must be confessed, that self-love may dispose us to decide too
hastily in our own favour: but who is hurt by the mistake? If we are
incited by this vain opinion to attempt more than we can perform, ours
is the labour, and ours is the disgrace.

But he that dares to think well of himself, will not always prove to be
mistaken; and the good effects of his confidence will then appear in
great attempts and great performances: if he should not fully complete
his design, he will at least advance it so far as to leave an easier
task for him that succeeds him; and even though he should wholly fail,
he will fail with honour.

But from the opposite errour, from torpid despondency, can come no
advantage; it is the frost of the soul, which binds up all its powers,
and congeals life in perpetual sterility. He that has no hopes of
success, will make no attempts; and where nothing is attempted, nothing
can be done.

Every man should, therefore, endeavour to maintain in himself a
favourable opinion of the powers of the human mind; which are, perhaps,
in every man, greater than they appear, and might, by diligent
cultivation, be exalted to a degree beyond what their possessor presumes
to believe. There is scarce any man but has found himself able, at the
instigation of necessity, to do what in a state of leisure and
deliberation he would have concluded impossible; and some of our species
have signalized themselves by such achievements, as prove that there are
few things above human hope.

It has been the policy of all nations to preserve, by some public
monuments, the memory of those who have served their country by great
exploits: there is the same reason for continuing or reviving the names
of those, whose extensive abilities have dignified humanity. An honest
emulation may be alike excited; and the philosopher's curiosity may be
inflamed by a catalogue of the works of Boyle or Bacon, as Themistocles
was kept awake by the trophies of Miltiades.

Among the favourites of nature that have from time to time appeared in
the world, enriched with various endowments and contrarieties of
excellence, none seems to have been exalted above the common rate of
humanity, than the man known about two centuries ago by the appellation
of the Admirable Crichton; of whose history, whatever we may suppress as
surpassing credibility, yet we shall, upon incontestable authority,
relate enough to rank him among prodigies.

"Virtue," says Virgil, "is better accepted when it comes in a pleasing
form:" the person of Crichton was eminently beautiful; but his beauty
was consistent with such activity and strength, that in fencing he would
spring at one bound the length of twenty feet upon his antagonist; and
he used the sword in either hand with such force and dexterity, that
scarce any one had courage to engage him.

Having studied at St. Andrew's in Scotland, he went to Paris in his
twenty-first year, and affixed on the gate of the college of Navarre a
kind of challenge to the learned of that university to dispute with him
on a certain day: offering to his opponents, whoever they should be, the
choice of ten languages, and of all faculties and sciences. On the day
appointed three thousand auditors assembled, when four doctors of the
church and fifty masters appeared against him; and one of his
antagonists confesses, that the doctors were defeated; that he gave
proofs of knowledge above the reach of man; and that a hundred years
passed without food or sleep, would not be sufficient for the attainment
of his learning. After a disputation of nine hours, he was presented by
the president and professors with a diamond and a purse of gold, and
dismissed with repeated acclamations.

From Paris he went away to Rome, where he made the same challenge, and
had in the presence of the pope and cardinals the same success.
Afterwards he contracted at Venice an acquaintance with Aldus Manutius,
by whom he was introduced to the learned of that city: then visited
Padua, where he engaged in another publick disputation, beginning his
performance with an extemporal poem in praise of the city and the
assembly then present, and concluding with an oration equally
unpremeditated in commendation of ignorance.

He afterwards published another challenge, in which he declared himself
ready to detect the errours of Aristotle and all his commentators,
either in the common forms of logick, or in any which his antagonists
should propose of a hundred different kinds of verse.

These acquisitions of learning, however stupendous, were not gained at
the expense of any pleasure which youth generally indulges, or by the
omission of any accomplishment in which it becomes a gentleman to excel:
he practised in great perfection the arts of drawing and painting, he
was an eminent performer in both vocal and instrumental musick, he
danced with uncommon gracefulness, and, on the day after his disputation
at Paris, exhibited his skill in horsemanship before the court of
France, where at a publick match of tilting, he bore away the ring upon
his lance fifteen times together.

He excelled likewise in domestic games of less dignity and reputation:
and in the interval between his challenge and disputation at Paris, he
spent so much of his time at cards, dice, and tennis, that a lampoon was
fixed upon the gate of the Sorbonne, directing those that would see this
monster of erudition, to look for him at the tavern.

So extensive was his acquaintance with life and manners, that in an
Italian comedy composed by himself, and exhibited before the court of
Mantua, he is said to have personated fifteen different characters; in
all which he might succeed without great difficulty, since he had such
power of retention, that once hearing an oration of an hour, he would
repeat it exactly, and in the recital follow the speaker through all his
variety of tone and gesticulation.

Nor was his skill in arms less than in learning, or his courage inferior
to his skill: there was a prize-fighter at Mantua, who travelling about
the world, according to the barbarous custom of that age, as a general
challenger, had defeated the most celebrated masters in many parts of
Europe; and in Mantua, where he then resided, had killed three that
appeared against him. The duke repented that he had granted him his
protection; when Crichton, looking on his sanguinary success with
indignation, offered to stake fifteen hundred pistoles, and mount the
stage against him. The duke with some reluctance consented, and on the
day fixed the combatants appeared: their weapon seems to have been
single rapier, which was then newly introduced in Italy. The
prize-fighter advanced with great violence and fierceness, and Crichton
contented himself calmly to ward his passes, and suffered him to exhaust
his vigour by his own fury. Crichton then became the assailant; and
pressed upon him with such force and agility, that he thrust him thrice
through the body, and saw him expire: he then divided the prize he had
won among the widows whose husbands had been killed.

The death of this wonderful man I should be willing to conceal, did I
not know that every reader will inquire curiously after that fatal hour,
which is common to all human beings, however distinguished from each
other by nature or by fortune.

The duke of Mantua, having received so many proofs of his various merit,
made him tutor to his son Vicentio di Gonzaga, a prince of loose manners
and turbulent disposition. On this occasion it was, that he composed the
comedy in which he exhibited so many different characters with exact
propriety. But his honour was of short continuance; for as he was one
night in the time of Carnival rambling about the streets, with his
guitar in his hand, he was attacked by six men masked. Neither his
courage nor skill in his exigence deserted him: he opposed them with
such activity and spirit, that he soon dispersed them, and disarmed
their leader, who throwing off his mask, discovered himself to be the
prince his pupil. Crichton, falling on his knees, took his own sword by
the point, and presented it to the prince; who immediately seized it,
and instigated, as some say, by jealousy, according to others, only by
drunken fury and brutal resentment, thrust him through the heart.

Thus was the Admirable Crichton brought into that state, in which he
could excel the meanest of mankind only by a few empty honours paid to
his memory: the court of Mantua testified their esteem by a publick
mourning, the contemporary wits were profuse of their encomiums, and the
palaces of Italy were adorned with pictures, representing him on
horseback with a lance in one hand and a book in the other[1].

[1] This paper is enumerated by Chalmers among those which Johnson
    dictated, not to Bathurst, but to Hawkesworth. It is an elegant
    summary of Crichton's life which is in Mackenzie's Writers of the
    Scotch Nation. See a fuller account by the Earl of Buchan and Dr.
    Kippis in the Biog. Brit. and the recently published one by Mr.
    Frazer Tytler.




No. 84. SATURDAY, AUGUST 25, 1753.

  _Tolle periclum,
  Jam vaga prosiliet frenis natura remotis._ HOR. Lib. ii. Sat. vii. 73.

  But take the danger and the shame away,
  And vagrant nature bounds upon her prey. FRANCIS.

TO THE ADVENTURER.

SIR,

It has been observed, I think, by Sir William Temple, and after him by
almost every other writer, that England affords a greater variety of
characters than the rest of the world. This is ascribed to the liberty
prevailing amongst us, which gives every man the privilege of being wise
or foolish his own way, and preserves him from the necessity of
hypocrisy or the servility of imitation.

That the position itself is true, I am not completely satisfied. To be
nearly acquainted with the people of different countries can happen to
very few; and in life, as in every thing else beheld at a distance,
there appears an even uniformity: the petty discriminations which
diversify the natural character, are not discoverable but by a close
inspection; we, therefore, find them most at home, because there we have
most opportunities of remarking them. Much less am I convinced, that
this peculiar diversification, if it be real, is the consequence of
peculiar liberty; for where is the government to be found that
superintends individuals with so much vigilance, as not to leave their
private conduct without restraint? Can it enter into a reasonable mind
to imagine, that men of every other nation are not equally masters of
their own time or houses with ourselves, and equally at liberty to be
parsimonious or profuse, frolick or sullen, abstinent or luxurious?
Liberty is certainly necessary to the full play of predominant humours;
but such liberty is to be found alike under the government of the many
or the few, in monarchies or commonwealths.

How readily the predominant passion snatches an interval of liberty, and
how fast it expands itself when the weight of restraint is taken away, I
had lately an opportunity to discover, as I took a journey into the
country in a stage-coach; which, as every journey is a kind of
adventure, may be very properly related to you, though I can display no
such extraordinary assembly as Cervantes has collected at Don Quixote's
inn[1].

In a stage coach, the passengers are for the most part wholly unknown to
one another, and without expectation of ever meeting again when their
journey is at an end; one should therefore imagine, that it was of
little importance to any of them, what conjectures the rest should form
concerning him. Yet so it is, that as all think themselves secure from
detection, all assume that character of which they are most desirous,
and on no occasion is the general ambition of superiority more
apparently indulged.

On the day of our departure, in the twilight of the morning, I ascended
the vehicle with three men and two women, my fellow travellers. It was
easy to observe the affected elevation of mien with which every one
entered, and the supercilious servility with which they paid their
compliments to each other. When the first ceremony was despatched, we
sat silent for a long time, all employed in collecting importance into
our faces, and endeavouring to strike reverence and submission into our
companions.

It is always observable that silence propagates itself, and that the
longer talk has been suspended, the more difficult it is to find any
thing to say. We began now to wish for conversation; but no one seemed
inclined to descend from his dignity, or first propose a topick of
discourse. At last a corpulent gentleman, who had equipped himself for
this expedition with a scarlet surtout and a large hat with a broad
lace, drew out his watch, looked on it in silence, and then held it
dangling at his finger. This was, I suppose, understood by all the
company as an invitation to ask the time of the day, but nobody appeared
to heed his overture; and his desire to be talking so far overcame his
resentment, that he let us know of his own accord it was past five, and
that in two hours we should be at breakfast.

His condescension was thrown away: we continued all obdurate; the ladies
held up their heads; I amused myself with watching their behaviour; and
of the other two, one seemed to employ himself in counting the trees as
we drove by them, the other drew his hat over his eyes, and
counterfeited a slumber. The man of benevolence, to shew that he was not
depressed by our neglect, hummed a tune, and beat time upon his
snuff-box.

Thus universally displeased with one another, and not much delighted
with ourselves, we came at last to the little inn appointed for our
repast; and all began at once to recompense themselves for the
constraint of silence, by innumerable questions and orders to the people
that attended us. At last, what every one had called for was got, or
declared impossible to be got at that time, and we were persuaded to sit
round the same table; when the gentleman in the red surtout looked again
upon his watch, told us that we had half an hour to spare, but he was
sorry to see so little merriment among us; that all fellow travellers
were for the time upon the level, and that it was always his way to make
himself one of the company. "I remember," says he, "it was on just such
a morning as this, that I and my Lord Mumble and the Duke of Tenterden
were out upon a ramble: we called at a little house as it might be this;
and my landlady, I warrant you, not suspecting to whom she was talking,
was so jocular and facetious, and made so many merry answers to our
questions, that we were all ready to burst with laughter. At last the
good woman happening to overhear me whisper the duke and call him by his
title, was so surprised and confounded, that we could scarcely get a
word from her; and the duke never met me from that day to this, but he
talks of the little house, and quarrels with me for terrifying the
landlady."

He had scarcely time to congratulate himself on the veneration which
this narrative must have procured for him from the company, when one of
the ladies having reached out for a plate on a distant part of the
table, began to remark, "the inconveniencies of travelling, and the
difficulty which they who never sat at home without a great number of
attendants, found in performing for themselves such offices as the road
required; but that people of quality often travelled in disguise, and
might be generally known from the vulgar by their condescension to poor
inn-keepers, and the allowance which they made for any defect in their
entertainment; that for her part, while people were civil and meant
well, it was never her custom to find fault, for one was not to expect
upon a journey all that one enjoyed at one's own house."

A general emulation seemed now to be excited. One of the men who had
hitherto said nothing, called for the last newspaper; and having perused
it a while with deep pensiveness, "It is impossible," says he, "for any
man to guess how to act with regard to the stocks; last week it was the
general opinion that they would fall; and I sold out twenty thousand
pounds in order to a purchase: they have now risen unexpectedly; and I
make no doubt but at my return to London I shall risk thirty thousand
pounds among them again."

A young man, who had hitherto distinguished himself only by the vivacity
of his looks, and a frequent diversion of his eyes from one object to
another, upon this closed his snuff-box, and told us that "he had a
hundred times talked with the chancellor and the judges on the subject
of the stocks; that for his part he did not pretend to be well
acquainted with the principles on which they were established, but had
always heard them reckoned pernicious to trade, uncertain in their
produce, and unsolid in their foundation; and that he had been advised
by three judges, his most intimate friends, never to venture his money
in the funds, but to put it out upon land security, till he could light
upon an estate in his own country."

It might be expected, that upon these glimpses of latent dignity, we
should all have begun to look round us with veneration; and have behaved
like the princes of romance, when the enchantment that disguises them is
dissolved, and they discover the dignity of each other; yet it happened,
that none of these hints made much impression on the company; every one
was apparently suspected of endeavouring to impose false appearances
upon the rest; all continued their haughtiness in hopes to enforce their
claims; and all grew every hour more sullen, because they found their
representations of themselves without effect.

Thus we travelled on four days with malevolence perpetually increasing,
and without any endeavour but to outvie each other in superciliousness
and neglect; and when any two of us could separate ourselves for a
moment we vented our indignation at the sauciness of the rest.

At length the journey was at an end; and time and chance, that strip off
all disguises, have discovered that the intimate of lords and dukes is a
nobleman's butler, who has furnished a shop with the money he has saved;
the man who deals so largely in the funds, is the clerk of a broker in
Change-alley; the lady who so carefully concealed her quality, keeps a
cook-shop behind the Exchange; and the young man who is so happy in the
friendship of the judges, engrosses and transcribes for bread in a
garret of the Temple. Of one of the women only I could make no
disadvantageous detection, because she had assumed no character, but
accommodated herself to the scene before her, without any struggle for
distinction or superiority.

I could not forbear to reflect on the folly of practising a fraud,
which, as the event showed, had been already practised too often to
succeed, and by the success of which no advantage could have been
obtained; of assuming a character, which was to end with the day; and of
claiming upon false pretences honours which must perish with the breath
that paid them.

But, Mr. Adventurer, let not those who laugh at me and my companions,
think this folly confined to a stagecoach. Every man in the journey of
life takes the same advantage of the ignorance of his fellow travellers,
disguises himself in counterfeited merit, and hears those praises with
complacency which his conscience reproaches him for accepting. Every man
deceives himself while he thinks he is deceiving others; and forgets
that the time is at hand when every illusion shall cease, when
fictitious excellence shall be torn away, and _all_ must be shown to
_all_ in their realestate.

I am, Sir, your humble servant,

Viator.

[1] Johnson has made impressive allusion to the immortal work of
    Cervantes in his second Rambler. Every reflecting man must arise
    from its perusal with feelings of the deepest melancholy, with the
    most tender commiseration for the weakness and lot of humanity. To
    such a man its moral must ever be "profoundly sad." Vulgar minds
    cannot know it. Hence it has ever been the favorite with the
    intellectual class, while Gil Blas has more generally won the
    applause of men of the world. An amusing anecdote of the almost
    universal admiration for the _chef d'oeuvre_ of Le Sage may be found
    in Butler's Reminiscences.

    That bigotted, yet extraordinary man, Alva, predicted, with
    prophetic precision, the effects which the satire on Chivalry would
    produce in Spain. _See Broad Stone of Honour; or Rules for the
    Gentlemen of England._




No. 85 TUESDAY, AUGUST 28, 1753.

  _Qui studet optatam cursu contingere metam,
  Multa tulit fecitque puer._     HOR. De Ar. Poet. 412.

  The youth, who hopes th' Olympic prize to gain,
  All arts must try, and every toil sustain.      FRANCIS.

It is observed by Bacon, that "reading makes a full man, conversation a
ready man, and writing an exact man."

As Bacon attained to degrees of knowledge scarcely ever reached by any
other man, the directions which he gives for study have certainly a just
claim to our regard; for who can teach an art with so great authority,
as he that has practised it with undisputed success?

Under the protection of so great a name, I shall, therefore, venture to
inculcate to my ingenious contemporaries, the necessity of reading, the
fitness of consulting other understandings than their own, and of
considering the sentiments and opinions of those who, however neglected
in the present age, had in their own times, and many of them a long time
afterwards, such reputation for knowledge and acuteness as will scarcely
ever be attained by those that despise them.

An opinion has of late been, I know not how, propagated among us, that
libraries are filled only with useless lumber; that men of parts stand
in need of no assistance; and that to spend life in poring upon books,
is only to imbibe prejudices, to obstruct and embarrass the powers of
nature, to cultivate memory at the expense of judgment, and to bury
reason under a chaos of indigested learning.

Such is the talk of many who think themselves wise, and of some who are
thought wise by others; of whom part probably believe their own tenets,
and part may be justly suspected of endeavouring to shelter their
ignorance in multitudes, and of wishing to destroy that reputation which
they have no hopes to share. It will, I believe, be found invariably
true, that learning was never decried by any learned man; and what
credit can be given to those who venture to condemn that which they do
not know?

If reason has the power ascribed to it by its advocates, if so much is
to be discovered by attention and meditation, it is hard to believe,
that so many millions, equally participating of the bounties of nature
with ourselves, have been for ages upon ages meditating in vain: if the
wits of the present time expect the regard of posterity, which will then
inherit the reason which is now thought superior to instruction, surely
they may allow themselves to be instructed by the reason of former
generations. When, therefore, an author declares, that he has been able
to learn nothing from the writings of his predecessors, and such a
declaration has been lately made, nothing but a degree of arrogance
unpardonable in the greatest human understanding, can hinder him from
perceiving that he is raising prejudices against his own performance;
for with what hopes of success can he attempt that in which greater
abilities have hitherto miscarried? or with what peculiar force does he
suppose himself invigorated, that difficulties hitherto invincible
should give way before him?

Of those whom Providence has qualified to make any additions to human
knowledge, the number is extremely small; and what can be added by each
single mind, even of this superior class, is very little: the greatest
part of mankind must owe all their knowledge, and all must owe far the
larger part of it, to the information of others. To understand the works
of celebrated authors, to comprehend their systems, and retain their
reasonings, is a task more than equal to common intellects; and he is by
no means to be accounted useless or idle, who has stored his mind with
acquired knowledge, and can detail it occasionally to others who have
less leisure or weaker abilities.

Persius has justly observed, that knowledge is nothing to him who is not
known by others to possess it[1]: to the scholar himself it is nothing
with respect either to honour or advantage, for the world cannot reward
those qualities which are concealed from it; with respect to others it
is nothing, because it affords no help to ignorance or errour.

It is with justice, therefore, that in an accomplished character, Horace
unites just sentiments with the power of expressing them; and he that
has once accumulated learning, is next to consider, how he shall most
widely diffuse and most agreeably impart it.

A ready man is made by conversation. He that buries himself among his
manuscripts, "besprent," as Pope expresses it, "with learned dust," and
wears out his days and nights in perpetual research and solitary
meditation, is too apt to lose in his elocution what he adds to his
wisdom; and when he comes into the world, to appear overloaded with his
own notions, like a man armed with weapons which he cannot wield. He has
no facility of inculcating his speculations, of adapting himself to the
various degrees of intellect which the accidents of conversation will
present; but will talk to most unintelligibly, and to all unpleasantly.

I was once present at the lectures of a profound philosopher, a man
really skilled in the science which he professed, who having occasion to
explain the terms _opacum_ and _pellucidum_, told us, after some
hesitation, that  _opacum_ was, as one might say, _opake_, and that
_pellucidum_  signified _pellucid_. Such was the dexterity with which
this learned reader facilitated to his auditors the intricacies of
science; and so true is it, that a man may know what he cannot teach.

Boerhaave complains, that the writers who have treated of chymistry
before him, are useless to the greater part of students, because they
presuppose their readers to have such degrees of skill as are not often
to be found. Into the same errour are all men apt to fall, who have
familiarized any subject to themselves in solitude: they discourse, as
if they thought every other man had been employed in the same inquiries;
and expect that short hints and obscure allusions will produce in others
the same train of ideas which they excite in themselves.

Nor is this the only inconvenience which the man of study suffers from a
recluse life. When he meets with an opinion that pleases him, he catches
it up with eagerness; looks only after such arguments as tend to his
confirmation; or spares himself the trouble of discussion, and adopts it
with very little proof; indulges it long without suspicion, and in time
unites it to the general body of his knowledge, and treasures it up
among incontestable truths: but when he comes into the world among men
who, arguing upon dissimilar principles, have been led to different
conclusions, and being placed in various situations, view the same
object on many sides; he finds his darling position attacked, and
himself in no condition to defend it: having thought always in one
train, he is in the state of a man who having fenced always with the
same master, is perplexed and amazed by a new posture of his antagonist;
he is entangled in unexpected difficulties, he is harassed by sudden
objections, he is unprovided with solutions or replies; his surprise
impedes his natural powers of reasoning, his thoughts are scattered and
confounded, and he gratifies the pride of airy petulance with an easy
victory.

It is difficult to imagine, with what obstinacy truths which one mind
perceives almost by intuition, will be rejected by another; and how many
artifices must be practised, to procure admission for the most evident
propositions into understandings frighted by their novelty, or hardened
against them by accidental prejudice; it can scarcely be conceived, how
frequently, in these extemporaneous controversies, the dull will be
subtle, and the acute absurd; how often stupidity will elude the force
of argument, by involving itself in its own gloom; and mistaken
ingenuity will weave artful fallacies, which reason can scarcely find
means to disentangle.

In these encounters the learning of the recluse usually fails him:
nothing but long habit and frequent experiments can confer the power of
changing a position into various forms, presenting it in different
points of view, connecting it with known and granted truths, fortifying
it with intelligible arguments, and illustrating it by apt similitudes;
and he, therefore, that has collected his knowledge in solitude, must
learn its application by mixing with mankind.

But while the various opportunities of conversation invite us to try
every mode of argument, and every art of recommending our sentiments, we
are frequently betrayed to the use of such as are not in themselves
strictly defensible: a man heated in talk, and eager of victory, takes
advantage of the mistakes or ignorance of his adversary, lays hold of
concessions to which he knows he has no right, and urges proofs likely
to prevail on his opponent, though he knows himself that they have no
force: thus the severity of reason is relaxed, many topicks are
accumulated, but without just arrangement or distinction; we learn to
satisfy ourselves with such ratiocination as silences others; and seldom
recall to a close examination, that discourse which has gratified our
vanity with victory and applause.

Some caution, therefore, must be used lest copiousness and facility be
made less valuable by inaccuracy and confusion. To fix the thoughts by
writing, and subject them to frequent examinations and reviews, is the
best method of enabling the mind to detect its own sophisms, and keep it
on guard against the fallacies which it practises on others: in
conversation we naturally diffuse our thoughts, and in writing we
contract them; method is the excellence of writing, and unconstraint the
grace of conversation.

To read, write, and converse in due proportions, is, therefore, the
business of a man of letters. For all these there is not often equal
opportunity; excellence, therefore, is not often attainable; and most
men fail in one or other of the ends proposed, and are full without
readiness, or without exactness. Some deficiency must be forgiven all,
because all are men; and more must be allowed to pass uncensured in the
greater part of the world, because none can confer upon himself
abilities, and few have the choice of situations proper for the
improvement of those which nature has bestowed: it is, however,
reasonable to have _perfection_ in our eye; that we may always advance
towards it, though we know it never can be reached.

[1] Scire tuum nihil est, nisi te scire hoc sciat alter. Sat. i. 27.




No. 92. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 1753.

  _Cum tabulis animum censoris sumet honesti._HOR. Lib. ii. Ep. it. 110.

  Bold be the critick, zealous to his trust,
  Like the firm judge inexorably just.

TO THE ADVENTURER.

Sir,

In the papers of criticism which you have given to the publick, I have
remarked a spirit of candour and love of truth equally remote from
bigotry and captiousness; a just distribution of praise amongst the
ancients and the moderns: a sober deference to reputation long
established, without a blind adoration of antiquity; and a willingness
to favour later performances, without a light or puerile fondness for
novelty.

I shall, therefore, venture to lay before you, such observations as have
risen to my mind in the consideration of Virgil's pastorals, without any
inquiry how far my sentiments deviate from established rules or common
opinions.

If we survey the ten pastorals in a general view, it will be found that
Virgil can derive from them very little claim to the praise of an
inventor. To search into the antiquity of this kind of poetry is not my
present purpose; that it has long subsisted in the east, the _Sacred
Writings_ sufficiently inform us; and we may conjecture, with great
probability, that it was sometimes the devotion, and sometimes the
entertainment of the first generations of mankind. Theocritus united
elegance with simplicity; and taught his shepherds to sing with so much
ease and harmony, that his countrymen, despairing to excel, forbore to
imitate him; and the Greeks, however vain or ambitious, left him in
quiet possession of the garlands which the wood-nymphs had bestowed upon
him.

Virgil, however, taking advantage of another language, ventured to copy
or to rival the _Sicilian bard_: he has written with greater splendour
of diction, and elevation of sentiment: but as the magnificence of his
performances was more, the simplicity was less; and, perhaps, where he
excels Theocritus, he sometimes obtains his superiority by deviating
from the pastoral character, and performing what Theocritus never
attempted.

Yet, though I would willingly pay to Theocritus the honour which is
always due to an original author, I am far from intending to depreciate
Virgil: of whom Horace justly declares, that the rural muses have
appropriated to him their elegance and sweetness, and who, as he copied
Theocritus in his design, has resembled him likewise in his success;
for, if we except Calphurnius, an obscure author of the lower ages, I
know not that a single pastoral was written after him by any poet, till
the revival of literature.

But though his general merit has been universally acknowledged, I am far
from thinking all the productions of his rural Thalia equally excellent;
there is, indeed, in all his pastorals a strain of versification which
it is vain to seek in any other poet; but if we except the first and the
tenth, they seem liable either wholly or in part to considerable
objections.

The second, though we should forget the great charge against it, which I
am afraid can never be refuted, might, I think, have perished, without
any diminution of the praise of its author; for I know not that it
contains one affecting sentiment or pleasing description, or one passage
that strikes the imagination or awakens the passions.

The third contains a contest between two shepherds, begun with a quarrel
of which some particulars might well be spared, carried on with
sprightliness and elegance, and terminated at last in a reconciliation:
but, surely, whether the invectives with which they attack each other be
true or false, they are too much degraded from the dignity of pastoral
innocence; and instead of rejoicing that they are both victorious, I
should not have grieved could they have been both defeated.

The poem to Pollio is, indeed, of another kind: it is filled with images
at once splendid and pleasing, and is elevated with grandeur of language
worthy of the first of Roman poets; but I am not able to reconcile
myself to the disproportion between the performance and the occasion
that produced it: that the golden age should return because Pollio had a
son, appears so wild a fiction, that I am ready to suspect the poet of
having written, for some other purpose, what he took this opportunity of
producing to the publick.

The fifth contains a celebration of Daphnis, which has stood to all
succeeding ages as the model of pastoral elegies. To deny praise to a
performance which so many thousands have laboured to imitate, would be
to judge with too little deference for the opinion of mankind: yet
whoever shall read it with impartiality, will find that most of the
images are of the mythological kind, and therefore easily invented; and
that there are few sentiments of rational praise or natural lamentation.

In the Silenus he again rises to the dignity of philosophick sentiments,
and heroick poetry. The address to Varus is eminently beautiful: but
since the compliment paid to Gallus fixes the transaction to his own
time, the fiction of Silenus seems injudicious: nor has any sufficient
reason yet been found, to justify his choice of those fables that make
the subject of the song.

The seventh exhibits another contest of the tuneful shepherds: and,
surely, it is not without some reproach to his inventive power, that of
ten pastorals Virgil has written two upon the same plan. One of the
shepherds now gains an acknowledged victory, but without any apparent,
superiority, and the reader, when he sees the prize adjudged, is not
able to discover how it was deserved.

Of the eighth pastoral, so little is properly the work of Virgil, that
he has no claim to other praise or blame, than that of a translator.

Of the ninth, it is scarce possible to discover the design or tendency;
it is said, I know not upon what authority, to have been composed from
fragments of other poems; and except a few lines in which the author
touches upon his own misfortunes, there is nothing that seems
appropriated to any time or place, or of which any other use can be
discovered than to fill up the poem.

The first and the tenth pastorals, whatever be determined of the rest,
are sufficient to place their author above the reach of rivalry. The
complaint of Gallus disappointed in his love, is full of such sentiments
as disappointed love naturally produces; his wishes are wild, his
resentment is tender, and his purposes are inconstant. In the genuine
language of despair, he soothes himself awhile with the pity that shall
be paid him after his death.

  _--Tamen cantabitis, Arcades, inquit,
  Montibus haec vestris: soli cantare periti
  Arcades. O mihi tum quam molliter ossa quiescant,
  Vestra meos olim si fistula dicat amores!_             Virg. Ec. x. 31.

 --Yet, O Arcadian swains,
  Ye best artificers of soothing strains!
  Tune your soft reeds, and teach your rocks my woes,
  So shall my shade in sweeter rest repose.
  O that your birth and business had been mine;
  To feed the flock, and prune the spreading vine!       WARTON.

Discontented with his present condition, and desirous to be any thing
but what he is, he wishes himself one of the shepherds. He then catches
the idea of rural tranquillity; but soon discovers how much happier he
should be in these happy regions, with Lycoris at his side:

  _Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata, Lycori:
  Hic nemus, hic ipso tecum consumerer aevo.
  Nunc insanus amor duri me Martis in armis
  Tela inter media atque adversos detinet hostes.
  Tu procul a patria (nec sit mihi credere) tantum
  Alpinas, ah dura, nives, et frigora Rheni
  Me sine sola vides. Ah te ne frigora laedant!
  Ah tibi ne teneras glacies secet aspera plantas!_      Ec. x. 42.

  Here cooling fountains roll through flow'ry meads,
  Here woods, Lycoris, lift their verdant heads;
  Here could I wear my careless life away,
  And in thy arms insensibly decay.
  Instead of that, me frantick love detains,
  'Mid foes, and dreadful darts, and bloody plains:
  While you--and can my soul the tale believe,
  Far from your country, lonely wand'ring leave
  Me, me your lover, barbarous fugitive!
  Seek the rough Alps where snows eternal shine,
  And joyless borders of the frozen Rhine.
  Ah! may no cold e'er blast my dearest maid,
  Nor pointed ice thy tender feet invade.                WARTON.

He then turns his thoughts on every side, in quest of something that may
solace or amuse him: he proposes happiness to himself, first in one
scene and then in another: and at last finds that nothing will satisfy:

  _Jam neque Hamadryades rursum, nec carmina nobis
  Ipsa placent: ipsae rursum concedite sylvae.
  Non illum nostri possunt mutare labores;
  Nec si frigoribus mediis Hebrumque bibamus,
  Sithoniasque nives hyemis subeamus aquosae:
  Nec si, cum moriens alta liber aret in ulmo
  Aethiopum versemus oves sub sidere Cancri.
  Omnia vincit amor; et nos cedamns amori._              Ec. x. 62.

  But now again no more the woodland maids,
  Nor pastoral songs delight--Farewell, ye shades--
  No toils of ours the cruel god can change,
  Tho' lost in frozen deserts we should range;
  Tho' we should drink where chilling Hebrus flows,
  Endure bleak winter blasts, and Thracian snows:
  Or on hot India's plains our flocks should feed,
  Where the parch'd elm declines his sickening head,
  Beneath fierce-glowing Cancer's fiery beams,
  Far from cool breezes and refreshing streams.
  Love over all maintains resistless sway,
  And let us love's all-conquering power obey.           WARTON.

But notwithstanding the excellence of the tenth pastoral, I cannot
forbear to give the preference to the first, which is equally natural
and more diversified. The complaint of the shepherd, who saw his old
companion at ease in the shade, while himself was driving his little
flock he knew not whither, is such as, with variation of circumstances,
misery always utters at the sight of prosperity:

  _Nos patriae fines, et dulcia linquimus arra;
  Nos patrium fugimus: Tu, Tityre, lentus in umbra
  Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida sylvas._            Ec. i. 3.

  We leave our country's bounds, our much-lov'd plains;
  We from our country fly, unhappy swains!
  You, Tit'rus, in the groves at leisure laid,
  Teach Amaryllis' name to every shade.                  WARTON.

His account of the difficulties of his journey, gives a very tender
image of pastoral distress:

 --_En ipse capellas
  Protenus aeger ago: hanc etiam vix, Tityre, duco:
  Hic inter densas corylos modo namque gemellos,
  Spem gregis, ah! silice in nuda connixa reliquit._     Ec. i. 12.

  And lo! sad partner of the general care,
  Weary and faint I drive my goats afar!
  While scarcely this my leading hand sustains,
  Tired with the way, and recent from her pains;
  For 'mid yon tangled hazels as we past,
  On the bare flints her hapless twin she cast,
  The hopes and promise of my ruin'd fold!               WARTON.

The description of Virgil's happiness in his little farm, combines
almost all the images of rural pleasure; and he, therefore, that can
read it with indifference, has no sense of pastoral poetry:

  _Fortunate senex! ergo tua rura manebunt,
  Et tibi magna satis; quamvis lapis omnia nudus,
  Limosoque palus obducat pascua junco:
  Non insueta graves tentabunt pabula foetas,
  Nec mala vicini pecoris contagia laedent.
  Fortunate senex! hic inter flumina nota,
  Et fontes sacros, frigus captabis opacum.
  Hinc tibi, quae semper vicino ab limite sepes,
  Hyblaeis apibus florem depasta salicti,
  Saepe levi somnum suadebit inire susurro.
  Hinc alta sub rupe canet frondator ad auras.
  Nec tamen interea raucae, tua cura, palumbes,
  Nec gemere aëria cessabit turtur ab ulmo._             Ec. i. 47

  Happy old man! then still thy farms restored,
  Enough for thee, shall bless thy frugal board.
  What tho' rough stones the naked soil o'erspread,
  Or marshy bulrush rear its wat'ry head,
  No foreign food thy teeming ewes shall fear,
  No touch contagious spread its influence here.
  Happy old man! here 'mid th' accustom'd streams
  And sacred springs, you'll shun the scorching beams;
  While from yon willow-fence, thy picture's bound,
  The bees that suck their flow'ry stores around,
  Shall sweetly mingle with the whispering boughs
  Their lulling murmurs, and invite repose:
  While from steep rocks the pruner's song is heard;
  Nor the soft-cooing dove, thy fav'rite bird,
  Meanwhile shall cease to breathe her melting strain,
  Nor turtles from th' aërial elm to 'plain.             WARTON.

It may be observed, that these two poems were produced by events that
really happened; and may, therefore, be of use to prove, that we can
always feel more than we can imagine, and that the most artful fiction
must give way to truth.

I am, Sir,
Your humble servant,

DUBIUS.




No. 95. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 2, 1753.

 --_Dulcique animos novitate tenebo_. OVID. Met. iv. 284.

  And with sweet novelty your soul detain.

It is often charged upon writers, that with all their pretensions to
genius and discoveries, they do little more than copy one another; and
that compositions obtruded upon the world with the pomp of novelty,
contain only tedious repetitions of common sentiments, or at best
exhibit a transposition of known images, and give a new appearance to
truth only by some slight difference of dress and decoration.

The allegation of resemblance between authors is indisputably true; but
the charge of plagiarism, which is raised upon it, is not to be allowed
with equal readiness. A coincidence of sentiment may easily happen
without any communication, since there are many occasions in which all
reasonable men will nearly think alike. Writers of all ages have had the
same sentiments, because they have in all ages had the same objects of
speculation; the interests and passions, the virtues and vices of
mankind, have been diversified in different times, only by unessential
and casual varieties: and we must, therefore, expect in the works of all
those who attempt to describe them, such a likeness as we find in the
pictures of the same person drawn in different periods of his life.

It is necessary, therefore, that before an author be charged with
plagiarism, one of the most reproachful, though, perhaps, not the most
atrocious of literary crimes, the subject on which he treats should be
carefully considered. We do not wonder, that historians, relating the
same facts, agree in their narration; or that authors, delivering the
elements of science, advance the same theorems, and lay down the same
definitions: yet it is not wholly without use to mankind, that books are
multiplied, and that different authors lay out their labours on the same
subject; for there will always be some reason why one should on
particular occasions, or to particular persons, be preferable to
another; some will be clear where others are obscure, some will please
by their style and others by their method, some by their embellishments
and others by their simplicity, some by closeness and others by
diffusion.

The same indulgence is to be shown to the writers of morality: right and
wrong are immutable; and those, therefore, who teach us to distinguish
them, if they all teach us right, must agree with one another. The
relations of social life, and the duties resulting from them, must be
the same at all times and in all nations: some petty differences may be,
indeed, produced, by forms of government or arbitrary customs; but the
general doctrine can receive no alteration.

Yet it is not to be desired, that morality should be considered as
interdicted to all future writers: men will always be tempted to deviate
from their duty, and will, therefore, always want a monitor to recall
them; and a new book often seizes the attention of the publick, without
any other claim than that it is new. There is likewise in composition,
as in other things, a perpetual vicissitude of fashion; and truth is
recommended at one time to regard, by appearances which at another would
expose it to neglect; the author, therefore, who has judgment to discern
the taste of his contemporaries, and skill to gratify it, will have
always an opportunity to deserve well of mankind, by conveying
instruction to them in a grateful vehicle.

There are likewise many modes of composition, by which a moralist may
deserve the name of an original writer: he may familiarize his system by
dialogues after the manner of the ancients, or subtilize it into a
series of syllogistick arguments: he may enforce his doctrine by
seriousness and solemnity, or enliven it by sprightliness and gaiety: he
may deliver his sentiments in naked precepts, or illustrate them by
historical examples: he may detain the studious by the artful
concatenation of a continued discourse, or relieve the busy by short
strictures, and unconnected essays.

To excel in any of these forms of writing will require a particular
cultivation of the genius: whoever can attain to excellence, will be
certain to engage a set of readers, whom no other method would have
equally allured; and he that communicates truth with success, must be
numbered among the first benefactors to mankind.

The same observation may be extended likewise to the passions: their
influence is uniform, and their effects nearly the same in every human
breast: a man loves and hates, desires and avoids, exactly like his
neighbour; resentment and ambition, avarice and indolence, discover
themselves by the same symptoms in minds distant a thousand years from
one another.

Nothing, therefore, can be more unjust, than to charge an author with
plagiarism, merely because he assigns to every cause its natural effect;
and makes his personages act, as others in like circumstances have
always done. There are conceptions in which all men will agree, though
each derives them from his own observation: whoever has been in love,
will represent a lover impatient of every idea that interrupts his
meditations on his mistress, retiring to shades and solitude, that he
may muse without disturbance on his approaching happiness, or
associating himself with some friend that flatters his passion, and
talking away the hours of absence upon his darling subject. Whoever has
been so unhappy as to have felt the miseries of long-continued hatred,
will, without any assistance from ancient volumes, be able to relate how
the passions are kept in perpetual agitation, by the recollection of
injury and meditations of revenge; how the blood boils at the name of
the enemy, and life is worn away in contrivances of mischief.

Every other passion is alike simple and limited, if it be considered
only with regard to the breast which it inhabits; the anatomy of the
mind, as that of the body, must perpetually exhibit the same
appearances; and though by the continued industry of successive
inquirers, new movements will be from time to time discovered, they can
affect only the minuter parts, and are commonly of more curiosity than
importance.

It will now be natural to inquire, by what arts are the writers of the
present and future ages to attract the notice; and favour of mankind.
They are to observe the alterations which time is always making in the
modes of life, that they may gratify every generation with a picture of
themselves. Thus love is uniform, but courtship is perpetually varying:
the different arts of gallantry, which beauty has inspired, would of
themselves be sufficient to fill a volume; sometimes balls and
serenades, sometimes tournaments and adventures, have been employed to
melt the hearts of ladies, who in another century have been sensible of
scarce any other merit than that of riches, and listened only to
jointures and pin-money. Thus the ambitious man has at all times been
eager of wealth and power; but these hopes have been gratified in some
countries by supplicating the people, and in others by flattering the
prince: honour in some states has been only the reward of military
achievements, in others it has been gained by noisy turbulence and
popular clamour. Avarice has worn a different form, as she actuated the
usurer of Rome, and the stock-jobber of England; and idleness itself,
how little soever inclined to the trouble of invention, has been forced
from time to time to change its amusements, and contrive different
methods of wearing out the day.

Here then is the fund, from which those who study mankind may fill their
compositions with an inexhaustible variety of images and allusions: and
he must be confessed to look with little attention upon scenes thus
perpetually changing, who cannot catch some of the figures before they
are made vulgar by reiterated descriptions.

It has been discovered by Sir Isaac Newton, that the distinct and
primogenial colours are only seven; but every eye can witness, that from
various mixtures, in various proportions, infinite diversifications of
tints may be produced. In like manner, the passions of the mind, which
put the world in motion, and produce all the bustle and eagerness of the
busy crowds that swarm upon the earth; the passions, from whence arise
all the pleasures and pains that we see and hear of, if we analyze the
mind of man, are very few; but those few agitated and combined, as
external causes shall happen to operate, and modified by prevailing
opinions and accidental caprices, make such frequent alterations on the
surface of life, that the show, while we are busied in delineating it,
vanishes from the view, and a new set of objects succeed, doomed to the
same shortness of duration with the former: thus curiosity may always
find employment, and the busy part of mankind will furnish the
contemplative with the materials of speculation to the end of time.

The complaint, therefore, that all topicks are preoccupied, is nothing
more than the murmur of ignorance or idleness, by which some discourage
others, and some themselves; the mutability of mankind will always
furnish writers with new images, and the luxuriance of fancy may always
embellish them with new decorations.




No. 99. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 16, 1753.

 --_Magnis tamen excidit ausis_. OVID. Met. Lib. ii. 328.

  But in the glorious enterprise he died. ADDISON.

It has always been the practice of mankind, to judge of actions by the
event. The same attempts, conducted in the same manner, but terminated
by different success, produce different judgments: they who attain their
wishes, never want celebrators of their wisdom and their virtue; and
they that miscarry, are quickly discovered to have been defective not
only in mental but in moral qualities. The world will never be long
without some good reason to hate the unhappy; their real faults are
immediately detected; and if those are not sufficient to sink them into
infamy, an additional weight of calumny will be superadded: he that
fails in his endeavours after wealth or power, will not long retain
either honesty or courage.

This species of injustice has so long prevailed in universal practice,
that it seems likewise to have infected speculation: so few minds are
able to separate the ideas of greatness and prosperity, that even Sir
William Temple has determined, "that he who can deserve the name of a
hero, must not only be virtuous but fortunate."

By this unreasonable distribution of praise and blame, none have
suffered oftener than projectors, whose rapidity of imagination and
vastness of design raise such envy in their fellow mortals, that every
eye watches for their fall, and every heart exults at their distresses:
yet even a projector may gain favour by success; and the tongue that was
prepared to hiss, then endeavours to excel others in loudness of
applause.

When Coriolanus, in Shakespeare, deserted to Aufidius, the Volscian
servants at first insulted him, even while he stood under the protection
of the household gods: but when they saw that the project took effect,
and the stranger was seated at the head of the table, one of them very
judiciously observes, "that he always thought there was more in him than
he could think."

Machiavel has justly animadverted on the different notice taken by all
succeeding times, of the two great projectors, Cataline and Cæsar. Both
formed the same project, and intended to raise themselves to power, by
subverting the commonwealth: they pursued their design, perhaps, with
equal abilities, and with equal virtue; but Cataline perished in the
field, and Cæsar returned from Pharsalia with unlimited authority: and
from that time, every monarch of the earth has thought himself honoured
by a comparison with Cæsar; and Cataline has been never mentioned, but
that his name might be applied to traitors and incendiaries.

In an age more remote, Xerxes projected the conquest of Greece, and
brought down the power of Asia against it: but after the world had been
filled with expectation and terrour, his army was beaten, his fleet was
destroyed, and Xerxes has been never mentioned without contempt.

A few years afterwards, Greece likewise had her turn of giving birth to
a projector; who invading Asia with a small army, went forward in search
of adventures, and by his escape from one danger, gained only more
rashness to rush into another: he stormed city after city, over-ran
kingdom after kingdom, fought battles only for barren victory, and
invaded nations only that he might make his way through them to new
invasions: but having been fortunate in the execution of his projects,
he died with the name of Alexander the Great.

These are, indeed, events of ancient times; but human nature is always
the same, and every age will afford us instances of publick censures
influenced by events. The great business of the middle centuries, was
the holy war; which undoubtedly was a noble project, and was for a long
time prosecuted with a spirit equal to that with which it had been
contrived; but the ardour of the European heroes only hurried them to
destruction; for a long time they could not gain the territories for
which they fought, and, when at last gained, they could not keep them:
their expeditions, therefore, have been the scoff of idleness and
ignorance, their understanding and their virtue have been equally
vilified, their conduct has been ridiculed, and their cause has been
defamed.

When Columbus had engaged king Ferdinand in the discovery of the other
hemisphere, the sailors, with whom he embarked in the expedition, had so
little confidence in their commander, that after having been long at sea
looking for coasts which they expected never to find, they raised a
general mutiny, and demanded to return. He found means to sooth them
into a permission to continue the same course three days longer, and on
the evening of the third day descried land. Had the impatience of his
crew denied him a few hours of the time requested, what had been his
fate but to have come back with the infamy of a vain projector, who had
betrayed the king's credulity to useless expenses, and risked his life
in seeking countries that had no existence? how would those that had
rejected his proposals have triumphed in their acuteness! and when would
his name have been mentioned, but with the makers of potable gold and
malleable glass?

The last royal projectors with whom the world has been troubled, were
Charles of Sweden and the Czar of Muscovy. Charles, if any judgment may
be formed of his designs by his measures and his inquiries, had purposed
first to dethrone the Czar, then to lead his army through pathless
deserts into China, thence to make his way by the sword through the
whole circuit of Asia, and by the conquest of Turkey to unite Sweden
with his new dominions: but this mighty project was crushed at Pultowa;
and Charles has since been considered as a madman by those powers, who
sent their ambassadors to solicit his friendship, and their generals "to
learn under him the art of war."

The Czar found employment sufficient in his own dominions, and amused
himself in digging canals, and building cities: murdering his subjects
with insufferable fatigues, and transplanting nations from one corner of
his dominions to another, without regretting the thousands that perished
on the way: but he attained his end, he made his people formidable, and
is numbered by fame among the demi-gods.

I am far from intending to vindicate the sanguinary projects of heroes
and conquerors, and would wish rather to diminish the reputation of
their success, than the infamy of their miscarriages: for I cannot
conceive, why he that has burned cities, wasted nations, and filled the
world with horrour and desolation, should be more kindly regarded by
mankind, than he that died in the rudiments of wickedness; why he that
accomplished mischief should be glorious, and he that only endeavoured
it should be criminal. I would wish Cæsar and Catiline, Xerxes and
Alexander, Charles and Peter, huddled together in obscurity or
detestation.

But there is another species of projectors, to whom I would willingly
conciliate mankind; whose ends are generally laudable, and whose labours
are innocent; who are searching out new powers of nature, or contriving
new works of art; but who are yet persecuted with incessant obloquy, and
whom the universal contempt with which they are treated, often debars
from that success which their industry would obtain, if it were
permitted to act without opposition.

They who find themselves inclined to censure new undertakings, only
because they are new, should consider, that the folly of projection is
very seldom the folly of a fool; it is commonly the ebullition of a
capacious mind, crowded with variety of knowledge, and heated with
intenseness of thought; it proceeds often from the consciousness of
uncommon powers, from the confidence of those, who having already done
much, are easily persuaded that they can do more. When Rowley had
completed the orrery, he attempted the perpetual motion; when Boyle had
exhausted the secrets of vulgar chymistry, he turned his thoughts to the
work of transmutation[1].

A projector generally unites those qualities which have the fairest
claim to veneration, extent of knowledge and greatness of design; it was
said of Catiline, "_immoderata, incredibilia, nimis alta semper
cupiebat_." Projectors of all kinds agree in their intellects, though
they differ in their morals; they all fail by attempting things beyond
their power, by despising vulgar attainments, and aspiring to
performances to which, perhaps, nature has not proportioned the force of
man: when they fail, therefore, they fail not by idleness or timidity,
but by rash adventure and fruitless diligence.

That the attempts of such men will often miscarry, we may reasonably
expect; yet from such men, and such only, are we to hope for the
cultivation of those parts of nature which lie yet waste, and the
invention of those arts which are yet wanting to the felicity of life.
If they are, therefore, universally discouraged, art and discovery can
make no advances. Whatever is attempted without previous certainty of
success, may be considered as a project, and amongst narrow minds may,
therefore, expose its author to censure and contempt; and if the liberty
of laughing be once indulged, every man will laugh at what he does not
understand, every project will be considered as madness, and every great
or new design will be censured as a project. Men unaccustomed to reason
and researches, think every enterprise impracticable, which is extended
beyond common effects, or comprises many intermediate operations. Many
that presume to laugh at projectors, would consider a flight through the
air in a winged chariot, and the movement of a mighty engine by the
steam of water as equally the dreams of mechanick lunacy; and would
hear, with equal negligence, of the union of the Thames and Severn by a
canal, and the scheme of Albuquerque, the viceroy of the Indies, who in
the rage of hostility had contrived to make Egypt a barren desert, by
turning the Nile into the Red Sea.

Those who have attempted much, have seldom failed to perform more than
those who never deviate from the common roads of action: many valuable
preparations of chymistry are supposed to have risen from unsuccessful
inquiries after the grand elixir: it is, therefore, just to encourage
those who endeavour to enlarge the power of art, since they often
succeed beyond expectation; and when they fail, may sometimes benefit
the world even by their miscarriages.

[1] Sir Richard Steele was infatuated, with notions of Alchemy, and
    wasted money in its visionary projects. He had a laboratory at
    Poplar. Addisoniana, vol i. p. 10.

    The readers of Washington Irving's Brace-Bridge Hall will recollect
    a pleasing and popular exposition of the alternately splendid and
    benevolent, and always passionate reveries of the Alchemist, in the
    affecting story of the Student of Salamanca.




No. 102. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1753.

 --_Quid tam dextro pede concipis, ut te
  Conatus non poeniteat votique peracti?_ JUV. Sat. x. 5.

  What in the conduct of our life appears
  So well design'd, so luckily begun,
  But when we have our wish, we wish undone. DRYDEN.

TO THE ADVENTURER.

Sir,

I have been for many years a trader in London. My beginning was narrow,
and my stock small; I was, therefore, a long time brow-beaten and
despised by those, who, having more money, thought they had more merit
than myself. I did not, however, suffer my resentment to instigate me to
any mean arts of supplantation, nor my eagerness of riches to betray me
to any indirect methods of gain; I pursued my business with incessant
assiduity, supported by the hope of being one day richer than those who
contemned me; and had, upon every annual review of my books, the
satisfaction of finding my fortune increased beyond my expectation.

In a few years my industry and probity were fully recompensed, my wealth
was really great, and my reputation for wealth still greater. I had
large warehouses crowded with goods, and considerable sums in the
publick funds; I was caressed upon the Exchange by the most eminent
merchants; became the oracle of the common council; was solicited to
engage in all commercial undertakings; was flattered with the hopes of
becoming in a short time one of the directors of a wealthy company, and,
to complete my mercantile honours, enjoyed the expensive happiness of
fining for sheriff.

Riches, you know, easily produce riches; when I had arrived to this
degree of wealth, I had no longer any obstruction or opposition to fear;
new acquisitions were hourly brought within my reach, and I continued
for some years longer to heap thousands upon thousands.

At last I resolved to complete the circle of a citizen's prosperity by
the purchase of an estate in the country, and to close my life in
retirement. From the hour that this design entered my imagination, I
found the fatigues of my employment every day more oppressive, and
persuaded myself that I was no longer equal to perpetual attention, and
that my health would soon be destroyed by the torment and distraction of
extensive business. I could image to myself no happiness, but in vacant
jollity, and uninterrupted leisure: nor entertain my friends with any
other topick than the vexation and uncertainty of trade, and the
happiness of rural privacy.

But, notwithstanding these declarations, I could not at once reconcile
myself to the thoughts of ceasing to get money; and though I was every
day inquiring for a purchase, I found some reason for rejecting all that
were offered me; and, indeed, had accumulated so many beauties and
conveniencies in my idea of the spot where I was finally to be happy,
that, perhaps, the world might have been travelled over without
discovery of a place which would not have been defective in some
particular.

Thus I went on, still talking of retirement, and still refusing to
retire; my friends began to laugh at my delays, and I grew ashamed to
trifle longer with my own inclinations; an estate was at length
purchased, I transferred my stock to a prudent young man who had married
my daughter, went down into the country, and commenced lord of a
spacious manor.

Here for some time I found happiness equal to my expectation. I reformed
the old house according to the advice of the best architects, I threw
down the walls of the garden, and enclosed it with palisades, planted
long avenues of trees, filled a green-house with exotick plants, dug a
new canal, and threw the earth into the old moat.

The fame of these expensive improvements brought in all the country to
see the show. I entertained my visitors with great liberality, led them
round my gardens, showed them my apartments, laid before them plans for
new decorations, and was gratified by the wonder of some and the envy of
others.

I was envied: but how little can one man judge of the condition of
another! The time was now coming, in which affluence and splendour could
no longer make me pleased with myself. I had built till the imagination
of the architect was exhausted; I had added one convenience to another,
till I knew not what more to wish or to design; I had laid out my
gardens, planted my park, and completed my water-works; and what now
remained to be done? what, but to look up to turrets, of which when they
were once raised I had no further use, to range over apartments where
time was tarnishing the furniture, to stand by the cascade of which I
scarcely now perceived the sound, and to watch the growth of woods that
must give their shade to a distant generation.

In this gloomy inactivity, is every day begun and ended: the happiness
that I have been so long procuring is now at an end, because it has been
procured; I wander from room to room, till I am weary of myself; I ride
out to a neighbouring hill in the centre of my estate, from whence all
my lands lie in prospect round me; I see nothing that I have not seen
before, and return home disappointed, though I knew that I had nothing
to expect.

In my happy days of business I had been accustomed to rise early in the
morning; and remember the time when I grieved that the night came so
soon upon me, and obliged me for a few hours to shut out affluence and
prosperity. I now seldom see the rising sun, but to "tell him," with the
fallen angel, "how I hate his beams[1]." I awake from sleep as to
languor or imprisonment, and have no employment for the first hour but
to consider by what art I shall rid myself of the second. I protract the
breakfast as long as I can, because when it is ended I have no call for
my attention, till I can with some degree of decency grow impatient for
my dinner. If I could dine all my life, I should be happy; I eat not
because I am hungry, but because I am idle: but, alas! the time quickly
comes when I can eat no longer; and so ill does my constitution second
my inclination, that I cannot bear strong liquors: seven hours must then
be endured before I shall sup; but supper comes at last, the more
welcome as it is in a short time succeeded by sleep.

Such, Mr. Adventurer, is the happiness, the hope of which seduced me
from the duties and pleasures of a mercantile life. I shall be told by
those who read my narrative, that there are many means of innocent
amusement, and many schemes of useful employment, which I do not appear
ever to have known; and that nature and art have provided pleasures, by
which, without the drudgery of settled business, the active may be
engaged, the solitary soothed, and the social entertained.

These arts, Sir, I have tried. When first I took possession of my
estate, in conformity to the taste of my neighbours, I bought guns and
nets, filled my kennel with dogs, and my stable with horses: but a
little experience showed me, that these instruments of rural felicity
would afford me few gratifications. I never shot but to miss the mark,
and, to confess the truth, was afraid of the fire of my own gun. I could
discover no musick in the cry of the dogs, nor could divest myself of
pity for the animal whose peaceful and inoffensive life was sacrificed
to our sport. I was not, indeed, always at leisure to reflect upon her
danger; for my horse, who had been bred to the chase, did not always
regard my choice either of speed or way, but leaped hedges and ditches
at his own discretion, and hurried me along with the dogs, to the great
diversion of my brother sportsmen. His eagerness of pursuit once incited
him to swim a river; and I had leisure to resolve in the water, that I
would never hazard my life again for the destruction of a hare.

I then ordered books to be procured, and by the direction of the vicar
had in a few weeks a closet elegantly furnished. You will, perhaps, be
surprised when I shall tell you, that when once I had ranged them
according to their sizes, and piled them up in regular gradations, I had
received all the pleasure which they could give me. I am not able to
excite in myself any curiosity after events which have been long passed,
and in which I can, therefore, have no interest; I am utterly
unconcerned to know whether Tully or Demosthenes excelled in oratory,
whether Hannibal lost Italy by his own negligence or the corruption of
his countrymen. I have no skill in controversial learning, nor can
conceive why so many volumes should have been written upon questions,
which I have lived so long and so happily without understanding. I once
resolved to go through the volumes relating to the office of justice of
the peace, but found them so crabbed and intricate, that in less than a
month I desisted in despair, and resolved to supply my deficiencies by
paying a competent salary to a skilful clerk.

I am naturally inclined to hospitality, and for some time kept up a
constant intercourse of visits with the neighbouring gentlemen; but
though they are easily brought about me by better wine than they can
find at any other house, I am not much relieved by their conversation;
they have no skill in commerce or the stocks, and I have no knowledge of
the history of families or the factions of the country; so that when the
first civilities are over, they usually talk to one another, and I am
left alone in the midst of the company. Though I cannot drink myself, I
am obliged to encourage the circulation of the glass; their mirth grows
more turbulent and obstreperous; and before their merriment is at an
end, I am sick with disgust, and, perhaps, reproached with my sobriety,
or by some sly insinuations insulted as a cit.

Such, Mr. Adventurer, is the life to which I am condemned by a foolish
endeavour to be happy by imitation; such is the happiness to which I
pleased myself with approaching, and which I considered as the chief end
of my cares and my labours. I toiled year after year with cheerfulness,
in expectation of the happy hour in which I might be idle: the privilege
of idleness is attained, but has not brought with it the blessing of
tranquillity.

I am yours, &c.
MERCATOR.


[1] Johnson was too apt to destroy the _keeping_ of character in his
    correspondences. A retired trader might desire a little more
    slumber, "a little folding of the hands to sleep;" but the lofty
    malignity of a fallen spirit sickening at the beams of day, would
    not be among the feelings of an ordinary mind. Some good remarks on
    this point may be seen in Miss Talbot's Letters to Mrs. Carter.




No. 107. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1753.

 --_Sub judice lis est._ HOR. De Ar. Poet. 78.

  And of their vain disputings find no end. FRANCIS.

It has been sometimes asked by those who find the appearance of wisdom
more easily attained by questions than solutions, how it comes to pass,
that the world is divided by such difference of opinion? and why men,
equally reasonable, and equally lovers of truth, do not always think in
the same manner?

With regard to simple propositions, where the terms are understood, and
the whole subject is comprehended at once, there is such an uniformity
of sentiment among all human beings, that, for many ages, a very
numerous set of notions were supposed to be innate, or necessarily
co-existent with the faculty of reason: it being imagined, that universal
agreement could proceed only from the invariable dictates of the
universal parent.

In questions diffuse and compounded, this similarity of determination is
no longer to be expected. At our first sally into the intellectual
world, we all march together along one straight and open road; but as we
proceed further, and wider prospects open to our view, every eye fixes
upon a different scene; we divide into various paths, and, as we move
forward, are still at a greater distance from each other. As a question
becomes more complicated and involved, and extends to a greater number
of relations, disagreement of opinion will always be multiplied; not
because we are irrational, but because we are finite beings, furnished
with different kinds of knowledge, exerting different degrees of
attention, one discovering consequences which escape another, none
taking in the whole concatenation of causes and effects, and most
comprehending but a very small part, each comparing what he observes
with a different criterion, and each referring it to a different
purpose.

Where, then, is the wonder, that they who see only a small part should
judge erroneously of the whole? or that they, who see different and
dissimilar parts, should judge differently from each other?

Whatever has various respects, must have various appearances of good and
evil, beauty or deformity; thus, the gardener tears up as a weed, the
plant which the physician gathers as a medicine; and "a general," says
Sir Kenelm Digby, "will look with pleasure over a plain, as a fit place
on which the fate of empires might be decided in battle, which the
farmer will despise as bleak and barren, neither fruitful of pasturage,
nor fit for tillage[1]."

Two men examining the same question proceed commonly like the physician
and gardener in selecting herbs, or the farmer and hero looking on the
plain; they bring minds impressed with different notions, and direct
their inquiries to different ends; they form, therefore, contrary
conclusions, and each wonders at the other's absurdity.

We have less reason to be surprised or offended when we find others
differ from us in opinion, because we very often differ from ourselves.
How often we alter our minds, we do not always remark; because the
change is sometimes made imperceptibly and gradually, and the last
conviction effaces all memory of the former: yet every man, accustomed
from time to time to take a survey of his own notions, will by a slight
retrospection be able to discover, that his mind has suffered many
revolutions; that the same things have in the several parts of his life
been condemned and approved, pursued and shunned: and that on many
occasions, even when his practice has been steady, his mind has been
wavering, and he has persisted in a scheme of action, rather because he
feared the censure of inconstancy, than because he was always pleased
with his own choice.

Of the different faces shown by the same objects, as they are viewed on
opposite sides, and of the different inclinations which they must
constantly raise in him that contemplates them, a more striking example
cannot easily be found than two Greek epigrammatists will afford us in
their accounts of human life, which I shall lay before the reader in
English prose.

Posidippus, a comick poet, utters this complaint: "Through which of the
paths of life is it eligible to pass? In public assemblies are debates
and troublesome affairs: domestick privacies are haunted with anxieties;
in the country is labour; on the sea is terrour: in a foreign land, he
that has money must live in fear, he that wants it must pine in
distress: are you married? you are troubled with suspicions; are you
single? you languish in solitude; children occasion toil, and a
childless life is a state of destitution: the time of youth is a time of
folly, and gray hairs are loaded with infirmity. This choice only,
therefore, can be made, either never to receive being, or immediately to
lose it[2]."

Such and so gloomy is the prospect, which Posidippus has laid before us.
But we are not to acquiesce too hastily in his determination against the
value of existence: for Metrodorus, a philosopher of Athens, has shown,
that life has pleasures as well as pains; and having exhibited the
present state of man in brighter colours, draws with equal appearance of
reason, a contrary conclusion.

"You may pass well through any of the paths of life. In publick
assemblies are honours and transactions of wisdom; in domestick privacy
is stillness and quiet: in the country are the beauties of nature; on
the sea is the hope of gain: in a foreign land, he that is rich is
honoured, he that is poor may keep his poverty secret: are you married?
you have a cheerful house; are you single? you are unincumbered;
children are objects of affection, to be without children is to be
without care: the time of youth is the time of vigour, and gray hairs
are made venerable by piety. It will, therefore, never be a wise man's
choice, either not to obtain existence, or to lose it; for every state
of life has its felicity."

In these epigrams are included most of the questions which have engaged
the speculations of the inquirers after happiness; and though they will
not much assist our determinations, they may, perhaps, equally promote
our quiet, by showing that no absolute determination ever can be formed.

Whether a publick station or private life be desirable, has always been
debated. We see here both the allurements and discouragements of civil
employments; on one side there is trouble, on the other honour; the
management of affairs is vexatious and difficult, but it is the only
duty in which wisdom can be conspicuously displayed: it must then still
be left to every man to choose either ease or glory; nor can any general
precept be given, since no man can be happy by the prescription of
another.

Thus, what is said of children by Posidippus, "that they are occasions
of fatigue," and by Metrodorus, "that they are objects of affection," is
equally certain; but whether they will give most pain or pleasure, must
depend on their future conduct and dispositions, on many causes over
which the parent can have little influence: there is, therefore, room
for all the caprices of imagination, and desire must be proportioned to
the hope or fear that shall happen to predominate.

Such is the uncertainty in which we are always likely to remain with
regard to questions wherein we have most interest, and which every day
affords us fresh opportunity to examine: we may examine, indeed, but we
never can decide, because our faculties are unequal to the subject; we
see a little, and form an opinion; we see more, and change it.

This inconstancy and unsteadiness, to which we must so often find
ourselves liable, ought certainly to teach us moderation and forbearance
towards those who cannot accommodate themselves to our sentiments: if
they are deceived, we have no right to attribute their mistake to
obstinacy or negligence, because we likewise have been mistaken; we may,
perhaps, again change our own opinion: and what excuse shall we be able
to find for aversion and malignity conceived against him, whom we shall
then find to have committed no fault, and who offended us only by
refusing to follow us into errour?

It may likewise contribute to soften that resentment which pride
naturally raises against opposition, if we consider, that he who differs
from us, does not always contradict us; he has one view of an object,
and we have another; each describes what he sees with equal fidelity,
and each regulates his steps by his own eyes: one man with Posidippus,
looks on celibacy as a state of gloomy solitude, without a partner in
joy, or a comforter in sorrow; the other considers it, with Metrodorus,
as a state free from incumbrances, in which a man is at liberty to
choose his own gratifications, to remove from place to place in quest of
pleasure, and to think of nothing but merriment and diversion: full of
these notions one hastens to choose a wife, and the other laughs at his
rashness, or pities his ignorance; yet it is possible that each is
right, but that each is right only for himself.

Life is not the object of science: we see a little, very little; and
what is beyond we only can conjecture. If we inquire of those who have
gone before us, we receive small satisfaction; some have travelled life
without observation, and some willingly mislead us. The only thought,
therefore, on which we can repose with comfort, is that which presents
to us the care of Providence, whose eye takes in the whole of things,
and under whose direction all involuntary errours will terminate in
happiness.


[1] Livy has described the Achaean leader, Philopaemen, as actually so
    exercising his thoughts whilst he wandered among the rocky passes of
    the Morea, xxxv. 28. In the graphic page of the Roman historian, as
    in the stanzas of the "Ariosto of the North:"

  "From shingles grey the lances start,
  The bracken bush sends forth the dart,
  The rushes and the willow wand
  Are bristling into axe and brand."
       Lady of the Lake, Canto v. 9.

[2]
  "Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen,
    Count o'er thy days from anguish free,
  And know, whatever thou hast been,
    'Tis something better not to be."
             Lord Byron's Euthanasia.

    Compare also the plaintive chorus in the Oedipus at Colonos, 1211.
    Among the tragedies of Sophocles this stands forth a mass of
    feeling. See Schlegel's remarks upon it in his Dramatic Literature.




No. 108. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1753.

  _Nobis, quum semet occidit brevis lux,
  Nox est perpetua una dormienda._   CATULLUS. Lib. v. El. v.

  When once the short-liv'd mortal dies,
  A night eternal seals his eyes.       ADDISON.

It may have been observed by every reader, that there are certain
topicks which never are exhausted. Of some images and sentiments the
mind of man may be said to be enamoured; it meets them, however often
they occur, with the same ardour which a lover feels at the sight of his
mistress, and parts from them with the same regret when they can no
longer be enjoyed.

Of this kind are many descriptions which the poets have transcribed from
each other, and their successors will probably copy to the end of time;
which will continue to engage, or, as the French term it, to flatter the
imagination, as long as human nature shall remain the same.

When a poet mentions the spring, we know that the zephyrs are about to
whisper, that the groves are to recover their verdure, the linnets to
warble forth their notes of love, and the flocks and herds to frisk over
vales painted with flowers: yet, who is there so insensible of the
beauties of nature, so little delighted with the renovation of the
world, as not to feel his heart bound at the mention of the spring?

When night overshadows a romantick scene, all is stillness, silence, and
quiet; the poets of the grove cease their melody, the moon towers over
the world in gentle majesty, men forget their labours and their cares,
and every passion and pursuit is for a while suspended. All this we know
already, yet we hear it repeated without weariness; because such is
generally the life of man, that he is pleased to think on the time when
he shall pause from a sense of his condition.

When a poetical grove invites us to its covert, we know that we shall
find what we have already seen, a limpid brook murmuring over pebbles, a
bank diversified with flowers, a green arch that excludes the sun, and a
natural grot shaded with myrtles; yet who can forbear to enter the
pleasing gloom to enjoy coolness and privacy, and gratify himself once
more by scenes with which nature has formed him to be delighted?

Many moral sentiments likewise are so adapted to our state, that they
find approbation whenever they solicit it, and are seldom read without
exciting a gentle emotion in the mind: such is the comparison of the
life of man with the duration of a flower, a thought which perhaps every
nation has heard warbled in its own language, from the inspired poets of
the Hebrews to our own times; yet this comparion must always please,
because every heart feels its justness, and every hour confirms it by
example.

Such, likewise, is the precept that directs us to use the present hour,
and refer nothing to a distant time, which we are uncertain whether we
shall reach: this every moralist may venture to inculcate, because it
will always be approved, and because it is always forgotten.

This rule is, indeed, every day enforced, by arguments more powerful
than the dissertations of moralists: we see men pleasing themselves with
future happiness, fixing a certain hour for the completion of their
wishes, and perishing, some at a greater and some at a less distance
from the happy time; all complaining of their disappointments, and
lamenting that they had suffered the years which heaven allowed them, to
pass without improvement, and deferred the principal purpose of their
lives to the time when life itself was to forsake them.

It is not only uncertain, whether, through all the casualties and
dangers which beset the life of man, we shall be able to reach the time
appointed for happiness or wisdom; but it is likely, that whatever now
hinders us from doing that which our reason and conscience declare
necessary to be done, will equally obstruct us in times to come. It is
easy for the imagination, operating on things not yet existing, to
please itself with scenes of unmingled felicity, or plan out courses of
uniform virtue; but good and evil are in real life inseparably united;
habits grow stronger by indulgence; and reason loses her dignity, in
proportion as she has oftener yielded to temptation: "he that cannot
live well to-day," says Martial, "will be less qualified to live well
to-morrow."

Of the uncertainty of every human good, every human being seems to be
convinced; yet this uncertainty is voluntarily increased by unnecessary
delay, whether we respect external causes, or consider the nature of our
own minds. He that now feels a desire to do right, and wishes to
regulate his life according to his reason, is not sure that, at any
future time assignable, he shall be able to rekindle the same ardour; he
that has now an opportunity offered him of breaking loose from vice and
folly, cannot know, but that he shall hereafter be more entangled, and
struggle for freedom without obtaining it.

We are so unwilling to believe any thing to our own disadvantage, that
we will always imagine the perspicacity of our judgment and the strength
of our resolution more likely to increase than to grow less by time;
and, therefore, conclude, that the will to pursue laudable purposes,
will be always seconded by the power.

But, however we may be deceived in calculating the strength of our
faculties, we cannot doubt the uncertainty of that life in which they
must be employed: we see every day the unexpected death of our friends
and our enemies, we see new graves hourly opened for men older and
younger than ourselves, for the cautious and the careless, the dissolute
and the temperate, for men who like us were providing to enjoy or
improve hours now irreversibly cut off: we see all this, and yet,
instead of living, let year glide after year in preparations to live.

Men are so frequently cut off in the midst of their projections, that
sudden death causes little emotion in them that behold it, unless it be
impressed upon the attention by uncommon circumstances. I, like every
other man, have outlived multitudes, have seen ambition sink in its
triumphs, and beauty perish in its bloom; but have been seldom so much
affected as by the fate of Euryalus, whom I lately lost as I began to
love him.

Euryalus had for some time flourished in a lucrative profession; but
having suffered his imagination to be fired by an unextinguishable
curiosity, he grew weary of the same dull round of life, resolved to
harass himself no longer with the drudgery of getting money, but to quit
his business and his profit, and enjoy for a few years the pleasures of
travel. His friends heard him proclaim his resolution without suspecting
that he intended to pursue it; but he was constant to his purpose, and
with great expedition closed his accounts and sold his moveables, passed
a few days in bidding farewell to his companions, and with all the
eagerness of romantick chivalry crossed the sea in search of happiness.
Whatever place was renowned in ancient or modern history, whatever
region art or nature had distinguished, he determined to visit: full of
design and hope he lauded on the continent; his friends expected
accounts from him of the new scenes that opened in his progress, but
were informed in a few days, that Euryalus was dead.

Such was the end of Euryalus. He is entered that state, whence none ever
shall return; and can now only benefit his friends, by remaining to
their memories a permanent and efficacious instance of the blindness of
desire, and the uncertainty of all terrestrial good. But perhaps, every
man has like me lost an Euryalus, has known a friend die with happiness
in his grasp; and yet every man continues to think himself secure of
life, and defers to some future time of leisure what he knows it will be
fatal to have finally omitted.

It is, indeed, with this as with other frailties inherent in our nature;
the desire of deferring to another time, what cannot be done without
endurance of some pain, or forbearance of some pleasure, will, perhaps,
never be totally overcome or suppressed; there will always be something
that we shall wish to have finished, and be nevertheless unwilling to
begin: but against this unwillingness it is our duty to struggle, and
every conquest over our passions will make way for an easier conquest:
custom is equally forcible to bad and good; nature will always be at
variance with reason, but will rebel more feebly as she is oftener
subdued.

The common neglect of the present hour is more shameful and criminal, as
no man is betrayed to it by errour, but admits it by negligence. Of the
instability of life, the weakest understanding never thinks wrong,
though the strongest often omits to think justly: reason and experience
are always ready to inform us of our real state; but we refuse to listen
to their suggestions, because we feel our hearts unwilling to obey them:
but, surely, nothing is more unworthy of a reasonable being, than to
shut his eyes, when he sees the road which he is commanded to travel,
that he may deviate with fewer reproaches from himself: nor could any
motive to tenderness, except the consciousness that we have all been
guilty of the same fault, dispose us to pity those who thus consign
themselves to voluntary ruin.




No. 111. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 1753.

 --Quae non fecimus ipsi,
  Vix ea nostra voco. OVID.

  The deeds of long descended ancestors
  Are but by grace of imputation ours. DRYDEN

The evils inseparably annexed to the present condition of man, are so
numerous and afflictive, that it has been, from age to age, the task of
some to bewail, and of others to solace them; and he, therefore, will be
in danger of seeing a common enemy, who shall attempt to depreciate the
few pleasures and felicities which nature has allowed us.

Yet I will confess, that I have sometimes employed my thoughts in
examining the pretensions that are made to happiness, by the splendid
and envied condition of life; and have not thought the hour unprofitably
spent, when I have detected the imposture of counterfeit advantages, and
found disquiet lurking under false appearances of gaiety and greatness.

It is asserted by a tragick poet, that _est miser nemo nisi comparatus_,
"no man is miserable, but as he is compared with others happier than
himself:" this position is not strictly and philosophically true. He
might have said, with rigorous propriety, that no man is happy but as he
is compared with the miserable; for such is the state of this world,
that we find in it absolute misery, but happiness only comparative; we
may incur as much pain as we can possibly endure, though we can never
obtain as much happiness as we might possibly enjoy.

Yet it is certain, likewise, that many of our miseries are merely
comparative: we are often made unhappy, not by the presence of any real
evil, but by the absence of some fictitious good; of something which is
not required by any real want of nature, which has not in itself any
power of gratification, and which neither reason nor fancy would have
prompted us to wish, did we not see it in the possession of others.

For a mind diseased with vain longings after unattainable advantages, no
medicine can be prescribed, but an impartial inquiry into the real worth
of that which is so ardently desired. It is well known, how much the
mind, as well as the eye, is deceived by distance; and, perhaps, it will
be found, that of many imagined blessings it may be doubted, whether he
that wants or possesses them has more reason to be satisfied with his
lot.

The dignity of high birth and long extraction, no man, to whom nature
has denied it, can confer upon himself; and, therefore, it deserves to
be considered, whether the want of that which can never be gained, may
not easily be endured. It is true, that if we consider the triumph and
delight with which most of those recount their ancestors, who have
ancestors to recount, and the artifices by which some who have risen to
unexpected fortune endeavour to insert themselves into an honourable
stem, we shall be inclined to fancy that wisdom or virtue may be had by
inheritance, or that all the excellencies of a line of progenitors are
accumulated on their descendant. Reason, indeed, will soon inform us,
that our estimation of birth is arbitrary and capricious, and that dead
ancestors can have no influence but upon imagination; let it then be
examined, whether one dream may not operate in the place of another;
whether he that owes nothing to forefathers, may not receive equal
pleasure from the consciousness of owing all to himself; whether he may
not, with a little meditation, find it more honourable to found than to
continue a family, and to gain dignity than transmit it; whether, if he
receives no dignity from the virtues of his family, he does not likewise
escape the danger of being disgraced by their crimes; and whether he
that brings a new name into the world, has not the convenience of
playing the game of life without a stake, and opportunity of winning
much though he has nothing to lose.

There is another opinion concerning happiness, which approaches much
more nearly to universality, but which may, perhaps, with equal reason
be disputed. The pretensions to ancestral honours many of the sons of
earth easily see to be ill-grounded; but all agree to celebrate the
advantage of hereditary riches, and to consider those as the minions of
fortune, who are wealthy from their cradles, whose estate is _res non
parta labore, sed relicta_; "the acquisition of another, not of
themselves;" and whom a father's industry has dispensed from a laborious
attention to arts or commerce, and left at liberty to dispose of life as
fancy shall direct them.

If every man were wise and virtuous, capable to discern the best use of
time, and resolute to practise it, it might be granted, I think, without
hesitation, that total liberty would be a blessing; and that it would be
desirable to be left at large to the exercise of religious and social
duties, without the interruption of importunate avocations.

But, since felicity is relative, and that which is the means of
happiness to one man may be to another the cause of misery, we are to
consider, what state is best adapted to human nature in its present
degeneracy and frailty. And, surely, to far the greater number it is
highly expedient, that they should by some settled scheme of duties be
rescued from the tyranny of caprice, that they should be driven on by
necessity through the paths of life with their attention confined to a
stated task, that they may be less at leisure to deviate into mischief
at the call of folly.

When we observe the lives of those whom an ample inheritance has let
loose to their own direction, what do we discover that can excite our
envy? Their time seems not to pass with much applause from others, or
satisfaction to themselves: many squander their exuberance of fortune in
luxury and debauchery, and have no other use of money than to inflame
their passions, and riot in a wide range of licentiousness; others, less
criminal indeed, but surely not much to be praised, lie down to sleep,
and rise up to trifle, are employed every morning in finding expedients
to rid themselves of the day, chase pleasure through all the places of
publick resort, fly from London to Bath, and from Bath to London,
without any other reason for changing place, but that they go in quest
of company as idle and as vagrant as themselves, always endeavouring to
raise some new desire, that they may have something to pursue, to
rekindle some hope which they know will be disappointed, changing one
amusement for another which a few months will make equally insipid, or
sinking into languor and disease for want of something to actuate their
bodies or exhilarate their minds.

Whoever has frequented those places, where idlers assemble to escape
from solitude, knows that this is generally the state of the wealthy;
and from this state it is no great hardship to be debarred. No man can
be happy in total idleness: he that should be condemned to lie torpid
and motionless, "would fly for recreation," says South, "to the mines
and the galleys;" and it is well, when nature or fortune find employment
for those, who would not have known how to procure it for themselves.

He, whose mind is engaged by the acquisition or improvement of a
fortune, not only escapes the insipidity of indifference, and the
tediousness of inactivity, but gains enjoyments wholly unknown to those,
who live lazily on the toil of others; for life affords no higher
pleasure than that of surmounting difficulties, passing from one step of
success to another, forming new wishes, and seeing them gratified. He
that labours in any great or laudable undertaking, has his fatigues
first supported by hope, and afterwards rewarded by joy; he is always
moving to a certain end, and when he has attained it, an end more
distant invites him to a new pursuit.

It does not, indeed, always happen, that diligence is fortunate; the
wisest schemes are broken by unexpected accidents; the most constant
perseverance sometimes toils through life without a recompense; but
labour, though unsuccessful, is more eligible than idleness; he that
prosecutes a lawful purpose by lawful means, acts always with the
approbation of his own reason; he is animated through the course of his
endeavours by an expectation which, though not certain, he knows to be
just; and is at last comforted in his disappointment, by the
consciousness that he has not failed by his own fault.

That kind of life is most happy which affords us most opportunities of
gaining our own esteem; and what can any man infer in his own favour
from a condition to which, however prosperous, he contributed nothing,
and which the vilest and weakest of the species would have obtained by
the same right, had he happened to be the son of the same father?

To strive with difficulties, and to conquer them, is the highest human
felicity; the next is, to strive, and deserve to conquer: but he whose
life has passed without a contest, and who can boast neither success nor
merit, can survey himself only as a useless filler of existence; and if
he is content with his own character, must owe his satisfaction to
insensibility.

Thus it appears that the satirist advised rightly, when he directed us
to resign ourselves to the hands of Heaven, and to leave to superior
powers the determination of our lot:

  _Permittes ipsis expendere Numinibus, quid
  Conveniat nobis, rebusque sit utile nostris:--
  Carior est illis homo quam sibi._       JUV. Sat. x. 347.

  Intrust thy fortune to the Pow'rs above:
  Leave them to manage for thee, and to grant
  What their unerring wisdom sees the want.
  In goodness as in greatness they excel:
  Ah! that we lov'd ourselves but half so well.    DRYDEN.

What state of life admits most happiness, is uncertain; but that
uncertainty ought to repress the petulance of comparison, and silence
the murmurs of discontent.




No. 115. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 11, 1753.

  _Scribimus indocti doctique._     HOR. Lib. ii. Ep. i. 17.

  All dare to write, who can or cannot read.

They who have attentively considered the history of mankind, know that
every age has its peculiar character. At one time, no desire is felt but
for military honours; every summer affords battles and sieges, and the
world is filled with ravage, bloodshed, and devastation: this sanguinary
fury at length subsides, and nations are divided into factions, by
controversies about points that will never be decided. Men then grow
weary of debate and altercation, and apply themselves to the arts of
profit; trading companies are formed, manufactures improved, and
navigation extended; and nothing is any longer thought on, but the
increase and preservation of property, the artifices of getting money,
and the pleasures of spending it.

The present age, if we consider chiefly the state of our own country,
may be styled, with great propriety, _The Age of Authors_[1]; for,
perhaps, there never was a time in which men of all degrees of ability,
of every kind of education, of every profession and employment, were
posting with ardour so general to the press. The province of writing was
formerly left to those, who by study, or appearance of study, were
supposed to have gained knowledge unattainable by the busy part of
mankind; but in these enlightened days, every man is qualified to
instruct every other man: and he that beats the anvil, or guides the
plough, not content with supplying corporal necessities, amuses himself
in the hours of leisure with providing intellectual pleasures for his
countrymen.

It may be observed, that of this, as of other evils, complaints have
been made by every generation: but though it may, perhaps, be true, that
at all times more have been willing than have been able to write, yet
there is no reason for believing, that the dogmatical legions of the
present race were ever equalled in number by any former period: for so
widely is spread the itch of literary praise, that almost every man is
an author, either in act or in purpose: has either bestowed his favours
on the publick, or withholds them, that they may be more seasonably
offered, or made more worthy of acceptance.

In former times, the pen, like the sword, was considered as consigned by
nature to the hands of men; the ladies contented themselves with private
virtues and domestick excellence; and a female writer, like a female
warrior, was considered as a kind of eccentrick being, that deviated,
however illustriously, from her due sphere of motion, and was,
therefore, rather to be gazed at with wonder, than countenanced by
imitation. But as in the times past are said to have been a nation of
Amazons, who drew the bow and wielded the battle-axe, formed encampments
and wasted nations, the revolution of years has now produced a
generation of Amazons of the pen, who with the spirit of their
predecessors have set masculine tyranny at defiance, asserted their
claim to the regions of science, and seem resolved to contest the
usurpations of virility.

Some indeed there are, of both sexes, who are authors only in desire,
but have not yet attained the power of executing their intentions; whose
performances have not arrived at bulk sufficient to form a volume, or
who have not the confidence, however impatient of nameless obscurity, to
solicit openly the assistance of the printer. Among these are the
innumerable correspondents of publick papers, who are always offering
assistance which no man will receive, and suggesting hints that are
never taken; and who complain loudly of the perverseness and arrogance
of authors, lament their insensibility of their own interest, and fill
the coffee-houses with dark stories of performances by eminent hands,
which have been offered and rejected.

To what cause this universal eagerness of writing can be properly
ascribed, I have not yet been able to discover. It is said, that every
art is propagated in proportion to the rewards conferred upon it; a
position from which a stranger would naturally infer, that literature
was now blessed with patronage far transcending the candour or
munificence of the Augustan age, that the road to greatness was open to
none but authors, and that by writing alone riches and honour were to be
obtained.

But since it is true, that writers, like other competitors, are very
little disposed to favour one another, it is not to be expected, that at
a time when every man writes, any man will patronize; and, accordingly,
there is not one that I can recollect at present, who professes the
least regard for the votaries of science, invites the addresses of
learned men, or seems to hope for reputation from any pen but his own.

The cause, therefore, of this epidemical conspiracy for the destruction
of paper, must remain a secret: nor can I discover, whether we owe it to
the influences of the constellations, or the intemperature of seasons:
whether the long continuance of the wind at any single point, or
intoxicating vapours exhaled from the earth, have turned our nobles and
our peasants, our soldiers and traders, our men and women, all into
wits, philosophers, and writers.

It is, indeed, of more importance to search out the cure than the cause
of this intellectual malady; and he would deserve well of this country,
who, instead of amusing himself with conjectural speculations, should
find means of persuading the peer to inspect his steward's accounts, or
repair the rural mansion of his ancestors; who could replace the
tradesman behind his counter, and send back the farmer to the mattock
and the flail.

General irregularities are known in time to remedy themselves. By the
constitution of ancient Egypt, the priesthood was continually
increasing, till at length there was no people beside themselves; the
establishment was then dissolved, and the number of priests was reduced
and limited. Thus among us, writers will, perhaps, be multiplied, till
no readers will be found, and then the ambition of writing must
necessarily cease.

But as it will be long before the cure is thus gradually effected, and
the evil should be stopped, if it be possible, before it rises to so
great a height, I could wish that both sexes would fix their thoughts
upon some salutary considerations, which might repress their ardour for
that reputation, which not one of many thousands is fated to obtain.

Let it be deeply impressed, and frequently recollected, that he who has
not obtained the proper qualifications of an author, can have no excuse
for the arrogance of writing, but the power of imparting to mankind
something necessary to be known. A man uneducated or unlettered may
sometimes start a useful thought, or make a lucky discovery, or obtain
by chance some secret of nature, or some intelligence of facts, of which
the most enlightened mind may be ignorant, and which it is better to
reveal, though by a rude and unskilful communication, than to lose for
ever by suppressing it.

But few will be justified by this plea; for of the innumerable books and
pamphlets that have overflowed the nation, scarce one has made any
addition to real knowledge, or contained more than a transposition of
common sentiments, and a repetition of common phrases.

It will be naturally inquired, when the man who feels an inclination to
write, may venture to suppose himself properly qualified; and, since
every man is inclined to think well of his own intellect, by what test
he may try his abilities, without hazarding the contempt or resentment
of the publick.

The first qualification of a writer is a perfect knowledge of the
subject which he undertakes to treat; since we cannot teach what we do
not know, nor can properly undertake to instruct others while we are
ourselves in want of instruction. The next requisite is, that he be
master of the language in which he delivers his sentiments: if he treats
of science and demonstration, that he has attained a style clear, pure,
nervous, and expressive; if his topicks be probable and persuasory, that
he be able to recommend them by the superaddition of elegance and
imagery, to display the colours of varied diction, and pour forth the
musick of modulated periods.

If it be again inquired, upon what principles any man shall conclude
that he wants those powers, it may be readily answered, that no end is
attained but by the proper means; he only can rationally presume that he
understands a subject, who has read and compared the writers that have
hitherto discussed it, familiarized their arguments to himself by long
meditation, consulted the foundations of different systems, and
separated truth from errour by a rigorous examination.

In like manner, he only has a right to suppose that he can express his
thoughts, whatever they are, with perspicuity or elegance, who has
carefully perused the best authors, accurately noted their diversities
of style, diligently selected the best modes of diction, and
familiarized them by long habits of attentive practice.

No man is a rhetorician or philosopher by chance. He who knows that he
undertakes to write on questions which he has never studied, may without
hesitation determine, that he is about to waste his own time and that of
his reader, and expose himself to the derision of those whom he aspires
to instruct: he that without forming his style by the study of the best
models hastens to obtrude his compositions on the publick, may be
certain, that whatever hope or flattery may suggest, he shall shock the
learned ear with barbarisms, and contribute, wherever his work shall be
received, to the depravation of taste and the corruption of language.

[1] See Knox. Essay 50.




No. 119. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 25, 1753.

  _Latius regnes, avidum domando
  Spiritum, quam si Libyam remotis
  Gadibus jungas, et uterque Poenus
       Serviat uni._               Hor. Lib. ii. Ode ii. 9.

  By virtue's precepts to controul
  The thirsty cravings of the soul,
  Is over wider realms to reign
  Unenvied monarch, than if Spain
  You could to distant Lybia join,
  And both the Carthages were thine.                 FRANCIS.

When Socrates was asked, "which of mortal men was to be accounted
nearest to the _gods_ in happiness?" he answered, "that man who is in
want of the fewest things."

In this answer, Socrates left it to be guessed by his auditors, whether,
by the exemption from want which was to constitute happiness, he meant
amplitude of possessions or contraction of desire. And, indeed, there is
so little difference between them, that Alexander the Great confessed
the inhabitant of a tub the next man to the master of the world; and
left a declaration to future ages, that if he was not Alexander he
should wish to be Diogenes.

These two states, however, though they resemble each other in their
consequence, differ widely with respect to the facility with which they
may be attained. To make great acquisitions can happen to very few; and
in the uncertainty of human affairs, to many it will be incident to
labour without reward, and to lose what they already possess by
endeavours to make it more: some will always want abilities, and others
opportunities to accumulate wealth. It is therefore happy, that nature
has allowed us a more certain and easy road to plenty; every man may
grow rich by contracting his wishes, and by quiet acquiescence in what
has been given him, supply the absence of more.

Yet so far is almost every man from emulating the happiness of the gods,
by any other means than grasping at their power, that it seems to be the
great business of life to create wants as fast as they are satisfied. It
has been long observed by moralists, that every man squanders or loses a
great part of that life, of which every man knows and deplores the
shortness: and it may be remarked with equal justness, that though every
man laments his own insufficiency to his happiness, and knows himself a
necessitous and precarious being, incessantly soliciting the assistance
of others, and feeling wants which his own art or strength cannot
supply; yet there is no man, who does not, by the superaddition of
unnatural cares, render himself still more dependent; who does not
create an artificial poverty, and suffer himself to feel pain for the
want of that, of which, when it is gained, he can have no enjoyment.

It must, indeed, be allowed, that as we lose part of our time because it
steals away silent and invisible, and many an hour is passed before we
recollect that it is passing; so unnatural desires insinuate themselves
unobserved into the mind, and we do not perceive that they are gaining
upon us, till the pain which they give us awakens us to notice. No man
is sufficiently vigilant to take account of every minute of his life, or
to watch every motion of his heart. Much of our time likewise is
sacrificed to custom; we trifle, because we see others trifle; in the
same manner we catch from example the contagion of desire; we see all
about us busied in pursuit of imaginary good, and begin to bustle in the
same chase, lest greater activity should triumph over us.

It is true, that to man as a member of society, many things become
necessary, which, perhaps, in a state of nature are superfluous; and
that many things, not absolutely necessary, are yet so useful and
convenient, that they cannot easily be spared. I will make yet a more
ample and liberal concession. In opulent states, and regular
governments, the temptations to wealth and rank, and to the distinctions
that follow them, are such as no force of understanding finds it easy to
resist.

If, therefore, I saw the quiet of life disturbed only by endeavours
after wealth and honour; by solicitude, which the world, whether justly
or not, considered as important; I should scarcely have had courage to
inculcate any precepts of moderation and forbearance. He that is engaged
in a pursuit, in which all mankind profess to be his rivals, is
supported by the authority of all mankind in the prosecution of his
design, and will, therefore, scarcely stop to hear the lectures of a
solitary philosopher. Nor am I certain, that the accumulation of honest
gain ought to be hindered, or the ambition of just honours always to be
repressed. Whatever can enable the possessor to confer any benefit upon
others, may be desired upon virtuous principles; and we ought not too
rashly to accuse any man of intending to confine the influence of his
acquisitions to himself.

But if we look round upon mankind, whom shall we find among those that
fortune permits to form their own manners, that is not tormenting
himself with a wish for something, of which all the pleasure and all the
benefit will cease at the moment of attainment? One man is beggaring his
posterity to build a house, which when finished he never will inhabit;
another is levelling mountains to open a prospect, which, when he has
once enjoyed it, he can enjoy it no more; another is painting ceilings,
carving wainscot, and filling his apartments with costly furniture, only
that some neighbouring house may not be richer or finer than his own.

That splendour and elegance are not desirable, I am not so abstracted
from life to inculcate; but if we inquire closely into the reason for
which they are esteemed, we shall find them valued principally as
evidences of wealth. Nothing, therefore, can show greater depravity of
understanding, than to delight in the show when the reality is wanting;
or voluntarily to become poor, that strangers may for a time imagine us
to be rich.

But there are yet minuter objects and more trifling anxieties. Men may
be found, who are kept from sleep by the want of a shell particularly
variegated! who are wasting their lives, in stratagems to obtain a book
in a language which they do not understand; who pine with envy at the
flowers of another man's parterre; who hover like vultures round the
owner of a fossil, in hopes to plunder his cabinet at his death; and who
would not much regret to see a street in flames, if a box of medals
might be scattered in the tumult.

He that imagines me to speak of these sages in terms exaggerated and
hyperbolical, has conversed but little with the race of virtuosos. A
slight acquaintance with their studies, and a few visits to their
assemblies, would inform him, that nothing is so worthless, but that
prejudice and caprice can give it value; nor any thing of so little use,
but that by indulging an idle competition or unreasonable pride, a man
may make it to himself one of the necessaries of life.

Desires like these, I may surely, without incurring the censure of
moroseness, advise every man to repel when they invade his mind; or if
he admits them, never to allow them any greater influence than is
necessary to give petty employments the power of pleasing, and diversify
the day with slight amusements.

An ardent wish, whatever be its object, will always be able to interrupt
tranquillity. What we believe ourselves to want, torments us not in
proportion to its real value, but according to the estimation by which
we have rated it in our own minds; in some diseases, the patient has
been observed to long for food, which scarce any extremity of hunger
would in health have compelled him to swallow; but while his organs were
thus depraved, the craving was irresistible, nor could any rest be
obtained till it was appeased by compliance. Of the same nature are the
irregular appetites of the mind; though they are often excited by
trifles, they are equally disquieting with real wants: the Roman, who
wept at the death of his lamprey, felt the same degree of sorrow that
extorts tears on other occasions.

Inordinate desires, of whatever kind, ought to be repressed upon yet a
higher consideration; they must be considered as enemies not only to
happiness but to virtue. There are men, among those commonly reckoned
the learned and the wise, who spare no stratagems to remove a competitor
at an auction, who will sink the price of a rarity at the expense of
truth, and whom it is not safe to trust alone in a library or cabinet.
These are faults, which the fraternity seem to look upon as jocular
mischiefs, or to think excused by the violence of the temptation: but I
shall always fear that he, who accustoms himself to fraud in little
things, wants only opportunity to practise it in greater; "he that has
hardened himself by killing a sheep," says Pythagoras, "will with less
reluctance shed the blood of a man."

To prize every thing according to its _real_ use ought to be the aim of
a rational being. There are few things which can much conduce to
happiness, and, therefore, few things to be ardently desired. He that
looks upon the business and bustle of the world, with the philosophy
with which Socrates surveyed the fair at Athens, will turn away at last
with his exclamation, "How many things are here which I do not want!"




No. 120. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1753.

_--Ultima semper
  Expectanda dies homini: dicique beatus
  Ante obitum nemo supremaque funera debet._ OVID. Met. Lib. iii. 135.

  But no frail man, however great or high,
  Can be concluded blest before he die.     ADDISON.

The numerous miseries of human life have extorted in all ages an
universal complaint. The wisest of men terminated all his experiments in
search of happiness, by the mournful confession, that "all is vanity;"
and the ancient patriarchs lamented, that "the days of their pilgrimage
were few and evil."

There is, indeed, no topick on which it is more superfluous to
accumulate authorities, nor any assertion of which our own eyes will
more easily discover, or our sensations more frequently impress the
truth, than, that misery is the lot of man, that our present state is a
state of danger and infelicity.

When we take the most distant prospect of life, what does it present us
but a chaos of unhappiness, a confused and tumultuous scene of labour
and contest, disappointment and defeat? If we view past ages in the
reflection of history, what do they offer to our meditation but crimes
and calamities? One year is distinguished by a famine, another by an
earthquake; kingdoms are made desolate, sometimes by wars, and sometimes
by pestilence; the peace of the world is interrupted at one time by the
caprices of a tyrant, at another by the rage of the conqueror. The
memory is stored only with vicissitudes of evil; and the happiness, such
as it is, of one part of mankind, is found to arise commonly from
sanguinary success, from victories which confer upon them the power, not
so much of improving life by any new enjoyment, as of inflicting misery
on others, and gratifying their own pride by comparative greatness.

But by him that examines life with a more close attention, the happiness
of the world will be found still less than it appears. In some intervals
of publick prosperity, or to use terms more proper, in some
intermissions of calamity, a general diffusion of happiness may seem to
overspread a people; all is triumph and exultation, jollity and plenty;
there are no publick fears and dangers, and "no complainings in the
streets." But the condition of individuals is very little mended by this
general calm: pain and malice and discontent still continue their
havock; the silent depredation goes incessantly forward; and the grave
continues to be filled by the victims of sorrow.

He that enters a gay assembly, beholds the cheerfulness displayed in
every countenance, and finds all sitting vacant and disengaged, with no
other attention than to give or to receive pleasure, would naturally
imagine, that he had reached at last the metropolis of felicity, the
place sacred to gladness of heart, from whence all fear and anxiety were
irreversibly excluded. Such, indeed, we may often find to be the opinion
of those, who from a lower station look up to the pomp and gaiety which
they cannot reach: but who is there of those who frequent these
luxurious assemblies, that will not confess his own uneasiness, or
cannot recount the vexations and distresses that prey upon the lives of
his gay companions?

The world, in its best state, is nothing more than a larger assembly of
beings, combining to counterfeit happiness which they do not feel,
employing every art and contrivance to embellish life, and to hide their
real condition from the eyes of one another.

The species of happiness most obvious to the observation of others, is
that which depends upon the goods of fortune; yet even this is often
fictitious. There is in the world more poverty than is generally
imagined; not only because many whose possessions are large have desires
still larger, and many measure their wants by the gratifications which
others enjoy; but great numbers are pressed by real necessities which it
is their chief ambition to conceal, and are forced to purchase the
appearance of competence and cheerfulness at the expense of many
comforts and conveniencies of life.

Many, however, are confessedly rich, and many more are sufficiently
removed from all danger of real poverty: but it has been long ago
remarked, that money cannot purchase quiet; the highest of mankind can
promise themselves no exemption from that discord or suspicion, by which
the sweetness of domestick retirement is destroyed; and must always be
even more exposed, in the same degree as they are elevated above others,
to the treachery of dependants, the calumny of defamers and the violence
of opponents.

Affliction is inseparable from our present state: it adheres to all the
inhabitants of this world, in different proportions indeed, but with an
allotment which seems very little regulated by our own conduct. It has
been the boast of some swelling moralists, that every man's fortune was
in his own power, that prudence supplied the place of all other
divinities, and that happiness is the unfailing consequence of virtue.
But, surely, the quiver of Omnipotence is stored with arrows, against
which the shield of human virtue, however adamantine it has been
boasted, is held up in vain: we do not always suffer by our crimes; we
are not always protected by our innocence.

A good man is by no means exempt from the danger of suffering by the
crimes of others; even his goodness may raise him enemies of implacable
malice and restless perseverance: the good man has never been warranted
by Heaven from the treachery of friends, the disobedience of children or
the dishonesty of a wife; he may see his cares made useless by
profusion, his instructions defeated by perverseness, and his kindness
rejected by ingratitude; he may languish under the infamy of false
accusations, or perish reproachfully by an unjust sentence.

A good man is subject, like other mortals, to all the influences of
natural evil; his harvest is not spared by the tempest, nor his cattle
by the murrain; his house flames like others in a conflagration; nor
have his ships any peculiar power of resisting hurricanes: his mind,
however elevated, inhabits a body subject to innumerable casualties, of
which he must always share the dangers and the pains; he bears about him
the seeds of disease, and may linger away a great part of his life under
the tortures of the gout or stone; at one time groaning with
insufferable anguish, at another dissolved in listlessness and languor.

From this general and indiscriminate distribution of misery, the
moralists have always derived one of their strongest moral arguments for
a future state; for since the common events of the present life happen
alike to the good and bad, it follows from the justice of the Supreme
Being, that there must be another state of existence, in which a just
retribution shall be made, and every man shall be happy and miserable
according to his works.

The miseries of life may, perhaps, afford some proof of a future state,
compared as well with the mercy as the justice of God. It is scarcely to
be imagined that Infinite Benevolence would create a being capable of
enjoying so much more than is here to be enjoyed, and qualified by
nature to prolong pain by remembrance, and anticipate it by terrour, if
he was not designed for something nobler and better than a state, in
which many of his faculties can serve only for his torment; in which he
is to be importuned by desires that never can be satisfied, to feel many
evils which he had no power to avoid, and to fear many which he shall
never feel: there will surely come a time, when every capacity of
happiness shall be filled, and none shall be wretched but by his own
fault.

In the mean time, it is by affliction chiefly that the heart of man is
purified, and that the thoughts are fixed upon a better state.
Prosperity, allayed and imperfect as it is, has power to intoxicate the
imagination, to fix the mind upon the present scene, to produce
confidence and elation, and to make him who enjoys affluence and honours
forget the hand by which they were bestowed. It is seldom that we are
otherwise, than by affliction, awakened to a sense of our own
imbecility, or taught to know how little all our acquisitions can
conduce to safety or to quiet; and how justly we may ascribe to the
superintendence of a higher Power, those blessings which in the
wantonness of success we considered as the attainments of our policy or
courage.

Nothing confers so much ability to resist the temptations that
perpetually surround us, as an habitual consideration of the shortness
of life, and the uncertainty of those pleasures that solicit our
pursuit; and this consideration can be inculcated only by affliction. "O
Death! how bitter is the remembrance of thee, to a man that lives at
ease in his possessions!" If our present state were one continued
succession of delights, or one uniform flow of calmness and
tranquillity, we should never willingly think upon its end; death would
then surely surprise us as "a thief in the night;" and our task of duty
would remain unfinished, till "the night came when no man can work."

While affliction thus prepares us for felicity, we may console ourselves
under its pressures, by remembering, that they are no particular marks
of divine displeasure; since all the distresses of persecution have been
suffered by those, "of whom the world was not worthy;" and the Redeemer
of mankind himself was "a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief!"




No. 126. SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 1754.

 --_Steriles nec legit arenas
  Ut caner et paucis, mersitque hoc pulvere verum._ LUCAN.

  Canst thou believe the vast eternal Mind   Was e'er to Syrts and
Lybian sands confin'd?   That he would choose this waste, this barren
ground,   To teach the thin inhabitants around,   And leave his truth in
wilds and deserts drown'd?

 There has always prevailed among that part of mankind that addict their
minds to speculation, a propensity to talk much of the delights of
retirement: and some of the most pleasing compositions produced in every
age contain descriptions of the peace and happiness of a country life.

I know not whether those who thus ambitiously repeat the praises of
solitude, have always considered, how much they depreciate mankind by
declaring, that whatever is excellent or desirable is to be obtained by
departing from them; that the assistance which we may derive from one
another, is not equivalent to the evils which we have to fear; that the
kindness of a few is overbalanced by the malice of many; and that the
protection of society is too dearly purchased by encountering its
dangers and enduring its oppressions.

These specious representations of solitary happiness, however
opprobrious to human nature, have so far spread their influence over the
world, that almost every man delights his imagination with the hopes of
obtaining some time an opportunity of retreat. Many, indeed, who enjoy
retreat only in imagination, content themselves with believing, that
another year will transport them to rural tranquillity, and die while
they talk of doing what, if they had lived longer, they would never have
done. But many likewise there are, either of greater resolution or more
credulity, who in earnest try the state which they have been taught to
think thus secure from cares and dangers; and retire to privacy, either
that they may improve their happiness, increase their knowledge, or
exalt their virtue.

The greater part of the admirers of solitude, as of all other classes of
mankind, have no higher or remoter view, than the present gratification
of their passions. Of these, some, haughty and impetuous, fly from
society only because they cannot bear to repay to others the regard
which themselves exact; and think no state of life eligible, but that
which places them out of the reach of censure or control, and affords
them opportunities of living in a perpetual compliance with their own
inclinations, without the necessity of regulating their actions by any
other man's convenience or opinion.

There are others, of minds more delicate and tender, easily offended by
every deviation from rectitude, soon disgusted by ignorance or
impertinence, and always expecting from the conversation of mankind more
elegance, purity and truth, than the mingled mass of life will easily
afford. Such men are in haste to retire from grossness, falsehood and
brutality; and hope to find in private habitations at least a negative
felicity, an exemption from the shocks and perturbations with which
publick scenes are continually distressing them.

To neither of these votaries will solitude afford that content, which
she has been taught so lavishly to promise. The man of arrogance will
quickly discover, that by escaping from his opponents he has lost his
flatterers, that greatness is nothing where it is not seen, and power
nothing where it cannot be felt: and he, whose faculties are employed in
too close an observation of failings and defects, will find his
condition very little mended by transferring his attention from others
to himself: he will probably soon come back in quest of new objects, and
be glad to keep his captiousness employed on any character rather than
his own.

Others are seduced into solitude merely by the authority of great names,
and expect to find those charms in tranquillity which have allured
statesmen and conquerors to the shades: these likewise are apt to wonder
at their disappointment, for want of considering, that those whom they
aspire to imitate carried with them to their country-seats minds full
fraught with subjects of reflection, the consciousness of great merit,
the memory of illustrious actions, the knowledge of important events,
and the seeds of mighty designs to be ripened by future meditation.
Solitude was to such men a release from fatigue, and an opportunity of
usefulness. But what can retirement confer upon him, who having done
nothing can receive no support from his own importance, who having known
nothing can find no entertainment in reviewing the past, and who
intending nothing can form no hopes from prospects of the future? He
can, surely, take no wiser course than that of losing himself again in
the crowd, and filling the vacuities of his mind with the news of the
day.

Others consider solitude as the parent of philosophy, and retire in
expectation of greater intimacies with science, as Numa repaired to the
groves when he conferred with Egeria. These men have not always reason
to repent. Some studies require a continued prosecution of the same
train of thought, such as is too often interrupted by the petty
avocations of common life: sometimes, likewise, it is necessary, that a
multiplicity of objects be at once present to the mind; and every thing,
therefore, must be kept at a distance, which may perplex the memory or
dissipate the attention.

But though learning may be conferred by solitude, its application must
be attained by general converse. He has learned to no purpose, that is
not able to teach; and he will always teach unsuccessfully, who cannot
recommend his sentiments by his diction or address.

Even the acquisition of knowledge is often much facilitated by the
advantages of society: he that never compares his notions with those of
others, readily acquiesces in his first thoughts, and very seldom
discovers the objections which may be raised against his opinions; he,
therefore, often thinks himself in possession of truth, when he is only
fondling an errour long since exploded. He that has neither companions
nor rivals in his studies, will always applaud his own progress, and
think highly of his performances, because he knows not that others have
equalled or excelled him. And I am afraid it may be added, that the
student who withdraws himself from the world, will soon feel that ardour
extinguished which praise or emulation had enkindled, and take the
advantage of secrecy to sleep, rather than to labour.

There remains yet another set of recluses, whose intention entitles them
to higher respect, and whose motives deserve a more serious
consideration. These retire from the world, not merely to bask in ease
or gratify curiosity, but that, being disengaged from common cares, they
may employ more time in the duties of religion; that they may regulate
their actions with stricter vigilance, and purify their thoughts by more
frequent meditation.

To men thus elevated above the mists of mortality, I am far from
presuming myself qualified to give directions. On him that appears to
"pass through things temporal," with no other care than not to "finally
lose the things eternal," I look with such veneration as inclines me to
approve his conduct in the whole, without a minute examination of its
parts; yet I could never forbear to wish, that while vice is every day
multiplying seducements, and stalking forth with more hardened
effrontery, virtue would not withdraw the influence of her presence, or
forbear to assert her natural dignity by open and undaunted perseverance
in the right. Piety practised in solitude, like the flower that blooms
in the desert, may give its fragrance to the winds of Heaven, and
delight those unbodied spirits that survey the works of God and the
actions of men; but it bestows no assistance upon earthly beings, and
however free from taints of impurity, yet wants the sacred splendour of
beneficence.

Our Maker, who, though he gave us such varieties of temper and such
difference of powers, yet designed us all for happiness, undoubtedly
intended that we should obtain that happiness by different means. Some
are unable to resist the temptations of importunity, or the impetuosity
of their own passions incited by the force of present temptations: of
these it is undoubtedly the duty to fly from enemies which they cannot
conquer, and cultivate, in the calm of solitude, that virtue which is
too tender to endure the tempests of publick life. But there are others,
whose passions grow more strong and irregular in privacy; and who cannot
maintain an uniform tenour of virtue, but by exposing their manners to
the publick eye, and assisting the admonitions of conscience with the
fear of infamy: for such it is dangerous to exclude all witnesses of
their conduct, till they have formed strong habits of virtue, and
weakened their passions by frequent victories. But there is a higher
order of men so inspired with ardour, and so fortified with resolution,
that the world passes before them without influence or regard: these
ought to consider themselves as appointed the guardians of mankind: they
are placed in an evil world, to exhibit publick examples of good life;
and may be said, when they withdraw to solitude, to desert the station
which Providence assigned them.




No. 128. SATURDAY, JANUARY 26, 1754.

  _Ille sinistrorsum, hic dextrorsum abit; unus utrique
  Error, sed variis illudit partibus._--HOR. Lib. ii. Sat. iii. 50.

  When in a wood we leave the certain way,
  One error fools us, though we various stray,
  Some to the left, and some to t'other side. FRANCIS.

It is common among all the classes of mankind, to charge each other with
trifling away life: every man looks on the occupation or amusement of
his neighbour, as something below the dignity of our nature, and
unworthy of the attention of a rational being.

A man who considers the paucity of the wants of nature, and who, being
acquainted with the various means by which all manual occupations are
now facilitated, observes what numbers are supported by the labour of a
few, would, indeed, be inclined to wonder, how the multitudes who are
exempted from the necessity of working, either for themselves or others,
find business to fill up the vacuities of life. The greater part of
mankind neither card the fleece, dig the mine, fell the wood, nor gather
in the harvest; they neither tend herds nor build houses; in what then
are they employed?

This is certainly a question, which a distant prospect of the world will
not enable us to answer. We find all ranks and ages mingled together in
a tumultuous confusion, with haste in their motions, and eagerness in
their looks; but what they have to pursue or avoid, a more minute
observation must inform them.

When we analyze the crowd into individuals, it soon appears that the
passions and imaginations of men will not easily suffer them to be idle:
we see things coveted merely because they are rare, and pursued because
they are fugitive; we see men conspire to fix an arbitrary value on that
which is worthless in itself, and then contend for the possession. One
is a collector of fossils, of which he knows no other use than to show
them; and when he has stocked his own repository, grieves that the
stones which he has left behind him should be picked up by another. The
florist nurses a tulip, and repines that his rival's beds enjoy the same
showers and sunshine with his own. This man is hurrying to a concert,
only lest others should have heard the new musician before him; another
bursts from his company to the play, because he fancies himself the
patron of an actress; some spend the morning in consultations with their
tailor, and some in directions to their cook; some are forming parties
for cards, and some laying wagers at a horse-race.

It cannot, I think, be denied, that some of these lives are passed in
trifles, in occupations by which the busy neither benefit themselves nor
others, and by which no man could be long engaged, who seriously
considered what he was doing, or had knowledge enough to compare what he
is, with what he might be made. However, as people who have the same
inclination generally flock together, every trifler is kept in
countenance by the sight of others as unprofitably active as himself; by
kindling the heat of competition, he in time thinks himself important,
and by having his mind intensely engaged, he is secured from weariness
of himself.

Some degree of self-approbation is always the reward of diligence; and I
cannot, therefore, but consider the laborious cultivation of petty
pleasures, as a more happy and more virtuous disposition, than that
universal contempt and haughty negligence, which is sometimes associated
with powerful faculties, but is often assumed by indolence when it
disowns its name, and aspires to the appellation of greatness of mind.

It has been long observed, that drollery and ridicule is the most easy
kind of wit: let it be added that contempt and arrogance is the easiest
philosophy. To find some objection to every thing, and to dissolve in
perpetual laziness under pretence that occasions are wanting to call
forth activity, to laugh at those who are ridiculously busy without
setting an example of more rational industry, is no less in the power of
the meanest than of the highest intellects.

Our present state has placed us at once in such different relations,
that every human employment, which is not a visible and immediate act of
goodness, will be in some respect or other subject to contempt; but it
is true, likewise, that almost every act, which is not directly vicious,
is in some respect beneficial and laudable. "I often," says Bruyere,
"observe from my window, two beings of erect form and amiable
countenance, endowed with the powers of reason, able to clothe their
thoughts in language, and convey their notions to each other. They rise
early in the morning, and are every day employed till sunset in rubbing
two smooth stones together, or, in other terms, in polishing marble."

"If lions could paint," says the fable, "in the room of those pictures
which exhibit men vanquishing lions, we should see lions feeding upon
men." If the stone-cutter could have written like Bruyere, what would he
have replied?

"I look up," says he, "every day from my shop, upon a man whom the
idlers, who stand still to gaze upon my work, often celebrate as a wit
and a philosopher. I often perceive his face clouded with care, and am
told that his taper is sometimes burning at midnight. The sight of a man
who works so much harder than myself, excited my curiosity. I heard no
sound of tools in his apartment, and, therefore, could not imagine what
he was doing; but was told at last, that he was writing descriptions of
mankind, who when he had described them would live just as they had
lived before; that he sat up whole nights to change a sentence, because
the sound of a letter was too often repeated: that he was often
disquieted with doubts, about the propriety of a word which every body
understood; that he would hesitate between two expressions equally
proper, till he could not fix his choice but by consulting his friends;
that he will run from one end of Paris to the other, for an opportunity
of reading a period to a nice ear; that if a single line is heard with
coldness and inattention, he returns home dejected and disconsolate; and
that by all this care and labour, he hopes only to make a little book,
which at last will teach no useful art, and which none who has it not
will perceive himself to want. I have often wondered for what end such a
being as this was sent into the world; and should be glad to see those
who live thus foolishly, seized by an order of the government, and
obliged to labour at some useful occupation."

Thus, by a partial and imperfect representation, may every thing be made
equally ridiculous. He that gazed with contempt on human beings rubbing
stones together, might have prolonged the same amusement by walking
through the city, and seeing others with looks of importance heaping one
brick upon another; or by rambling into the country, where he might
observe other creatures of the same kind driving a piece of sharp iron
into the clay, or, in the language of men less enlightened, ploughing
the field.

As it is thus easy by a detail of minute circumstances to make every
thing little, so it is not difficult by an aggregation of effects to
make every thing great. The polisher of marble may be forming ornaments
for the palaces of virtue, and the schools of science; or providing
tables on which the actions of heroes and the discoveries of sages shall
be recorded, for the incitement and instruction of generations. The
mason is exercising one of the principal arts by which reasoning beings
are distinguished from the brute, the art to which life owes much of its
safety and all its convenience, by which we are secured from the
inclemency of the seasons, and fortified against the ravages of
hostility; and the ploughman is changing the face of nature, diffusing
plenty and happiness over kingdoms, and compelling the earth to give
food to her inhabitants.

Greatness and littleness are terms merely comparative; and we err in our
estimation of things, because we measure them by some wrong standard.
The trifler proposes to himself only to equal or excel some other
trifler, and is happy or miserable as he succeeds or miscarries: the man
of sedentary desire and unactive ambition sits comparing his power with
his wishes; and makes his inability to perform things impossible, an
excuse to himself for performing nothing. Man can only form a just
estimate of his own actions, by making his power the test of his
performance, by comparing what he does with what he can do. Whoever
steadily perseveres in the exertion of all his faculties, does what is
great with respect to himself; and what will not be despised by Him, who
has given to all created beings their different abilities: he faithfully
performs the task of life, within whatever limits his labours may be
confined, or how soon soever they may be forgotten.

We can conceive so much more than we can accomplish, that whoever tries
his own actions by his imagination, may appear despicable in his own
eyes. He that despises for its littleness any thing really useful, has
no pretensions to applaud the grandeur of his conceptions; since nothing
but narrowness of mind hinders him from seeing, that by pursuing the
same principles every thing limited will appear contemptible.

He that neglects the care of his family, while his benevolence expands
itself in scheming the happiness of imaginary kingdoms, might with equal
reason sit on a throne dreaming of universal empire, and of the
diffusion of blessings over all the globe: yet even this globe is
little, compared with the system of matter within our view! and that
system barely something more than nonentity, compared with the boundless
regions of space, to which neither eye nor imagination can extend.

From conceptions, therefore, of what we might have been, and from wishes
to be what we are not, conceptions that we know to be foolish, and
wishes which we feel to be vain, we must necessarily descend to the
consideration of what we are. We have powers very scanty in their utmost
extent, but which in different men are differently proportioned.
Suitably to these powers we have duties prescribed, which we must
neither decline for the sake of delighting ourselves with easier
amusements, nor overlook in idle contemplation of greater excellence or
more extensive comprehension.

In order to the right conduct of our lives, we must remember, that we
are not born to please ourselves. He that studies simply his own
satisfaction, will always find the proper business of his station too
hard or too easy for him. But if we bear continually in mind our
relation to the Father of Being, by whom we are placed in the world, and
who has allotted us the part which we are to bear in the general system
of life, we shall be easily persuaded to resign our own inclinations to
Unerring Wisdom, and do the work decreed for us with cheerfulness and
diligence.




No. 131. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 5, 1754.

 --_Misce
  Ergo aliquid nostris de moribus_. JUV. Sat. iv. 322.

  And mingle something of our times to please. DRYDEN, Jun.

Fontanelle, in his panegyrick on Sir Isaac Newton, closes a long
enumeration of that great philosopher's virtues and attainments, with an
observation, that "he was not distinguished from other men, by any
singularity either natural or affected."

It is an eminent instance of Newton's superiority to the rest of
mankind, that he was able to separate knowledge from those weaknesses by
which knowledge is generally disgraced; that he was able to excel in
science and wisdom without purchasing them by the neglect of little
things; and that he stood alone, merely because he had left the rest of
mankind behind him, not because he deviated from the beaten track.

Whoever, after the example of Plutarch, should compare the lives of
illustrious men, might set this part of Newton's character to view with
great advantage, by opposing it to that of Bacon, perhaps the only man,
of later ages, who has any pretensions to dispute with him the palm of
genius or science.

Bacon, after he had added to a long and careful contemplation of almost
every other object of knowledge a curious inspection into common life,
and after having surveyed nature as a philosopher, had examined "men's
business and bosoms" as a statesman; yet failed so much in the conduct
of domestick affairs, that, in the most lucrative post to which a great
and wealthy kingdom could advance him, he felt all the miseries of
distressful poverty, and committed all the crimes to which poverty
incites. Such were at once his negligence and rapacity, that, as it is
said, he would gain by unworthy practices that money, which, when so
acquired, his servants might steal from one end of the table, while he
sat studious and abstracted at the other.

As scarcely any man has reached the excellence, very few have sunk to
the weakness of Bacon: but almost all the studious tribe, as they obtain
any participation of his knowledge, feel likewise some contagion of his
defects; and obstruct the veneration which learning would procure, by
follies greater or less, to which only learning could betray them.

It has been formerly remarked by _The Guardian_, that the world punishes
with too great severity the errours of those, who imagine that the
ignorance of little things may be compensated by the knowledge of great;
for so it is, that as more can detect petty failings than can
distinguish or esteem great qualifications, and as mankind is in general
more easily disposed to censure than to admiration, contempt is often
incurred by slight mistakes, which real virtue or usefulness cannot
counterbalance.

Yet such mistakes and inadvertencies it is not easy for a man deeply
immersed in study to avoid; no man can become qualified for the common
intercourses of life, by private meditation: the manners of the world
are not a regular system, planned by philosophers upon settled
principles, in which every cause has a congruous effect, and one part
has a just reference to another. Of the fashions prevalent in every
country, a few have arisen, perhaps, from particular temperatures of the
climate; a few more from the constitution of the government; but the
greater part have grown up by chance; been started by caprice, been
contrived by affectation, or borrowed without any just motives of choice
from other countries.

Of all these, the savage that hunts his prey upon the mountains, and the
sage that speculates in his closet, must necessarily live in equal
ignorance: yet by the observation of those trifles it is, that the ranks
of mankind are kept in order, that the address of one to another is
regulated, and the general business of the world carried on with
facility and method.

These things, therefore, though small in themselves, become great by
their frequency: and he very much mistakes his own interest, who to the
unavoidable unskilfulness of abstraction and retirement, adds a
voluntary neglect of common forms, and increases the disadvantages of a
studious course of life by an arrogant contempt of those practices, by
which others endeavour to gain favour and multiply friendships.

A real and interior disdain of fashion and ceremony, is indeed, not very
often to be found: much the greater part of those who pretend to laugh
at foppery and formality, secretly wish to have possessed those
qualifications which they pretend to despise; and because they find it
difficult to wash away the tincture which they have so deeply imbibed,
endeavour to harden themselves in a sullen approbation of their own
colour. Neutrality is a state, into which the busy passions of man
cannot easily subside; and he who is in danger of the pangs of envy, is
generally forced to recreate his imagination with an effort of comfort.

Some, however, may be found, who, supported by the consciousness of
great abilities, and elevated by a long course of reputation and
applause, voluntarily consign themselves to singularity, affect to cross
the roads of life because they know that they shall not be jostled, and
indulge a boundless gratification of will because they perceive that
they shall be quietly obeyed. Men of this kind are generally known by
the name of Humourists, an appellation by which he that has obtained it,
and can be contented to keep it, is set free at once from the shackles
of fashion: and can go in or out, sit or stand, be talkative or silent,
gloomy or merry, advance absurdities or oppose demonstration, without
any other reprehension from mankind, than that it is his way, that he is
an odd fellow, and must be let alone.

This seems to many an easy passport through the various factions of
mankind; and those on whom it is bestowed, appear too frequently to
consider the patience with which their caprices are suffered as an
undoubted evidence of their own importance, of a genius to which
submission is universally paid, and whose irregularities are only
considered as consequences of its vigour. These peculiarities, however,
are always found to spot a character, though they may not totally
obscure it; and he who expects from mankind, that they should give up
established customs in compliance with his single will, and exacts that
deference which he does not pay, may be endured, but can never be
approved.

Singularity is, I think, in its own nature universally and invariably
displeasing. In whatever respect a man differs from others, he must be
considered by them as either worse or better: by being better, it is
well known that a man gains admiration oftener than love, since all
approbation of his practice must necessarily condemn him that gives it;
and though a man often pleases by inferiority, there are few who desire
to give such pleasure. Yet the truth is, that singularity is almost
always regarded as a brand of slight reproach; and where it is
associated with acknowledged merit, serves as an abatement or an allay
of excellence, by which weak eyes are reconciled to its lustre, and by
which, though kindness is not gained, at least envy is averted.

But let no man be in haste to conclude his own merit so great or
conspicuous, as to require or justify singularity: it is as hazardous
for a moderate understanding to usurp the prerogatives of genius, as for
a common form to play over the airs of uncontested beauty. The pride of
men will not patiently endure to see one, whose understanding or
attainments are but level with their own, break the rules by which they
have consented to be bound, or forsake the direction which they
submissively follow. All violation of established practice implies in
its own nature a rejection of the common opinion, a defiance of common
censure, and an appeal from general laws to private judgment: he,
therefore, who differs from others without apparent advantage, ought not
to be angry if his arrogance is punished with ridicule; if those whose
example he superciliously overlooks, point him out to derision, and hoot
him back again into the common road.

The pride of singularity is often exerted in little things, where right
and wrong are indeterminable, and where, therefore, vanity is without
excuse. But there are occasions on which it is noble to dare to stand
alone. To be pious among infidels, to be disinterested in a time of
general venality, to lead a life of virtue and reason in the midst of
sensualists, is a proof of a mind intent on nobler things than the
praise or blame of men, of a soul fixed in the contemplation of the
highest good, and superior to the tyranny of custom and example.

In moral and religious questions only, a wise man will hold no
consultations with fashion, because these duties are constant and
immutable, and depend not on the notions of men, but the commands of
Heaven: yet even of these, the external mode is to be in some measure
regulated by the prevailing taste of the age in which we live; for he is
certainly no friend to virtue, who neglects to give it any lawful
attraction, or suffers it to deceive the eye or alienate the affections
for want of innocent compliance with fashionable decorations.

It is yet remembered of the learned and pious Nelson[1], that he was
remarkably elegant in his manners, and splendid in his dress. He knew,
that the eminence of his character drew many eyes upon him; and he was
careful not to drive the young or the gay away from religion, by
representing it as an enemy to any distinction or enjoyment in which
human nature may innocently delight.

In this censure of singularity, I have, therefore, no intention to
subject reason or conscience to custom or example. To comply with the
notions and practices of mankind, is in some degree the duty of a social
being; because by compliance only he can please, and by pleasing only he
can become useful: but as the end is not to be lost for the sake of the
means, we are not to give up virtue to complaisance; for the end of
complaisance is only to gain the kindness of our fellow-beings, whose
kindness is desirable only as instrumental to happiness, and happiness
must be always lost by departure from virtue.


[1] The neglect of his writings must be considered as indicative of an
    increasing neglect of that apostolical establishment, whose Fasts
    and Festivals this author has illustrated with a raciness of style
    and sentiment worthy of a primitive father of the Church.




No. 137. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 26, 1754.

  [Greek: Ti d erexa];             PYTHAG.

  What have I been doing?

As man is a being very sparingly furnished with the power of prescience,
he can provide for the future only by considering the past; and as
futurity is all in which he has any real interest, he ought very
diligently to use the only means by which he can be enabled to enjoy it,
and frequently to revolve the experiments which he has hitherto made
upon life, that he may gain wisdom from his mistakes, and caution from
his miscarriages.

Though I do not so exactly conform to the precepts of Pythagoras, as to
practise every night this solemn recollection, yet I am not so lost in
dissipation as wholly to omit it; nor can I forbear sometimes to inquire
of myself, in what employment my life has passed away. Much of my time
has sunk into nothing, and left no trace by which it can be
distinguished; and of this I now only know, that it was once in my
power, and might once have been improved.

Of other parts of life, memory can give some account; at some hours I
have been gay, and at others serious; I have sometimes mingled in
conversation, and sometimes meditated in solitude; one day has been
spent in consulting the ancient sages, and another in writing
_Adventurers_.

At the conclusion of any undertaking, it is usual to compute the loss
and profit. As I shall soon cease to write _Adventurers_, I could not
forbear lately to consider what has been the consequence of my labours;
and whether I am to reckon the hours laid out in these compositions, as
applied to a good and laudable purpose, or suffered to fume away in
useless evaporations.

That I have intended well, I have the attestation of my own heart: but
good intentions may be frustrated when they are executed without
suitable skill, or directed to an end unattainable in itself.

Some there are, who leave writers very little room for
self-congratulation; some who affirm, that books have no influence upon
the publick, that no age was ever made better by its authors, and that to
call upon mankind to correct their manners, is, like Xerxes, to scourge
the wind, or shackle the torrent.

This opinion they pretend to support by unfailing experience. The world
is full of fraud and corruption, rapine or malignity; interest is the
ruling motive of mankind, and every one is endeavouring to increase his
own stores of happiness by perpetual accumulation, without reflecting
upon the numbers whom his superfluity condemns to want: in this state of
things a book of morality is published, in which charity and benevolence
are strongly enforced; and it is proved beyond opposition, that men are
happy in proportion as they are virtuous, and rich as they are liberal.
The book is applauded, and the author is preferred; he imagines his
applause deserved, and receives less pleasure from the acquisition of
reward than the consciousness of merit. Let us look again upon mankind:
interest is still the ruling motive, and the world is yet full of fraud
and corruption, malevolence and rapine.

The difficulty of confuting this assertion, arises merely from its
generality and comprehension; to overthrow it by a detail of distinct
facts, requires a wider survey of the world than human eyes can take;
the progress of reformation is gradual and silent, as the extension of
evening shadows; we know that they were short at noon, and are long at
sunset, but our senses were not able to discern their increase: we know
of every civil nation, that it was once savage, and how was it reclaimed
but by precept and admonition?

Mankind are universally corrupt, but corrupt in different degrees; as
they are universally ignorant, yet with greater or less irradiations of
knowledge. How has knowledge or virtue been increased and preserved in
one place beyond another, but by diligent inculcation and rational
enforcement?

Books of morality are daily written, yet its influence is still little
in the world; so the ground is annually ploughed, and yet multitudes are
in want of bread. But, surely, neither the labours of the moralist nor
of the husbandman are vain: let them for a while neglect their tasks,
and their usefulness will be known; the wickedness that is now frequent
will become universal, the bread that is now scarce would wholly fail.

The power, indeed, of every individual is small, and the consequence of
his endeavours imperceptible, in a general prospect of the world.
Providence has given no man ability to do much, that something might be
left for every man to do. The business of life is carried on by a
general co-operation; in which the part of any single man can be no more
distinguished, than the effect of a particular drop when the meadows are
floated by a summer shower: yet every drop increases the inundation, and
every hand adds to the happiness or misery of mankind.

That a writer, however zealous or eloquent, seldom works a visible
effect upon cities or nations, will readily be granted. The book which
is read most, is read by few, compared with those that read it not; and
of those few, the greater part peruse it with dispositions that very
little favour their own improvement.

It is difficult to enumerate the several motives which procure to books
the honour of perusal: spite, vanity, and curiosity, hope and fear, love
and hatred, every passion which incites to any other action, serves at
one time or other to stimulate a reader.

Some are fond to take a celebrated volume into their hands, because they
hope to distinguish their penetration, by finding faults which have
escaped the publick; others eagerly buy it in the first bloom of
reputation, that they may join the chorus of praise, and not lag, as
Falstaff terms it, in "the rearward of the fashion."

Some read for style, and some for argument: one has little care about
the sentiment, he observes only how it is expressed; another regards not
the conclusion, but is diligent to mark how it is inferred: they read
for other purposes than the attainment of practical knowledge; and are
no more likely to grow wise by an examination of a treatise of moral
prudence, than an architect to inflame his devotion by considering
attentively the proportions of a temple.

Some read that they may embellish their conversation, or shine in
dispute; some that they may not be detected in ignorance, or want the
reputation of literary accomplishments: but the most general and
prevalent reason of study is the impossibility of finding another
amusement equally cheap or constant, equally independent on the hour or
the weather. He that wants money to follow the chase of pleasure through
her yearly circuit, and is left at home when the gay world rolls to Bath
or Tunbridge; he whose gout compels him to hear from his chamber the
rattle of chariots transporting happier beings to plays and assemblies,
will be forced to seek in books a refuge from himself.

The author is not wholly useless, who provides innocent amusements for
minds like these. There are, in the present state of things, so many
more instigations to evil, than incitements to good, that he who keeps
men in a neutral state, may be justly considered as a benefactor to
life.

But, perhaps, it seldom happens, that study terminates in mere pastime.
Books have always a secret influence on the understanding; we cannot, at
pleasure, obliterate ideas: he that reads books of science, though
without any fixed desire of improvement, will grow more knowing; he that
entertains himself with moral or religious treatises, will imperceptibly
advance in goodness; the ideas which are often offered to the mind, will
at last find a lucky moment when it is disposed to receive them.

It is, therefore, urged without reason, as a discouragement to writers,
that there are already books sufficient in the world; that all the
topicks of persuasion have been discussed, and every important question
clearly stated and justly decided; and that, therefore, there is no room
to hope, that pigmies should conquer where heroes have been defeated, or
that the petty copiers of the present time should advance the great work
of reformation, which their predecessors were forced to leave
unfinished.

Whatever be the present extent of human knowledge, it is not only
finite, and therefore in its own nature capable of increase, but so
narrow, that almost every understanding may, by a diligent application
of its powers, hope to enlarge it. It is, however, not necessary that a
man should forbear to write, till he has discovered some truth unknown
before; he may be sufficiently useful, by only diversifying the surface
of knowledge, and luring the mind by a new appearance to a second view
of those beauties which it had passed over inattentively before. Every
writer may find intellects correspondent to his own, to whom his
expressions are familiar, and his thoughts congenial; and, perhaps,
truth is often more successfully propagated by men of moderate
abilities, who, adopting the opinions of others, have no care but to
explain them clearly, than by subtle speculatists and curious searchers,
who exact from their readers powers equal to their own, and if their
fabricks of science be strong, take no care to render them accessible.

For my part, I do not regret the hours which I have laid out in these
little compositions. That the world has grown apparently better, since
the publication of the _Adventurer_, I have not observed; but am willing
to think, that many have been affected by single sentiments, of which it
is their business to renew the impression; that many have caught hints
of truth, which it is now their duty to pursue; and that those who have
received no improvement, have wanted not opportunity but intention to
improve.




No. 138. SATURDAY, MARCH 2, 1754.

  _Quid pure tranquillet; honos, an dulce lucellum,
  An secretum iter, et fallentis semita vitae._    HOR. Lib, i. Ep.
  xviii. 102.

  Whether the tranquil mind and pure,
  Honours or wealth our bliss ensure:
  Or down through life unknown to stray,
  Where lonely leads the silent way.     FRANCIS.

Having considered the importance of authors to the welfare of the
publick, I am led by a natural train of thought, to reflect on their
condition with regard to themselves; and to inquire what degree of
happiness or vexation is annexed to the difficult and laborious
employment of providing instruction or entertainment for mankind.

In estimating the pain or pleasure of any particular state, every man,
indeed, draws his decisions from his own breast, and cannot with
certainty determine whether other minds are affected by the same causes
in the same manner. Yet by this criterion we must be content to judge,
because no other can be obtained; and, indeed, we have no reason to
think it very fallacious, for excepting here and there an anomalous
mind, which either does not feel like others, or dissembles its
sensibility, we find men unanimously concur in attributing happiness or
misery to particular conditions, as they agree in acknowledging the cold
of winter and the heat of autumn.

If we apply to authors themselves for an account of their state, it will
appear very little to deserve envy; for they have in all ages been
addicted to complaint. The neglect of learning, the ingratitude of the
present age, and the absurd preference by which ignorance and dulness
often obtain favour and rewards, have been from age to age topicks of
invective; and few have left their names to posterity, without some
appeal to future candour from the perverseness and malice of their own
times.

I have, nevertheless, been often inclined to doubt, whether authors,
however querulous, are in reality more miserable than their fellow
mortals. The present life is to all a state of infelicity; every man,
like an author, believes himself to merit more than he obtains, and
solaces the present with the prospect of the future; others, indeed,
suffer those disappointments in silence, of which the writer complains,
to show how well he has learnt the art of lamentation.

There is at least one gleam of felicity, of which few writers have
missed the enjoyment: he whose hopes have so far overpowered his fears,
as that he has resolved to stand forth a candidate for fame, seldom
fails to amuse himself, before his appearance, with pleasing scenes of
affluence or honour: while his fortune is yet under the regulation of
fancy, he easily models it to his wish, suffers no thoughts of criticks
or rivals to intrude upon his mind, but counts over the bounties of
patronage, or listens to the voice of praise.

Some there are, that talk very luxuriously of the second period of an
author's happiness, and tell of the tumultuous raptures of invention,
when the mind riots in imagery, and the choice stands suspended between
different sentiments.

These pleasures, I believe, may sometimes be indulged to those, who come
to a subject of disquisition with minds full of ideas, and with fancies
so vigorous, as easily to excite, select, and arrange them. To write is,
indeed, no unpleasing employment, when one sentiment readily produces
another, and both ideas and expressions present themselves at the first
summons; but such happiness, the greatest genius does not always obtain;
and common writers know it only to such a degree, as to credit its
possibility. Composition is, for the most part, an effort of slow
diligence and steady perseverance, to which the mind is dragged by
necessity or resolution, and from which the attention is every moment
starting to more delightful amusements.

It frequently happens, that a design which, when considered at a
distance, gave flattering hopes of facility, mocks us in the execution
with unexpected difficulties; the mind which, while it considered it in
the gross, imagined itself amply furnished with materials, finds
sometimes an unexpected barrenness and vacuity, and wonders whither all
those ideas are vanished, which a little before seemed struggling for
emission.

Sometimes many thoughts present themselves; but so confused and
unconnected, that they are not without difficulty reduced to method, or
concatenated in a regular and dependent series; the mind falls at once
into a labyrinth, of which neither the beginning nor end can be
discovered, and toils and struggles without progress or extrication.

It is asserted by Horace, that, "if matter be once got together, words
will be found with very little difficulty;" a position which, though
sufficiently plausible to be inserted in poetical precepts, is by no
means strictly and philosophically true. If words were naturally and
necessarily consequential to sentiments, it would always follow, that he
who has most knowledge must have most eloquence, and that every man
would clearly express what he fully understood: yet we find, that to
think, and discourse, are often the qualities of different persons: and
many books might surely be produced, where just and noble sentiments are
degraded and obscured by unsuitable diction.

Words, therefore, as well as things, claim the care of an author. Indeed
of many authors, and those not useless or contemptible, words are almost
the only care: many make it their study, not so much to strike out new
sentiments, as to recommend those which are already known to more
favourable notice by fairer decorations; but every man, whether he
copies or invents, whether he delivers his own thoughts or those of
another, has often found himself deficient in the power of expression,
big with ideas which he could not utter, obliged to ransack his memory
for terms adequate to his conceptions, and at last unable to impress
upon his reader the image existing in his own mind.

It is one of the common distresses of a writer, to be within a word of a
happy period, to want only a single epithet to give amplification its
full force, to require only a correspondent term in order to finish a
paragraph with elegance, and make one of its members answer to the
other; but these deficiencies cannot always be supplied: and after a
long study and vexation, the passage is turned anew, and the web unwoven
that was so nearly finished.

But when thoughts and words are collected and adjusted, and the whole
composition at last concluded, it seldom gratifies the author, when he
comes coolly and deliberately to review it, with the hopes which had
been excited in the fury of the performance: novelty always captivates
the mind; as our thoughts rise fresh upon us, we readily believe them
just and original, which, when the pleasure of production is over, we
find to be mean and common, or borrowed from the works of others, and
supplied by memory rather than invention.

But though it should happen that the writer finds no such faults in his
performance, he is still to remember, that he looks upon it with partial
eyes: and when he considers, how much men, who could judge of others
with great exactness, have often failed of judging of themselves, he
will be afraid of deciding too hastily in his own favour, or of allowing
himself to contemplate with too much complacence, treasure that has not
yet been brought to the test, nor passed the only trial that can stamp
its value.

From the publick, and only from the publick, is he to await a
confirmation of his claim, and a final justification of self-esteem; but
the publick is not easily persuaded to favour an author. If mankind were
left to judge for themselves, it is reasonable to imagine, that of such
writings, at least, as describe the movements of the human passions, and
of which every man carries the archetype within him, a just opinion
would be formed; but whoever has remarked the fate of books, must have
found it governed by other causes than general consent arising from
general conviction. If a new performance happens not to fall into the
hands of some who have courage to tell, and authority to propagate their
opinion, it often remains long in obscurity, and perishes unknown and
unexamined. A few, a very few, commonly constitute the taste of the
time; the judgment which they have once pronounced, some are too lazy to
discuss, and some too timorous to contradict; it may however be, I
think, observed, that their power is greater to depress than exalt, as
mankind are more credulous of censure than of praise.

This perversion of the publick judgment is not to be rashly numbered
amongst the miseries of an author; since it commonly serves, after
miscarriage, to reconcile him to himself. Because the world has
sometimes passed an unjust sentence, he readily concludes the sentence
unjust by which his performance is condemned; because some have been
exalted above their merits by partiality, he is sure to ascribe the
success of a rival, not to the merit of his work, but the zeal of his
patrons. Upon the whole, as the author seems to share all the common
miseries of life, he appears to partake likewise of its lenitives and
abatements[1].

[1] See a pamphlet entitled "The Case of Authors by Profession," 8vo.
    1758. It is the production of Mr. James Ralph, who knew from painful
    experience the bitter evils incident to an employment which yielded
    a bare maintenance to Johnson himself. For anecdotes of Ralph, and
    the work alluded to, see Dr. Drake's Essays on Rambler, &c. vol. i.
    p. 96.





THE IDLER.





ADVERTISEMENT.


The IDLER having omitted to distinguish the essays of his correspondents
by any particular signature, thinks it necessary to inform his readers,
that from the ninth, the fifteenth, thirty-third, forty-second,
fifty-fourth, sixty-seventh, seventy-sixth, seventy-ninth,
eighty-second, ninety-third, ninety-sixth, and ninety-eighth papers, he
claims no other praise than that of having given them to the publick[1].

[1] The names of the Authors of these Papers, as far as known, will be
given in the course of the present edition.




THE IDLER.




No. 1. SATURDAY, APRIL 15, 1758.

  _--Vacui sub umbra
  Lusimus_.--Hor. Lib. i. Ode xxxii. 1.

Those who attempt periodical essays seem to be often stopped in the
beginning, by the difficulty of finding a proper title. Two writers,
since the time of the Spectator, have assumed his name[1] without any
pretensions to lawful inheritance; an effort was once made to revive the
Tatler[2], and the strange appellations, by which other papers have been
called, show that the authors were distressed, like the natives of
America, who come to the Europeans to beg a name.

It will be easily believed of the Idler, that if his title had required
any search, he never would have found it. Every mode of life has its
conveniencies. The Idler, who habituates himself to be satisfied with
what he can most easily obtain, not only escapes labours which are often
fruitless, but sometimes succeeds better than those who despise all that
is within their reach, and think every thing more valuable as it is
harder to be acquired.

If similitude of manners be a motive to kindness, the Idler may flatter
himself with universal patronage. There is no single character under
which such numbers are comprised. Every man is, or hopes to be, an
Idler. Even those who seem to differ most from us are hastening to
increase our fraternity; as peace is the end of war, so to be idle is
the ultimate purpose of the busy.

There is perhaps no appellation by which a writer can better denote his
kindred to the human species. It has been found hard to describe man by
an adequate definition. Some philosophers have called him a reasonable
animal; but others have considered reason as a quality of which many
creatures partake. He has been termed likewise a laughing animal; but it
is said that some men have never laughed. Perhaps man may be more
properly distinguished as an idle animal; for there is no man who is not
sometimes idle. It is at least a definition from which none that shall
find it in this paper can be excepted; for who can be more idle than the
reader of the Idler?

That the definition may be complete, idleness must be not only the
general, but the peculiar characteristick of man; and perhaps man is the
only being that can properly be called idle, that does by others what he
might do himself, or sacrifices duty or pleasure to the love of ease.

Scarcely any name can be imagined from which less envy or competition is
to be dreaded. The Idler has no rivals or enemies. The man of business
forgets him; the man of enterprise despises him; and though such as
tread the same track of life fall commonly into jealousy and discord,
Idlers are always found to associate in peace; and he who is most famed
for doing nothing, is glad to meet another as idle as himself.

What is to be expected from this paper, whether it will be uniform or
various, learned or familiar, serious or gay, political or moral,
continued or interrupted, it is hoped that no reader will inquire. That
the Idler has some scheme, cannot be doubted, for to form schemes is the
Idler's privilege. But though he has many projects in his head, he is
now grown sparing of communication, having observed, that his hearers
are apt to remember what he forgets himself; that his tardiness of
execution exposes him to the encroachments of those who catch a hint and
fall to work; and that very specious plans, after long contrivance and
pompous displays, have subsided in weariness without a trial, and
without miscarriage have been blasted by derision.

Something the Idler's character may be supposed to promise. Those that
are curious after diminutive history, who watch the revolutions of
families, and the rise and fall of characters either male or female,
will hope to be gratified by this paper; for the Idler is always
inquisitive and seldom retentive. He that delights in obloquy and
satire, and wishes to see clouds gathering over any reputation that
dazzles him with its brightness, will snatch up the Idler's essays with
a beating heart. The Idler is naturally censorious; those who attempt
nothing themselves, think every thing easily performed, and consider the
unsuccessful always as criminal.

I think it necessary to give notice, that I make no contract, nor incur
any obligation. If those who depend on the Idler for intelligence and
entertainment, should suffer the disappointment which commonly follows
ill-placed expectations, they are to lay the blame only on themselves.

Yet hope is not wholly to be cast away. The Idler, though sluggish, is
yet alive, and may sometimes be stimulated to vigour and activity. He
may descend into profoundness, or tower into sublimity; for the
diligence of an Idler is rapid and impetuous, as ponderous bodies forced
into velocity move with violence proportionate to their weight.

But these vehement exertions of intellect cannot be frequent, and he
will therefore gladly receive help from any correspondent, who shall
enable him to please without his own labour. He excludes no style, he
prohibits no subject; only let him that writes to the Idler remember,
that his letters must not be long; no words are to be squandered in
declarations of esteem, or confessions of inability; conscious dulness
has little right to be prolix, and praise is not so welcome to the Idler
as quiet.


[1] The Universal Spectator in 1728, by the celebrated antiquary William
    Oldys.

    The Female Spectator in 1744, by Eliza Haywood.

    These were followed by the New Spectator in 1784; and lastly, by the
    Country Spectator in 1792. This last is a production of very
    considerable merit.

[2] This attempt was made in 1750, under the title of the Tatler
    Revived. After a short trial it completely failed.




No. 2. SATURDAY, APRIL 22, 1758.

 --_Toto non quater anno
  Membranam_.--HOR. Lib. ii. Sat. iii. 1.

Many positions are often on the tongue, and seldom in the mind; there
are many truths which every human being acknowledges and forgets. It is
generally known, that he who expects much will be often disappointed;
yet disappointment seldom cures us of expectation, or has any other
effect than that of producing a moral sentence, or peevish exclamation.
He that embarks in the voyage of life, will always wish to advance
rather by the impulse of the wind, than the strokes of the oar; and many
founder in the passage, while they lie waiting for the gale that is to
waft them to their wish.

It will naturally be suspected that the Idler has lately suffered some
disappointment, and that he does not talk thus gravely for nothing. No
man is required to betray his own secrets. I will however, confess, that
I have now been a writer almost a week, and have not yet heard a single
word of praise, nor received one hint from any correspondent.

Whence this negligence proceeds I am not able to discover. Many of my
predecessors have thought themselves obliged to return their
acknowledgments in the second paper, for the kind reception of the
first; and in a short time, apologies have become necessary to those
ingenious gentlemen and ladies, whose performances, though in the
highest degree elegant and learned, have been unavoidably delayed.

What then will be thought of me, who, having experienced no kindness,
have no thanks to return; whom no gentleman or lady has yet enabled to
give any cause of discontent, and who have therefore no opportunity of
showing how skilfully I can pacify resentment, extenuate negligence, or
palliate rejection.

I have long known that splendour of reputation is not to be counted
among the necessaries of life, and therefore shall not much repine if
praise be withheld till it is better deserved. But surely I may be
allowed to complain, that, in a nation of authors, not one has thought
me worthy of notice after so fair an invitation.

At the time when the rage of writing has seized the old and young, when
the cook warbles her lyricks in the kitchen, and the thrasher
vociferates his heroicks in the barn; when our traders deal out
knowledge in bulky volumes, and our girls forsake their samplers to
teach kingdoms wisdom; it may seem very unnecessary to draw any more
from their proper occupations, by affording new opportunities of
literary fame[1].

I should be indeed unwilling to find that, for the sake of corresponding
with the Idler, the smith's iron had cooled on the anvil, or the
spinster's distaff stood unemployed. I solicit only the contributions of
those who have already devoted themselves to literature, or, without any
determinate intention, wander at large through the expanse of life, and
wear out the day in hearing at one place what they utter at another.

Of these, a great part are already writers. One has a friend in the
country upon whom he exercises his powers; whose passions he raises and
depresses; whose understanding he perplexes with paradoxes, or
strengthens by argument; whose admiration he courts, whose praises he
enjoys; and who serves him instead of a senate or a theatre; as the
young soldiers in the Roman camp learned the use of their weapons by
fencing against a post in the place of an enemy.

Another has his pockets filled with essays and epigrams, which he reads
from house to house, to select parties; and which his acquaintances are
daily entreating him to withhold no longer from the impatience of the
publick.

If among these any one is persuaded, that, by such preludes of
composition, he has qualified himself to appear in the open world, and
is yet afraid of those censures which they who have already written, and
they who cannot write, are equally ready to fulminate against publick
pretenders to fame, he may, by transmitting his performances to the
Idler, make a cheap experiment of his abilities, and enjoy the pleasure
of success, without the hazard of miscarriage.

Many advantages not generally known arise from this method of stealing
on the publick. The standing author of the paper is always the object of
critical malignity. Whatever is mean will be imputed to him, and
whatever is excellent be ascribed to his assistants. It does not much
alter the event, that the author and his correspondents are equally
unknown; for the author, whoever he be, is an individual, of whom every
reader has some fixed idea, and whom he is therefore unwilling to
gratify with applause; but the praises given to his correspondents are
scattered in the air, none can tell on whom they will light, and
therefore none are unwilling to bestow them.

He that is known to contribute to a periodical work, needs no other
caution than not to tell what particular pieces are his own; such
secrecy is indeed very difficult; but if it can be maintained, it is
scarcely to be imagined at how small an expense he may grow
considerable.

A person of quality, by a single paper, may engross the honour of a
volume. Fame is indeed dealt with a hand less and less bounteous through
the subordinate ranks, till it descends to the professed author, who
will find it very difficult to get more than he deserves; but every man
who does not want it, or who needs not value it, may have liberal
allowances; and, for five letters in the year sent to the Idler, of
which perhaps only two are printed, will be promoted to the first rank
of writers by those who are weary of the present race of wits, and wish
to sink them into obscurity before the lustre of a name not yet known
enough to be detested.

[1] See Knox's Essays, Number 50.




No. 3. SATURDAY, APRIL 29, 1758.

 --_Otia vitae
  Solamur cantu_.       STAT.

It has long been the complaint of those who frequent the theatres, that
all the dramatick art has been long exhausted, and that the vicissitudes
of fortune, and accidents of life, have been shown in every possible
combination, till the first scene informs us of the last, and the play
no sooner opens, than every auditor knows how it will conclude. When a
conspiracy is formed in a tragedy, we guess by whom it will be detected;
when a letter is dropt in a comedy, we can tell by whom it will be
found. Nothing is now left for the poet but character and sentiment,
which are to make their way as they can, without the soft anxiety of
suspense, or the enlivening agitation of surprise.

A new paper lies under the same disadvantages as a new play. There is
danger lest it be new without novelty. My earlier predecessors had their
choice of vices and follies, and selected such as were most likely to
raise merriment or attract attention; they had the whole field of life
before them, untrodden and unsurveyed; characters of every kind shot up
in their way, and those of the most luxuriant growth, or most
conspicuous colours, were naturally cropt by the first sickle. They that
follow are forced to peep into neglected corners, to note the casual
varieties of the same species, and to recommend themselves by minute
industry and distinctions too subtle for common eyes.

Sometimes it may happen, that the haste or negligence of the first
inquirers has left enough behind to reward another search; sometimes new
objects start up under the eye, and he that is looking for one kind of
matter, is amply gratified by the discovery of another. But still it
must be allowed, that, as more is taken, less can remain; and every
truth brought newly to light impoverishes the mine, from which
succeeding intellects are to dig their treasures.

Many philosophers imagine, that the elements themselves may be in time
exhausted; that the sun, by shining long, will effuse all its light; and
that, by the continual waste of aqueous particles, the whole earth will
at last become a sandy desert.

I would not advise my readers to disturb themselves by contriving how
they shall live without light and water. For the days of universal
thirst and perpetual darkness are at a great distance. The ocean and the
sun will last our time, and we may leave posterity to shift for
themselves.

But if the stores of nature are limited, much more narrow bounds must be
set to the modes of life; and mankind may want a moral or amusing paper,
many years before they shall be deprived of drink or day-light. This
want, which to the busy and the inventive may seem easily remediable by
some substitute or other, the whole race of Idlers will feel with all
the sensibility that such torpid animals can suffer.

When I consider the innumerable multitudes that, having no motive of
desire, or determination of will, lie freezing in perpetual inactivity,
till some external impulse puts them in motion; who awake in the
morning, vacant of thought, with minds gaping for the intellectual food,
which some kind essayist has been accustomed to supply; I am moved by
the commiseration with which all human beings ought to behold the
distresses of each other, to try some expedients for their relief, and
to inquire by what methods the listless may be actuated, and the empty
be replenished.

There are said to be pleasures in madness known only to madmen. There
are certainly miseries in idleness, which the Idler only can conceive.
These miseries I have often felt and often bewailed. I know by
experience, how welcome is every avocation that summons the thoughts to
a new image; and how much languor and lassitude are relieved by that
officiousness which offers a momentary amusement to him who is unable to
find it for himself.

It is naturally indifferent to this race of men what entertainment they
receive, so they are but entertained. They catch, with equal eagerness,
at a moral lecture, or the memoirs of a robber; a prediction of the
appearance of a comet, or the calculation of the chances of a lottery.

They might therefore easily be pleased, if they consulted only their own
minds; but those who will not take the trouble to think for themselves,
have always somebody to think for them; and the difficulty in writing is
to please those from whom others learn to be pleased.

Much mischief is done in the world with very little interest or design.
He that assumes the character of a critick, and justifies his claim by
perpetual censure, imagines that he is hurting none but the author, and
him he considers as a pestilent animal, whom every other being has a
right to persecute; little does he think how many harmless men he
involves in his own guilt, by teaching them to be noxious without
malignity, and to repeat objections which they do not understand; or how
many honest minds he debars from pleasure, by exciting an artificial
fastidiousness, and making them too wise to concur with their own
sensations. He who is taught by a critick to dislike that which pleased
him in his natural state, has the same reason to complain of his
instructer, as the madman to rail at his doctor, who, when he thought
himself master of Peru, physicked him to poverty.

If men will struggle against their own advantage, they are not to expect
that the Idler will take much pains upon them; he has himself to please
as well as them, and has long learned, or endeavoured to learn, not to
make the pleasure of others too necessary to his own.




No. 4. SATURDAY, MAY 6, 1758.

  [Greek: Pantas gar phileeske.]     HOM.

Charity, or tenderness for the poor, which is now justly considered, by
a great part of mankind, as inseparable from piety, and in which almost
all the goodness of the present age consists, is, I think, known only to
those who enjoy, either immediately or by transmission, the light of
revelation.

Those ancient nations who have given us the wisest models of government,
and the brightest examples of patriotism, whose institutions have been
transcribed by all succeeding legislatures, and whose history is studied
by every candidate for political or military reputation, have yet left
behind them no mention of alms-houses or hospitals, or places where age
might repose, or sickness be relieved.

The Roman emperours, indeed, gave large donatives to the citizens and
soldiers, but these distributions were always reckoned rather popular
than virtuous: nothing more was intended than an ostentation of
liberality, nor was any recompense expected, but suffrages and
acclamations.

Their beneficence was merely occasional; he that ceased to need the
favour of the people, ceased likewise to court it; and, therefore, no
man thought it either necessary or wise to make any standing provision
for the needy, to look forwards to the wants of posterity, or to secure
successions of charity, for successions of distress.

Compassion is by some reasoners, on whom the name of philosophers has
been too easily conferred, resolved into an affection merely selfish, an
involuntary perception of pain at the involuntary sight of a being like
ourselves languishing in misery. But this sensation, if ever it be felt
at all from the brute instinct of uninstructed nature, will only produce
effects desultory and transient; it will never settle into a principle
of action, or extend relief to calamities unseen, in generations not yet
in being.

The devotion of life or fortune to the succour of the poor, is a height
of virtue, to which humanity has never risen by its own power. The
charity of the Mahometans is a precept which their teacher evidently
transplanted from the doctrines of Christianity; and the care with which
some of the Oriental sects attend, as is said, to the necessities of the
diseased and indigent, may be added to the other arguments, which prove
Zoroaster to have borrowed his institutions from the law of Moses.

The present age, though not likely to shine hereafter among the most
splendid periods of history, has yet given examples of charity, which
may be very properly recommended to imitation. The equal distribution of
wealth, which long commerce has produced, does not enable any single
hand to raise edifices of piety like fortified cities, to appropriate
manors to religious uses, or deal out such large and lasting beneficence
as was scattered over the land in ancient times, by those who possessed
counties or provinces. But no sooner is a new species of misery brought
to view, and a design of relieving it professed, than every hand is open
to contribute something, every tongue is busied in solicitation, and
every art of pleasure is employed for a time in the interest of virtue.

The most apparent and pressing miseries incident to man, have now their
peculiar houses of reception and relief; and there are few among us,
raised however little above the danger of poverty, who may not justly
claim, what is implored by the Mahometans in their most ardent
benedictions, the prayers of the poor.

Among those actions which the mind can most securely review with
unabated pleasure, is that of having contributed to an hospital for the
sick. Of some kinds of charity the consequences are dubious: some evils
which beneficence has been busy to remedy, are not certainly known to be
very grievous to the sufferer, or detrimental to the community; but no
man can question whether wounds and sickness are not really painful;
whether it be not worthy of a good man's care to restore those to ease
and usefulness, from whose labour infants and women expect their bread,
and who, by a casual hurt, or lingering disease, lie pining in want and
anguish, burthensome to others, and weary of themselves.

Yet as the hospitals of the present time subsist only by gifts bestowed
at pleasure, without any solid fund of support, there is danger lest the
blaze of charity, which now burns with so much heat and splendour,
should die away for want of lasting fuel; lest fashion should suddenly
withdraw her smile, and inconstancy transfer the publick attention to
something which may appear more eligible, because it will be new.

Whatever is left in the hands of chance must be subject to vicissitude;
and when any establishment is found to be useful, it ought to be the
next care to make it permanent.

But man is a transitory being, and his designs must partake of the
imperfections of their author. To confer duration is not always in our
power. We must snatch the present moment, and employ it well, without
too much solicitude for the future, and content ourselves with
reflecting that our part is performed. He that waits for an opportunity
to do much at once, may breathe out his life in idle wishes, and regret,
in the last hour, his useless intentions, and barren zeal.

The most active promoters of the present schemes of charity cannot be
cleared from some instances of misconduct, which may awaken contempt or
censure, and hasten that neglect which is likely to come too soon of
itself. The open competitions between different hospitals, and the
animosity with which their patrons oppose one another, may prejudice
weak minds against them all. For it will not be easily believed, that
any man can, for good reasons, wish to exclude another from doing good.
The spirit of charity can only be continued by a reconciliation of these
ridiculous feuds; and therefore, instead of contentions who shall be the
only benefactors to the needy, let there be no other struggle than who
shall be the first.




No. 5. SATURDAY, MAY 13, 1758.

 --[Greek: Kallos
  Ant egcheon hapanton
  Ant aspidon hapason].  ANAC.

Our military operations are at last begun; our troops are marching in
all the pomp of war, and a camp is marked out on the Isle of Wight; the
heart of every Englishman now swells with confidence, though somewhat
softened by generous compassion for the consternation and distresses of
our enemies.

This formidable armament and splendid march produce different effects
upon different minds, according to the boundless diversities of temper,
occupation, and habits of thought.

Many a tender maiden considers her lover as already lost, because he
cannot reach the camp but by crossing the sea; men of a more political
understanding are persuaded that we shall now see, in a few days, the
ambassadours of France supplicating for pity. Some are hoping for a
bloody battle, because a bloody battle makes a vendible narrative; some
are composing songs of victory; some planning arches of triumph; and
some are mixing fireworks for the celebration of a peace.

Of all extensive and complicated objects, different parts are selected
by different eyes; and minds are variously affected, as they vary their
attention. The care of the publick is now fixed upon our soldiers, who
are leaving their native country to wander, none can tell how long, in
the pathless deserts of the Isle of Wight. The tender sigh for their
sufferings, and the gay drink to their success. I, who look, or believe
myself to look, with more philosophick eyes on human affairs, must
confess, that I saw the troops march with little emotion; my thoughts
were fixed upon other scenes, and the tear stole into my eyes, not for
those who were going away, but for those who were left behind.

We have no reason to doubt but our troops will proceed with proper
caution; there are men among them who can take care of themselves. But
how shall the ladies endure without them? By what arts can they, who
have long had no joy but from the civilities of a soldier, now amuse
their hours, and solace their separation?

Of fifty thousand men, now destined to different stations, if we allow
each to have been occasionally necessary only to four women, a short
computation will inform us, that two hundred thousand ladies are left to
languish in distress; two hundred thousand ladies, who must run to sales
and auctions without an attendant; sit at the play, without a critick to
direct their opinion; buy their fans by their own judgment; dispose
shells by their own invention; walk in the Mall without a gallant; go to
the gardens without a protector; and shuffle cards with vain impatience,
for want of a fourth to complete the party.

Of these ladies, some, I hope, have lap-dogs, and some monkeys; but they
are unsatisfactory companions. Many useful offices are performed by men
of scarlet, to which neither dog nor monkey has adequate abilities. A
parrot, indeed, is as fine as a colonel, and, if he has been much used
to good company, is not wholly without conversation; but a parrot, after
all, is a poor little creature, and has neither sword nor shoulder-knot,
can neither dance nor play at cards.

Since the soldiers must obey the call of their duty, and go to that side
of the kingdom which faces France, I know not why the ladies, who cannot
live without them, should not follow them. The prejudices and pride of
man have long presumed the sword and spindle made for different hands,
and denied the other sex to partake the grandeur of military glory. This
notion may be consistently enough received in France, where the salick
law excludes females from the throne; but we, who allow them to be
sovereigns, may surely suppose them capable to be soldiers.

It were to be wished that some man, whose experience and authority might
enforce regard, would propose that our encampments for the present year
should comprise an equal number of men and women, who should march and
fight in mingled bodies. If proper colonels were once appointed, and the
drums ordered to beat for female volunteers, our regiments would soon be
filled without the reproach or cruelty of an impress.

Of these heroines, some might serve on foot under the denomination of
the _Female Buffs_, and some on horseback, with the title of _Lady
Hussars_.

What objections can be made to this scheme I have endeavoured maturely
to consider; and cannot find that a modern soldier has any duties,
except that of obedience, which a lady cannot perform. If the hair has
lost its powder, a lady has a puff; if a coat be spotted, a lady has a
brush. Strength is of less importance since fire-arms have been used;
blows of the hand are now seldom exchanged; and what is there to be done
in the charge or the retreat beyond the powers of a sprightly maiden?

Our masculine squadrons will not suppose themselves disgraced by their
auxiliaries, till they have done something which women could not have
done. The troops of Braddock never saw their enemies, and perhaps were
defeated by women. If our American general had headed an army of girls,
he might still have built a fort and taken it. Had Minorca been defended
by a female garrison, it might have been surrendered, as it was, without
a breach; and I cannot but think, that seven thousand women might have
ventured to look at Rochfort, sack a village, rob a vineyard, and return
in safety.




No. 6. SATURDAY, MAY 20, 1758.

  [Greek: Tameion aretaes gennaia gynae].    GR. PRO.

The lady who had undertaken to ride on one horse a thousand miles in a
thousand hours, has completed her journey in little more than two-thirds
of the time stipulated, and was conducted through the last mile with
triumphal honours. Acclamation shouted before her, and all the flowers
of the spring were scattered in her way.

Every heart ought to rejoice when true merit is distinguished with
publick notice. I am far from wishing either to the amazon or her horse
any diminution of happiness or fame, and cannot but lament that they
were not more amply and suitably rewarded.

There was once a time when wreaths of bays or oak were considered as
recompenses equal to the most wearisome labours and terrifick dangers,
and when the miseries of long marches and stormy seas were at once
driven from the remembrance by the fragrance of a garland.

If this heroine had been born in ancient times, she might perhaps have
been delighted with the simplicity of ancient gratitude; or if any thing
was wanting to full satisfaction, she might have supplied the deficiency
with the hope of deification, and anticipated the altars that would be
raised, and the vows that would be made, by future candidates for
equestrian glory, to the patroness of the race and the goddess of the
stable.

But fate reserved her for a more enlightened age, which has discovered
leaves and flowers to be transitory things; which considers profit as
the end of honour; and rates the event of every undertaking only by the
money that is gained or lost. In these days, to strew the road with
daisies and lilies, is to mock merit, and delude hope. The toyman will
not give his jewels, nor the mercer measure out his silks, for vegetable
coin. A primrose, though picked up under the feet of the most renowned
courser, will neither be received as a stake at cards, nor procure a
seat at an opera, nor buy candles for a rout, nor lace for a livery. And
though there are many virtuosos, whose sole ambition is to possess
something which can be found in no other hand, yet some are more
accustomed to store their cabinets by theft than purchase, and none of
them would either steal or buy one of the flowers of gratulation till he
knows that all the rest are totally destroyed.

Little therefore did it avail this wonderful lady to be received,
however joyfully, with such obsolete and barren ceremonies of praise.
Had the way been covered with guineas, though but for the tenth part of
the last mile, she would have considered her skill and diligence as not
wholly lost; and might have rejoiced in the speed and perseverance which
had left her such superfluity of time, that she could at leisure gather
her reward without the danger of Atalanta's miscarriage.

So much ground could not indeed have been paved with gold but at a large
expense, and we are at present engaged in a war, which demands and
enforces frugality. But common rules are made only for common life, and
some deviation from general policy may be allowed in favour of a lady
that rode a thousand miles in a thousand hours.

Since the spirit of antiquity so much prevails amongst us, that even on
this great occasion we have given flowers instead of money, let us at
least complete our imitation of the ancients, and endeavour to transmit
to posterity the memory of that virtue, which we consider as superior to
pecuniary recompense. Let an equestrian statue of this heroine be
erected, near the starting-post on the heath of Newmarket, to fill
kindred souls with emulation, and tell the grand-daughters of our
grand-daughters what an English maiden has once performed.

As events, however illustrious, are soon obscured if they are intrusted
to tradition, I think it necessary, that the pedestal should be
inscribed with a concise account of this great performance. The
composition of this narrative ought not to be committed rashly to
improper hands. If the rhetoricians of Newmarket, who may be supposed
likely to conceive in its full strength the dignity of the subject,
should undertake to express it, there is danger lest they admit some
phrases which, though well understood at present, may be ambiguous in
another century. If posterity should read on a publick monument, that
_the lady carried her horse a thousand miles in a thousand hours_, they
may think that the statue and inscription are at variance, because one
will represent the horse as carrying his lady, and the other tell that
the lady carried her horse.

Some doubts likewise may be raised by speculatists, and some
controversies be agitated among historians, concerning the motive as
well as the manner of the action. As it will be known, that this wonder
was performed in a time of war, some will suppose that the lady was
frighted by invaders, and fled to preserve her life or her chastity:
others will conjecture, that she was thus honoured for some intelligence
carried of the enemy's designs: some will think that she brought news of
a victory; others, that she was commissioned to tell of a conspiracy;
and some will congratulate themselves on their acuter penetration, and
find, that all these notions of patriotism and publick spirit are
improbable and chimerical; they will confidently tell, that she only ran
away from her guardians, and that the true causes of her speed were fear
and love.

Let it therefore be carefully mentioned, that by this performance _she
won her wager_; and, lest this should, by any change of manners, seem an
inadequate or incredible incitement, let it be added, that at this time
the original motives of human actions had lost their influence; that the
love of praise was extinct; the fear of infamy was become ridiculous;
and the only wish of an Englishman was, _to win his wager_[1].

[1] The incident, so pleasingly ridiculed in this paper, happened in
    1758; and the newspapers of the time gave it due importance.




No. 7. SATURDAY, MAY 27, 1758.

One of the principal amusements of the _Idler_ is to read the works of
those minute historians the writers of news, who, though contemptuously
overlooked by the composers of bulky volumes, are yet necessary in a
nation where much wealth produces much leisure, and one part of the
people has nothing to do but to observe the lives and fortunes of the
other.

To us, who are regaled every morning and evening with intelligence, and
are supplied from day to day with materials for conversation, it is
difficult to conceive how man can subsist without a newspaper, or to
what entertainment companies can assemble, in those wide regions of the
earth that have neither _Chronicles_ nor _Magazines_, neither _Gazettes_
nor _Advertisers_, neither _Journals_ nor _Evening Posts_.

There are never great numbers in any nation, whose reason or invention
can find employment for their tongues, who can raise a pleasing
discourse from their own stock of sentiments and images; and those few
who have qualified themselves by speculation for general disquisitions
are soon left without an audience. The common talk of men must relate to
facts in which the talkers have, or think they have, an interest; and
where such facts cannot be known, the pleasures of society will be
merely sensual. Thus the natives of the Mahometan empires, who approach
most nearly to European civility, have no higher pleasure at their
convivial assemblies than to hear a piper, or gaze upon a tumbler; and
no company can keep together longer than they are diverted by sounds or
shows.

All foreigners remark, that the knowledge of the common people of
England is greater than that of any other vulgar. This superiority we
undoubtedly owe to the rivulets of intelligence, which are continually
trickling among us, which every one may catch, and of which every one
partakes[1].

This universal diffusion of instruction is, perhaps, not wholly without
its inconveniencies; it certainly fills the nation with superficial
disputants; enables those to talk who were born to work; and affords
information sufficient to elate vanity, and stiffen obstinacy, but too
little to enlarge the mind into complete skill for full comprehension.

Whatever is found to gratify the publick, will be multiplied by the
emulation of venders beyond necessity or use. This plenty indeed
produces cheapness, but cheapness always ends in negligence and
depravation.

The compilation of newspapers is often committed to narrow and mercenary
minds, not qualified for the task of delighting or instructing; who are
content to fill their paper, with whatever matter, without industry to
gather, or discernment to select.

Thus journals are daily multiplied without increase of knowledge. The
tale of the morning paper is told again in the evening, and the
narratives of the evening are bought again in the morning. These
repetitions, indeed, waste time, but they do not shorten it. The most
eager peruser of news is tired before he has completed his labour; and
many a man, who enters the coffee-house in his nightgown and slippers,
is called away to his shop, or his dinner, before he has well considered
the state of Europe.

It is discovered by Reaumur, that spiders might make silk, if they could
be persuaded to live in peace together. The writers of news, if they
could be confederated, might give more pleasure to the publick. The
morning and evening authors might divide an event between them; a single
action, and that not of much importance, might be gradually discovered,
so as to vary a whole week with joy, anxiety, and conjecture.

We know that a French ship of war was lately taken by a ship of England;
but this event was suffered to burst upon us all at once, and then what
we knew already was echoed from day to day, and from week to week.

Let us suppose these spiders of literature to spin together, and inquire
to what an extensive web such another event might be regularly drawn,
and how six morning and six evening writers might agree to retail their
articles.

On _Monday Morning_ the Captain of a ship might arrive, who left the
_Friseur_ of _France_, and the _Bull-dog_, Captain _Grim_, in sight of
one another, so that an engagement seemed unavoidable.

_Monday Evening._ A sound of cannon was heard off Cape Finisterre,
supposed to be those of the Bull-dog and Friseur.

_Tuesday Morning._ It was this morning reported that the Bull-dog
engaged the Friseur, yard-arm and yard-arm, three glasses and a half,
but was obliged to sheer off for want of powder. It is hoped that
inquiry will be made into this affair in a proper place.

_Tuesday Evening._ The account of the engagement between the Bull-dog
and Friseur was premature.

_Wednesday Morning._ Another express is arrived, which brings news, that
the Friseur had lost all her masts, and three hundred of her men, in the
late engagement; and that Captain Grim is come into harbour much
shattered.

_Wednesday Evening._ We hear that the brave Captain Grim, having
expended his powder, proposed to enter the Friseur sword in hand; but
that his lieutenant, the nephew of a certain nobleman, remonstrated
against it.

_Thursday Morning_. We wait impatiently for a full account of the late
engagement between the Bull-dog and Friseur.

_Thursday Evening_. It is said the order of the Bath will be sent to
Captain Grim.

_Friday Morning_. A certain Lord of the Admiralty has been heard to say
of a certain Captain, that if he had done his duty, a certain French
ship might have been taken. It was not thus that merit was rewarded in
the days of Cromwell.

_Friday Evening_. There is certain information at the Admiralty, that
the Friseur is taken, after a resistance of two hours.

_Saturday Morning_. A letter from one of the gunners of the Bull-dog
mentions the taking of the Friseur, and attributes their success wholly
to the bravery and resolution of Captain Grim, who never owed any of his
advancement to borough-jobbers, or any other corrupters of the people.

_Saturday Evening_. Captain Grim arrived at the Admiralty, with an
account that he engaged the Friseur, a ship of equal force with his own,
off Cape Finisterre, and took her after an obstinate resistance, having
killed one hundred and fifty of the French, with the loss of ninety-five
of his own men.



[1] For some pleasing remarks on this subject see De Lolme on the
    constitution of England, chap. 12. We cannot retrain from quoting
    here the speech of Sir James Mackintosh in the well known Peltier
    cause. "A sort of prophetic instinct, if I may so speak, seems to
    have revealed to her (Queen Elizabeth) the importance of that great
    instrument, for rousing and guiding the minds of men, of the effects
    of which she had no experience; which, since her time, has changed
    the condition of the world; but which few modern statesmen have
    thoroughly understood, or wisely employed; which is no doubt
    connected with many ridiculous and degrading details; which has
    produced, and may again produce, terrible mischiefs; but of which
    the influence must after all be considered as the most certain
    effect of the most efficacious cause of civilization; and which,
    whether it be a blessing or a curse, is the most powerful engine
    that a politician can move--I mean the Press. It is a curious fact,
    that in the year of the Armada, Queen Elizabeth caused to be printed
    the first Gazettes that ever appeared in England."




No. 8. SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1758.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

In the time of publick danger, it is every man's duty to withdraw his
thoughts in some measure from his private interest, and employ part of
his time for the general welfare. National conduct ought to be the
result of national wisdom, a plan formed by mature consideration and
diligent selection out of all the schemes which may be offered, and all
the information which can be procured.

In a battle, every man should fight as if he was the single champion; in
preparations for war, every man should think, as if the last event
depended on his counsel. None can tell what discoveries are within his
reach, or how much he may contribute to the publick safety.

Full of these considerations, I have carefully reviewed the process of
the war, and find, what every other man has found, that we have hitherto
added nothing to our military reputation: that at one time we have been
beaten by enemies whom we did not see; and, at another, have avoided the
sight of enemies lest we should be beaten.

Whether our troops are defective in discipline or in courage, is not
very useful to inquire; they evidently want something necessary to
success; and he that shall supply that want will deserve well of his
country.

_To learn of an enemy_ has always been accounted politick and
honourable; and therefore I hope it will raise no prejudices against my
project, to confess that I borrowed it from a Frenchman.

When the Isle of Rhodes was, many centuries ago, in the hands of that
military order now called the Knights of Malta, it was ravaged by a
dragon, who inhabited a den under a rock, from which he issued forth
when he was hungry or wanton, and without fear or mercy devoured men and
beasts as they came in his way. Many councils were held, and many
devices offered, for his destruction; but as his back was armed with
impenetrable scales, none would venture to attack him. At last Dudon, a
French knight, undertook the deliverance of the island. From some place
of security, he took a view of the dragon, or, as a modern soldier would
say, _reconnoitred_ him, and observed that his belly was naked and
vulnerable. He then returned home to make his _arrangements_; and, by a
very exact imitation of nature, made a dragon of pasteboard, in the
belly of which he put beef and mutton, and accustomed two sturdy
mastiffs to feed themselves by tearing their way to the concealed flesh.
When his dogs were well practised in this method of plunder, he marched
out with them at his heels, and showed them the dragon; they rushed upon
him in quest of their dinner; Dudon battered his scull, while they
lacerated his belly; and neither his sting nor claws were able to defend
him.

Something like this might be practised in our present state. Let a
fortification be raised on Salisbury Plain, resembling Brest, or Toulon,
or Paris itself, with all the usual preparation for defence; let the
inclosure be filled with beef and ale: let the soldiers, from some
proper eminence, see shirts waving upon lines, and here and there a
plump landlady hurrying about with pots in her hands. When they are
sufficiently animated to advance, lead them in exact order, with fife
and drum, to that side whence the wind blows, till they come within the
scent of roast meat and tobacco. Contrive that they may approach the
place fasting about an hour after dinner-time, assure them that there is
no danger, and command an attack.

If nobody within either moves or speaks, it is not unlikely that they
may carry the place by storm; but if a panick should seize them, it will
be proper to defer the enterprise to a more hungry hour. When they have
entered, let them fill their bellies and return to the camp.

On the next day let the same place be shown them again, but with some
additions of strength or terrour. I cannot pretend to inform our
generals through what gradations of danger they should train their men
to fortitude. They best know what the soldiers and what themselves can
bear. It will be proper that the war should every day vary its
appearance. Sometimes, as they mount the rampart, a cook may throw fat
upon the fire, to accustom them to a sudden blaze; and sometimes, by the
clatter of empty pots, they may be inured to formidable noises. But let
it never be forgotten, that victory must repose with a full belly.

In time it will be proper to bring our French prisoners from the coast,
and place them upon the walls in martial order. At their first
appearance their hands must be tied, but they may be allowed to grin. In
a month they may guard the place with their hands loosed, provided that
on pain of death they be forbidden to strike.

By this method our army will soon be brought to look an enemy in the
face. But it has been lately observed, that fear is received by the ear
as well as the eyes; and the Indian war-cry is represented as too
dreadful to be endured; as a sound that will force the bravest veteran
to drop his weapon, and desert his rank; that will deafen his ear, and
chill his breast; that will neither suffer him to hear orders or to feel
shame, or retain any sensibility but the dread of death.

That the savage clamours of naked barbarians should thus terrify troops
disciplined to war, and ranged in array with arms in their hands, is
surely strange. But this is no time to reason. I am of opinion, that by
a proper mixture of asses, bulls, turkeys, geese, and tragedians, a
noise might be procured equally horrid with the war-cry. When our men
have been encouraged by frequent victories, nothing will remain but to
qualify them for extreme danger, by a sudden concert of terrifick
vociferation. When they have endured this last trial, let them be led to
action, as men who are no longer to be frightened; as men who can bear
at once the grimaces of the Gauls, and the howl of the Americans.




No. 9. SATURDAY, JUNE 10, 1758.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

I have read you; that is a favour few authors can boast of having
received from me besides yourself. My intention in telling you of it is
to inform you, that you have both pleased and angered me. Never did
writer appear so delightful to me as you did when you adopted the name
of the _Idler_. But what a falling off was there when your first
production was brought to light! A natural irresistible attachment to
that favourable passion, _idling_, had led me to hope for indulgence
from the _Idler_, but I find him a stranger to the title.

What rules has he proposed totally to unbrace the slackened nerve; to
shade the heavy eye of inattention; to give the smooth feature and the
uncontracted muscle; or procure insensibility to the whole animal
composition?

These were some of the placid blessings I promised myself the enjoyment
of, when I committed violence upon myself by mustering up all my
strength to set about reading you; but I am disappointed in them all,
and the stroke of eleven in the morning is still as terrible to me as
before, and I find putting on my clothes still as painful and laborious.
Oh that our climate would permit that original nakedness which the
thrice happy Indians to this day enjoy! How many unsolicitous hours
should I bask away, warmed in bed by the sun's glorious beams, could I,
like them, tumble from thence in a moment, when necessity obliges me to
endure the torment of getting upon my legs!

But wherefore do I talk to you upon subjects of this delicate nature?
you who seem ignorant of the inexpressible charms of the elbow-chair,
attended with a soft stool for the elevation of the feet! Thus, vacant
of thought, do I indulge the live-long day.

You may define happiness as you please; I embrace that opinion which
makes it consist in the absence of pain. To reflect is pain; to stir is
pain; therefore I never reflect or stir but when I cannot help it.
Perhaps you will call my scheme of life indolence, and therefore think
the _Idler_ excused from taking any notice of me; but I have always
looked upon indolence and idleness as the same; and so desire you will
now and then, while you profess yourself of our fraternity, take some
notice of me, and others in my situation, who think they have a right to
your assistance; or relinquish the name.

You may publish, burn, or destroy this, just as you are in the humour;
it is ten to one but I forget that I wrote it, before it reaches you. I
believe you may find a motto for it in Horace, but I cannot reach him
without getting out of my chair; that is a sufficient reason for my not
affixing any.--And being obliged to sit upright to ring the bell for my
servant to convey this to the penny-post, if I slip the opportunity of
his being now in the room, makes me break off abruptly[1].

This correspondent, whoever he be, is not to be dismissed without some
tokens of regard. There is no mark more certain of a genuine Idler, than
uneasiness without molestation, and complaint without a grievance.

Yet my gratitude to the contributor of half a paper shall not wholly
overpower my sincerity. I must inform him, that, with all his
pretensions, he that calls for directions to be idle, is yet but in the
rudiments of idleness, and has attained neither the practice nor theory
of wasting life. The true nature of idleness he will know in time, by
continuing to be idle. Virgil tells us of an impetuous and rapid being,
that acquires strength by motion. The Idler acquires weight by lying
still.

The _vis inertiae_, the quality of resisting all external impulses, is
hourly increasing; the restless and troublesome faculties of attention
and distinction, reflection on the past, and solicitude for the future,
by a long indulgence of idleness, will, like tapers in unelastick air,
be gradually extinguished; and the officious lover, the vigilant
soldier, the busy trader, may, by a judicious composure of his mind,
sink into a state approaching to that of brute matter; in which he shall
retain the consciousness of his own existence, only by an obtuse languor
and drowsy discontent.

This is the lowest stage to which the favourites of idleness can
descend; these regions of undelighted quiet can be entered by few. Of
those that are prepared to sink down into their shade, some are roused
into action by avarice or ambition, some are awakened by the voice of
fame, some allured by the smile of beauty, and many withheld by the
importunities of want. Of all the enemies of idleness, want is the most
formidable. Fame is soon found to be a sound, and love a dream; avarice
and ambition may be justly suspected of privy confederacies with
idleness; for, when they have for a while protected their votaries, they
often deliver them up to end their lives under her dominion. Want always
struggles against idleness, but want herself is often overcome; and
every hour shows the careful observer those who had rather live in ease
than in plenty.

So wide is the region of Idleness, and so powerful her influence. But
she does not immediately confer all her gifts. My correspondent, who
seems, with all his errours, worthy of advice, must be told, that he is
calling too hastily for the last effusion of total insensibility.
Whatever he may have been taught by unskilful Idlers to believe, labour
is necessary in his initiation to idleness. He that never labours may
know the pains of idleness, but not the pleasure. The comfort is, that
if he devotes himself to insensibility, he will daily lengthen the
intervals of idleness, and shorten those of labour, till at last he will
lie down to rest, and no longer disturb the world or himself by bustle
or competition.

Thus I have endeavoured to give him that information which, perhaps,
after all, he did not want; for a true Idler often calls for that which
he knows is never to be had, and asks questions which he does not desire
ever to be answered.

[1] By an unknown correspondent.




No. 10. SATURDAY, JUNE 17, 1758.

Credulity, or confidence of opinion too great for the evidence from
which opinion is derived, we find to be a general weakness imputed by
every sect and party to all others, and indeed by every man to every
other man.

Of all kinds of credulity, the most obstinate and wonderful is that of
political zealots; of men, who being numbered, they know not how or why,
in any of the parties that divide a state, resign the use of their own
eyes and ears, and resolve to believe nothing that does not favour those
whom they profess to follow.

The bigot of philosophy is seduced by authorities which he has not
always opportunities to examine, is entangled in systems by which truth
and falsehood are inextricably complicated, or undertakes to talk on
subjects which nature did not form him able to comprehend.

The Cartesian, who denies that his horse feels the spur, or that the
hare is afraid when the hounds approach her; the disciple of Malbranche,
who maintains that the man was not hurt by the bullet, which, according
to vulgar apprehension, swept away his legs; the follower of Berkeley,
who while he sits writing at his table, declares that he has neither
table, paper, nor fingers; have all the honour at least of being
deceived by fallacies not easily detected, and may plead that they did
not forsake truth, but for appearances which they were not able to
distinguish from it.

But the man who engages in a party has seldom to do with any thing
remote or abstruse. The present state of things is before his eyes; and,
if he cannot be satisfied without retrospection, yet he seldom extends
his views beyond the historical events of the last century. All the
knowledge that he can want is within his attainment, and most of the
arguments which he can hear are within his capacity.

Yet so it is, that an Idler meets every hour of his life with men who
have different opinions upon every thing past, present, and future; who
deny the most notorious facts, contradict the most cogent truths, and
persist in asserting to-day what they asserted yesterday, in defiance of
evidence, and contempt of confutation.

Two of my companions, who are grown old in idleness, are Tom Tempest and
Jack Sneaker. Both of them consider themselves as neglected by their
parties, and therefore entitled to credit; for why should they favour
ingratitude? They are both men of integrity, where no factious interest
is to be promoted; and both lovers of truth, when they are not heated
with political debate.

Tom Tempest is a steady friend to the house of Stuart. He can recount
the prodigies that have appeared in the sky, and the calamities that
have afflicted the nation every year from the Revolution; and is of
opinion, that, if the exiled family had continued to reign, there would
have neither been worms in our ships nor caterpillars in our trees. He
wonders that the nation was not awakened by the hard frost to a
revocation of the true king, and is hourly afraid that the whole island
will be lost in the sea. He believes that king William burned Whitehall
that he might steal the furniture; and that Tillotson died an atheist.
Of queen Anne he speaks with more tenderness, owns that she meant well,
and can tell by whom and why she was poisoned. In the succeeding reigns
all has been corruption, malice, and design. He believes that nothing
ill has ever happened for these forty years by chance or errour; he
holds that the battle of Dettingen was won by mistake, and that of
Fontenoy lost by contract; that the Victory was sunk by a private order;
that Cornhill was fired by emissaries from the council; and the arch of
Westminster-bridge was so contrived as to sink on purpose that the
nation might be put to charge. He considers the new road to Islington as
an encroachment on liberty, and often asserts that _broad wheels_ will
be the ruin of England.

Tom is generally vehement and noisy, but nevertheless has some secrets
which he always communicates in a whisper. Many and many a time has Tom
told me, in a corner, that our miseries were almost at an end, and that
we should see, in a month, another monarch on the throne; the time
elapses without a revolution; Tom meets me again with new intelligence,
the whole scheme is now settled, and we shall see great events in
another month.

Jack Sneaker is a hearty adherent to the present establishment; he has
known those who saw the bed into which the Pretender was conveyed in a
warming-pan. He often rejoices that the nation was not enslaved by the
Irish. He believes that king William never lost a battle, and that if he
had lived one year longer he would have conquered France. He holds that
Charles the First was a Papist. He allows there were some good men in
the reign of queen Anne, but the peace of Utrecht brought a blast upon
the nation, and has been the cause of all the evil that we have suffered
to the present hour. He believes that the scheme of the South Sea was
well intended, but that it miscarried by the influence of France. He
considers a standing army as the bulwark of liberty, thinks us secured
from corruption by septennial parliaments, relates how we are enriched
and strengthened by the electoral dominions, and declares that the
publick debt is a blessing to the nation.

Yet, amidst all this prosperity, poor Jack is hourly disturbed by the
dread of Popery. He wonders that some stricter laws are not made against
Papists, and is sometimes afraid that they are busy with French gold
among the bishops and judges.

He cannot believe that the Nonjurors are so quiet for nothing, they must
certainly be forming some plot for the establishment of Popery; he does
not think the present oaths sufficiently binding, and wishes that some
better security could be found for the succession of Hanover. He is
zealous for the naturalization of foreign Protestants, and rejoiced at
the admission of the Jews to the English privileges, because he thought
a Jew would never be a Papist.




No. 11. SATURDAY, JUNE 24, 1758.

 --_Nec te quaesiveris extra_.    PERS.

It is commonly observed, that when two Englishmen meet, their first talk
is of the weather; they are in haste to tell each other, what each must
already know, that it is hot or cold, bright or cloudy, windy or calm.

There are, among the numerous lovers of subtilties and paradoxes, some
who derive the civil institutions of every country from its climate, who
impute freedom and slavery to the temperature of the air, can fix the
meridian of vice and virtue, and tell at what degree of latitude we are
to expect courage or timidity, knowledge or ignorance.

From these dreams of idle speculation, a slight survey of life, and a
little knowledge of history, are sufficient to awaken any inquirer,
whose ambition of distinction has not overpowered his love of truth.
Forms of government are seldom the result of much deliberation; they are
framed by chance in popular assemblies, or in conquered countries, by
despotick authority. Laws are often occasional, often capricious, made
always by a few, and sometimes by a single voice. Nations have changed
their characters; slavery is now no where more patiently endured, than
in countries once inhabited by the zealots of liberty.

But national customs can arise only from general agreement; they are not
imposed, but chosen, and are continued only by the continuance of their
cause. An Englishman's notice of the weather is the natural consequence
of changeable skies and uncertain seasons. In many parts of the world,
wet weather and dry are regularly expected at certain periods; but in
our island every man goes to sleep, unable to guess whether he shall
behold in the morning a bright or cloudy atmosphere, whether his rest
shall be lulled by a shower, or broken by a tempest. We therefore
rejoice mutually at good weather, as at an escape from something that we
feared; and mutually complain of bad, as of the loss of something that
we hoped.

Such is the reason of our practice; and who shall treat it with
contempt? Surely not the attendant on a court, whose business is to
watch the looks of a being weak and foolish as himself, and whose vanity
is to recount the names of men, who might drop into nothing, and leave
no vacuity; nor the proprietor of funds, who stops his acquaintance in
the street to tell him of the loss of half-a-crown; nor the inquirer
after news, who fills his head with foreign events, and talks of
skirmishes and sieges, of which no consequence will ever reach his
hearers or himself. The weather is a nobler and more interesting
subject; it is the present state of the skies, and of the earth, on
which plenty and famine are suspended, on which millions depend for the
necessaries of life.

The weather is frequently mentioned for another reason, less honourable
to my dear countrymen. Our dispositions too frequently change with the
colour of the sky; and when we find ourselves cheerful and good-natured,
we naturally pay our acknowledgments to the powers of sunshine; or, if
we sink into dulness and peevishness, look round the horizon for an
excuse, and charge our discontent upon an easterly wind or a cloudy day.

Surely nothing is more reproachful to a being endowed with reason, than
to resign its powers to the influence of the air, and live in dependence
on the weather and the wind, for the only blessings which nature has put
into our power, tranquillity and benevolence. To look up to the sky for
the nutriment of our bodies, is the condition of nature; to call upon
the sun for peace and gaiety, or deprecate the clouds lest sorrow should
overwhelm us, is the cowardice of idleness, and the idolatry of folly.

Yet even in this age of inquiry and knowledge, when superstition is
driven away, and omens and prodigies have lost their terrours, we find
this folly countenanced by frequent examples. Those that laugh at the
portentous glare of a comet, and hear a crow with equal tranquillity
from the right or left, will yet talk of times and situations proper for
intellectual performances, will imagine the fancy exalted by vernal
breezes, and the reason invigorated by a bright calm.

If men who have given up themselves to fanciful credulity would confine
their conceits in their own minds, they might regulate their lives by
the barometer, with inconvenience only to themselves; but to fill the
world with accounts of intellects subject to ebb and flow, of one genius
that awakened in the spring, and another that ripened in the autumn, of
one mind expanded in the summer, and of another concentrated in the
winter, is no less dangerous than to tell children of bugbears and
goblins. Fear will find every house haunted; and idleness will wait for
ever for the moment of illumination.

This distinction of seasons is produced only by imagination operating on
luxury. To temperance every day is bright, and every hour is propitious
to diligence. He that shall resolutely excite his faculties, or exert
his virtues, will soon make himself superior to the seasons, and may set
at defiance the morning mist, and the evening damp, the blasts of the
east, and the clouds of the south.

It was the boast of the Stoick philosophy, to make man unshaken by
calamity, and unelated by success, incorruptible by pleasure, and
invulnerable by pain; these are heights of wisdom which none ever
attained, and to which few can aspire; but there are lower degrees of
constancy necessary to common virtue; and every man, however he may
distrust himself in the extremes of good or evil, might at least
struggle against the tyranny of the climate, and refuse to enslave his
virtue or his reason to the most variable of all variations, the changes
of the weather.




No. 12. SATURDAY, JULY 1, 1758.

That every man is important in his own eyes, is a position of which we
all either voluntarily or unwarily at least once an hour confess the
truth; and it will unavoidably follow, that every man believes himself
important to the publick. The right which this importance gives us to
general notice and visible distinction, is one of those disputable
privileges which we have not always courage to assert; and which we
therefore suffer to lie dormant till some elation of mind, or
vicissitude of fortune, incites us to declare our pretensions and
enforce our demands. And hopeless as the claim of vulgar characters may
seem to the supercilious and severe, there are few who do not at one
time or other endeavour to step forward beyond their rank; who do not
make some struggles for fame, and show that they think all other
conveniencies and delights imperfectly enjoyed without a name.

To get a name, can happen but to few. A name, even in the most
commercial nation, is one of the few things which cannot be bought. It
is the free gift of mankind, which must be deserved before it will be
granted, and is at last unwillingly bestowed. But this unwillingness
only increases desire in him who believes his merit sufficient to
overcome it.

There is a particular period of life, in which this fondness for a name
seems principally to predominate in both sexes. Scarce any couple comes
together but the nuptials are declared in the newspapers with encomiums
on each party. Many an eye, ranging over the page with eager curiosity
in quest of statesmen and heroes, is stopped by a marriage celebrated
between Mr. Buckram, an eminent salesman in Threadneedle-street, and
Miss Dolly Juniper, the only daughter of an eminent distiller, of the
parish of St. Giles's in the Fields, a young lady adorned with every
accomplishment that can give happiness to the married state. Or we are
told, amidst our impatience for the event of a battle, that on a certain
day Mr. Winker, a tide-waiter at Yarmouth, was married to Mrs. Cackle, a
widow lady of great accomplishments, and that as soon as the ceremony
was performed they set out in a post-chaise for Yarmouth.

Many are the inquiries which such intelligence must undoubtedly raise,
but nothing in this world is lasting. When the reader has contemplated
with envy, or with gladness, the felicity of Mr. Buckram and Mr. Winker,
and ransacked his memory for the names of Juniper and Cackle, his
attention is diverted to other thoughts, by finding that Mirza will not
cover this season; or that a spaniel has been lost or stolen, that
answers to the name of Ranger.

Whence it arises that on the day of marriage all agree to call thus
openly for honours, I am not able to discover. Some, perhaps, think it
kind, by a publick declaration, to put an end to the hopes of rivalry
and the fears of jealousy, to let parents know that they may set their
daughters at liberty whom they have locked up for fear of the
bridegroom, or to dismiss to their counters and their offices the
amorous youths that had been used to hover round the dwelling of the
bride.

These connubial praises may have another cause. It may be the intention
of the husband and wife to dignify themselves in the eyes of each other,
and, according to their different tempers or expectations, to win
affection, or enforce respect.

It was said of the family of Lucas, that it was _noble_, for _all the
brothers were valiant, and all the sisters were virtuous_. What would a
stranger say of the _English_ nation, in which on the day of marriage
all the men are _eminent_, and all the women _beautiful, accomplished_,
and _rich_?

How long the wife will be persuaded of the eminence of her husband, or
the husband continue to believe that his wife has the qualities required
to make marriage happy, may reasonably be questioned. I am afraid that
much time seldom passes before each is convinced that praises are
fallacious, and particularly those praises which we confer upon
ourselves.

I should therefore think, that this custom might be omitted without any
loss to the community; and that the sons and daughters of lanes and
alleys might go hereafter to the next church, with no witnesses of their
worth or happiness but their parents and their friends; but if they
cannot be happy on the bridal day without some gratification of their
vanity, I hope they will be willing to encourage a friend of mine who
proposes to devote his powers to their service.

Mr. Settle, a man whose _eminence_ was once allowed by the _eminent_,
and whose _accomplishments_ were confessed by the _accomplished_, in the
latter part of a long life supported himself by an uncommon expedient.
He had a standing elegy and epithalamium, of which only the first and
last were leaves varied occasionally, and the intermediate pages were,
by general terms, left applicable alike to every character. When any
marriage became known, Settle ran to the bridegroom with his
epithalamium; and when he heard of any death, ran to the heir with his
elegy.

Who can think himself disgraced by a trade that was practised so long by
the rival of Dryden, by the poet whose "Empress of Morocco" was played
before princes by ladies of the court?

My friend purposes to open an office in the Fleet for matrimonial
panegyricks, and will accommodate all with praise who think their own
powers of expression inadequate to their merit. He will sell any man or
woman the virtue or qualification which is most fashionable or most
desired; but desires his customers to remember, that he sets beauty at
the highest price, and riches at the next, and, if he be well paid,
throws in virtue for nothing.




No. 13. SATURDAY, JULY 8, 1758.

TO THE IDLER.

Dear Mr. Idler,

Though few men of prudence are much inclined to interpose in disputes
between man and wife, who commonly make peace at the expense of the
arbitrator; yet I will venture to lay before you a controversy, by which
the quiet of my house has been long disturbed, and which, unless you can
decide it, is likely to produce lasting evils, and embitter those hours
which nature seems to have appropriated to tenderness and repose.

I married a wife with no great fortune, but of a family remarkable for
domestick prudence, and elegant frugality. I lived with her at ease, if
not with happiness, and seldom had any reason of complaint. The house
was always clean, the servants were active and regular, dinner was on
the table every day at the same minute, and the ladies of the
neighbourhood were frightened when I invited their husbands, lest their
own economy should be less esteemed.

During this gentle lapse of life, my dear brought me three daughters. I
wished for a son, to continue the family; but my wife often tells me,
that boys are dirty things, and are always troublesome in a house; and
declares that she has hated the sight of them ever since she saw lady
Fondle's eldest son ride over a carpet with his hobby-horse all mire.

I did not much attend to her opinion, but knew that girls could not be
made boys; and therefore composed myself to bear what I could not
remedy, and resolved to bestow that care on my daughters, to which only
the sons are commonly thought entitled.

But my wife's notions of education differ widely from mine. She is an
irreconcilable enemy to idleness, and considers every state of life as
idleness, in which the hands are not employed, or some art acquired, by
which she thinks money may be got or saved.

In pursuance of this principle, she calls up her daughters at a certain
hour, and appoints them a task of needlework to be performed before
breakfast. They are confined in a garret, which has its window in the
roof, both because work is best done at a sky-light, and because
children are apt to lose time by looking about them.

They bring down their work to breakfast, and as they deserve are
commended or reproved; they are then sent up with a new task till
dinner; if no company is expected, their mother sits with them the whole
afternoon, to direct their operations, and to draw patterns, and is
sometimes denied to her nearest relations when she is engaged in
teaching them a new stitch.

By this continual exercise of their diligence, she has obtained a very
considerable number of laborious performances. We have twice as many
fire-skreens as chimneys, and three flourished quilts for every bed.
Half the rooms are adorned with a kind of _sutile pictures_, which
imitate tapestry. But all their work is not set out to show; she has
boxes filled with knit garters and braided shoes. She has twenty covers
for side-saddles embroidered with silver flowers, and has curtains
wrought with gold in various figures, which she resolves some time or
other to hang up. All these she displays to her company whenever she is
elate with merit, and eager for praise; and amidst the praises which her
friends and herself bestow upon her merit, she never fails to turn to
me, and ask what all these would cost, if I had been to buy them.

I sometimes venture to tell her, that many of the ornaments are
superfluous; that what is done with so much labour might have been
supplied by a very easy purchase; that the work is not always worth the
materials; and that I know not why the children should be persecuted
with useless tasks, or obliged to make shoes that are never worn. She
answers with a look of contempt, that men never care how money goes, and
proceeds to tell of a dozen new chairs for which she is contriving
covers, and of a couch which she intends to stand as a monument of
needle-work.

In the mean time, the girls grow up in total ignorance of every thing
past, present, and future. Molly asked me the other day, whether Ireland
was in France, and was ordered by her mother to mend her hem. Kitty
knows not, at sixteen, the difference between a Protestant and a Papist,
because she has been employed three years in filling the side of a
closet with a hanging that is to represent Cranmer in the flames. And
Dolly, my eldest girl, is now unable to read a chapter in the Bible,
having spent all the time, which other children pass at school, in
working the interview between Solomon and the queen of Sheba.

About a month ago, Tent and Turkey-stitch seemed at a stand; my wife
knew not what new work to introduce; I ventured to propose that the
girls should now learn to read and write, and mentioned the necessity of
a little arithmetick; but, unhappily, my wife has discovered that linen
wears out, and has bought the girls three little wheels, that they may
spin huckaback for the servants' table. I remonstrated, that with larger
wheels they might despatch in an hour what must now cost them a day; but
she told me, with irresistible authority, that any business is better
than idleness; that when these wheels are set upon a table, with mats
under them, they will turn without noise, and keep the girls upright;
that great wheels are not fit for gentlewomen; and that with these,
small as they are, she does not doubt but that the three girls, if they
are kept close, will spin every year as much cloth as would cost five
pounds if one were to buy it.



No 14. SATURDAY, JULY 15, 1758.

When Diogenes received a visit in his tub from Alexander the Great, and
was asked, according to the ancient forms of royal courtesy, what
petition he had to offer; "I have nothing," said he, "to ask, but that
you would remove to the other side, that you may not, by intercepting
the sunshine, take from me what you cannot give me."

Such was the demand of Diogenes from the greatest monarch of the earth,
which those, who have less power than Alexander, may, with yet more
propriety, apply to themselves. He that does much good, may be allowed
to do sometimes a little harm. But if the opportunities of beneficence
be denied by fortune, innocence should at least be vigilantly preserved.

It is well known, that time once passed never returns; and that the
moment which is lost, is lost for ever. Time therefore ought, above all
other kinds of property, to be free from invasion; and yet there is no
man who does not claim the power of wasting that time which is the right
of others.

This usurpation is so general, that a very small part of the year is
spent by choice; scarcely any thing is done when it is intended, or
obtained when it is desired. Life is continually ravaged by invaders;
one steals away an hour, and another a day; one conceals the robbery by
hurrying us into business, another by lulling us with amusement; the
depredation is continued through a thousand vicissitudes of tumult and
tranquillity, till, having lost all, we can lose no more.

This waste of the lives of men has been very frequently charged upon the
Great, whose followers linger from year to year in expectations, and die
at last with petitions in their hands. Those who raise envy will easily
incur censure. I know not whether statesmen and patrons do not suffer
more reproaches than they deserve, and may not rather themselves
complain, that they are given up a prey to pretensions without merit,
and to importunity without shame.

The truth is, that the inconveniencies of attendance are more lamented
than felt. To the greater number solicitation is its own reward. To be
seen in good company, to talk of familiarities with men of power, to be
able to tell the freshest news, to gratify an inferior circle with
predictions of increase or decline of favour, and to be regarded as a
candidate for high offices, are compensations more than equivalent to
the delay of favours, which, perhaps, he that begs them has hardly
confidence to expect.

A man conspicuous in a high station, who multiplies hopes that he may
multiply dependants, may be considered as a beast of prey, justly
dreaded, but easily avoided; his den is known, and they who would not be
devoured, need not approach it. The great danger of the waste of time is
from caterpillars and moths, who are not resisted, because they are not
feared, and who work on with unheeded mischiefs, and invisible
encroachments.

He, whose rank or merit procures him the notice of mankind, must give up
himself, in a great measure, to the convenience or humour of those who
surround him. Every man, who is sick of himself, will fly to him for
relief; he that wants to speak will require him to hear; and he that
wants to hear will expect him to speak. Hour passes after hour, the noon
succeeds to morning, and the evening to noon, while a thousand objects
are forced upon his attention, which he rejects as fast as they are
offered, but which the custom of the world requires to be received with
appearance of regard.

If we will have the kindness of others, we must endure their follies. He
who cannot persuade himself to withdraw from society, must be content to
pay a tribute of his time to a multitude of tyrants; to the loiterer,
who makes appointments which he never keeps; to the consulter, who asks
advice which he never takes; to the boaster, who blusters only to be
praised; to the complainer, who whines only to be pitied; to the
projector, whose happiness is to entertain his friends with expectations
which all but himself know to be vain; to the economist, who tells of
bargains and settlements; to the politician, who predicts the fate of
battles and breach of alliances; to the usurer, who compares the
different funds; and to the talker, who talks only because he loves to
be talking.

To put every man in possession of his own time, and rescue the day from
this succession of usurpers, is beyond my power, and beyond my hope.
Yet, perhaps, some stop might be put to this unmerciful persecution, if
all would seriously reflect, that whoever pays a visit that is not
desired, or talks longer than the hearer is willing to attend, is guilty
of an injury which he cannot repair, and takes away that which he cannot
give.




No. 15. SATURDAY, JULY 22, 1758.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

I have the misfortune to be a man of business; that, you will say, is a
most grievous one; but what makes it the more so to me, is, that my wife
has nothing to do: at least she had too good an education, and the
prospect of too good a fortune in reversion when I married her, to think
of employing herself either in my shop-affairs, or the management of my
family.

Her time, you know, as well as my own, must be filled up some way or
other. For my part, I have enough to mind in weighing my goods out, and
waiting on my customers: but my wife, though she could be of as much use
as a shopman to me, if she would put her hand to it, is now only in my
way. She walks all the morning sauntering about the shop with her arms
through her pocket-holes or stands gaping at the door-sill, and looking
at every person that passes by. She is continually asking me a thousand
frivolous questions about every customer that comes in and goes out; and
all the while that I am entering any thing in my day-book, she is
lolling over the counter, and staring at it, as if I was only scribbling
or drawing figures for her amusement. Sometimes, indeed, she will take a
needle; but as she always works at the door, or in the middle of the
shop, she has so many interruptions, that she is longer hemming a towel,
or darning a stocking, than I am in breaking forty loaves of sugar, and
making it up into pounds.

In the afternoons I am sure likewise to have her company, except she is
called upon by some of her acquaintance: and then, as we let out all the
upper part of our house, and have only a little room backwards for
ourselves, they either keep such a chattering, or else are calling out
every moment to me, that I cannot mind my business for them.

My wife, I am sure, might do all the little matters our family requires;
and I could wish that she would employ herself in them; but, instead of
that, we have a girl to do the work, and look after a little boy about
two years old, which, I may fairly say, is the mother's own child. The
brat must be humoured in every thing: he is therefore suffered
constantly to play in the shop, pull all the goods about, and clamber up
the shelves to get at the plums and sugar. I dare not correct him;
because, if I did, I should have wife and maid both upon me at once. As
to the latter, she is as lazy and sluttish as her mistress; and because
she complains she has too much work, we can scarcely get her to do any
thing at all: nay, what is worse than that, I am afraid she is hardly
honest; and as she is intrusted to buy-in all our provisions, the jade,
I am sure, makes a market-penny out of every article.

But to return to my deary.--The evenings are the only time, when it is
fine weather, that I am left to myself; for then she generally takes the
child out to give it milk in the Park. When she comes home again, she is
so fatigued with walking, that she cannot stir from her chair: and it is
an hour, after shop is shut, before I can get a bit of supper, while the
maid is taken up in undressing and putting the child to bed.

But you will pity me much more, when I tell you the manner in which we
generally pass our Sundays. In the morning she is commonly too ill to
dress herself to go to church; she therefore never gets up till noon;
and, what is still more vexatious, keeps me in bed with her, when I
ought to be busily engaged in better employment. It is well if she can
get her things on by dinner-time; and, when that is over, I am sure to
be dragged out by her either to Georgia, or Hornsey Wood, or the White
Conduit House. Yet even these near excursions are so very fatiguing to
her, that, besides what it costs me in tea and hot rolls, and sillabubs,
and cakes for the boy, I am frequently forced to take a hackney-coach,
or drive them out in a one-horse chair. At other times, as my wife is
rather of the fattest, and a very poor walker, besides bearing her whole
weight upon my arm, I am obliged to carry the child myself.

Thus, Sir, does she constantly drawl out her time, without either profit
or satisfaction; and, while I see my neighbours' wives helping in the
shop, and almost earning as much as their husbands, I have the
mortification to find that mine is nothing but a dead weight upon me. In
short, I do not know any greater misfortune can happen to a plain
hard-working tradesman, as I am, than to be joined to such a woman, who
is rather a clog than a helpmate to him.

I am, Sir,
Your humble servant,

ZACHARY TREACLE.[1]

[1]An unknown correspondent.




No. 16. SATURDAY, JULY 29, 1758.

I paid a visit yesterday to my old friend Ned Drugget, at his
country-lodgings. Ned began trade with a very small fortune; he took a
small house in an obscure street, and for some years dealt only in
remnants. Knowing that _light gains make a heavy purse_, he was content
with moderate profit: having observed or heard the effects of civility,
he bowed down to the counter-edge at the entrance and departure of every
customer, listened without impatience to the objections of the ignorant,
and refused without resentment the offers of the penurious. His only
recreation was to stand at his own door and look into the street. His
dinner was sent him from a neighbouring alehouse, and he opened and shut
the shop at a certain hour with his own hands.

His reputation soon extended from one end of the street to the other;
and Mr. Drugget's exemplary conduct was recommended by every master to
his apprentice, and by every father to his son. Ned was not only
considered as a thriving trader, but as a man of elegance and
politeness, for he was remarkably neat in his dress, and would wear his
coat threadbare without spotting it; his hat was always brushed, his
shoes glossy, his wig nicely curled, and his stockings without a
wrinkle. With such qualifications it was not very difficult for him to
gain the heart of Miss Comfit, the only daughter of Mr. Comfit the
confectioner.

Ned is one of those whose happiness marriage has increased. His wife had
the same disposition with himself; and his method of life was very
little changed, except that he dismissed the lodgers from the first
floor, and took the whole house into his own hands.

He had already, by his parsimony, accumulated a considerable sum, to
which the fortune of his wife was now added. From this time he began to
grasp at greater acquisitions, and was always ready, with money in his
hand, to pick up the refuse of a sale, or to buy the stock of a trader
who retired from business. He soon added his parlour to his shop, and
was obliged a few months afterwards to hire a warehouse.

He had now a shop splendidly and copiously furnished with every thing
that time had injured, or fashion had degraded, with fragments of
tissues, odd yards of brocade, vast bales of faded silk, and innumerable
boxes of antiquated ribbons. His shop was soon celebrated through all
quarters of the town, and frequented by every form of ostentatious
poverty. Every maid, whose misfortune it was to be taller than her lady,
matched her gown at Mr. Drugget's; and many a maiden, who had passed a
winter with her aunt in London, dazzled the rusticks, at her return,
with cheap finery which Drugget had supplied. His shop was often visited
in a morning by ladies who left their coaches in the next street, and
crept through the alley in linen gowns. Drugget knows the rank of his
customers by their bashfulness; and, when he finds them unwilling to be
seen, invites them up stairs, or retires with them to the back window.

I rejoiced at the increasing prosperity of my friend, and imagined that,
as he grew rich, he was growing happy. His mind has partaken the
enlargement of his fortune. When I stepped in for the first five years,
I was welcomed only with a shake of the hand; in the next period of his
life, he beckoned across the way for a pot of beer; but for six years
past, he invites me to dinner; and, if he bespeaks me the day before,
never fails to regale me with a fillet of veal.

His riches neither made him uncivil nor negligent; he rose at the same
hour, attended with the same assiduity, and bowed with the same
gentleness. But for some years he has been much inclined to talk of the
fatigues of business, and the confinement of a shop, and to wish that he
had been so happy as to have renewed his uncle's lease of a farm, that
he might have lived without noise and hurry, in a pure air, in the
artless society of honest villagers, and the contemplation of the works
of nature.

I soon discovered the cause of my friend's philosophy. He thought
himself grown rich enough to have a lodging in the country, like the
mercers on Ludgate-hill, and was resolved to enjoy himself in the
decline of life. This was a revolution not to be made suddenly. He
talked three years of the pleasures of the country, but passed every
night over his own shop. But at last he resolved to be happy, and hired
a lodging in the country, that he may steal some hours in the week from
business; for, says he, _when a man advances in life, he loves to
entertain himself sometimes with his own thoughts._

I was invited to this seat of quiet and contemplation, among those whom
Mr. Drugget considers as his most reputable friends, and desires to make
the first witnesses of his elevation to the highest dignities of a
shopkeeper. I found him at Islington, in a room which overlooked the
high road, amusing himself with looking through the window, which the
clouds of dust would not suffer him to open. He embraced me, told me I
was welcome into the country, and asked me if I did not feel myself
refreshed. He then desired that dinner might be hastened, for fresh air
always sharpened his appetite, and ordered me a toast and a glass of
wine after my walk. He told me much of the pleasures he found in
retirement, and wondered what had kept him so long out of the country.
After dinner company came in, and Mr. Drugget again repeated the praises
of the country, recommended the pleasures of meditation, and told them
that he had been all the morning at the window, counting the carriages
as they passed before him.




No. 17. SATURDAY, AUGUST 5, 1758.

  _Surge tandem Carnifex_[1]. MAECENAS AD AUGUSTUM.

The rainy weather, which has continued the last month, is said to have
given great disturbance to the inspectors of barometers. The oraculous
glasses have deceived their votaries; shower has succeeded shower,
though they predicted sunshine and dry skies; and, by fatal confidence
in these fallacious promises, many coats have lost their gloss, and many
curls been moistened to flaccidity.

This is one of the distresses to which mortals subject themselves by the
pride of speculation. I had no part in this learned disappointment, who
am content to credit my senses, and to believe that rain will fall when
the air blackens, and that the weather will be dry when the sun is
bright. My caution, indeed, does not always preserve me from a shower.
To be wet may happen to the genuine Idler; but to be wet in opposition
to theory, can befall only the Idler that pretends to be busy. Of those
that spin out life in trifles and die without a memorial, many flatter
themselves with high opinions of their own importance, and imagine that
they are every day adding some improvement to human life. To be idle and
to be poor have always been reproaches, and therefore every man
endeavours, with his utmost care, to hide his poverty from others, and
his idleness from himself.

Among those whom I never could persuade to rank themselves with Idlers,
and who speak with indignation of my morning sleeps and nocturnal
rambles; one passes the day in catching spiders, that he may count their
eyes with a microscope; another erects his head, and exhibits the dust
of a marigold separated from the flower with a dexterity worthy of
Leuwenhoeck himself. Some turn the wheel of electricity; some suspend
rings to a load-stone, and find that what they did yesterday they can do
again to-day. Some register the changes of the wind, and die fully
convinced that the wind is changeable.

There are men yet more profound, who have heard that two colourless
liquors may produce a colour by union, and that two cold bodies will
grow hot if they are mingled; they mingle them, and produce the effect
expected, say it is strange, and mingle them again.

The Idlers that sport only with inanimate nature may claim some
indulgence; if they are useless, they are still innocent: but there are
others, whom I know not how to mention without more emotion than my love
of quiet willingly admits. Among the inferior professors of medical
knowledge, is a race of wretches, whose lives are only varied by
varieties of cruelty; whose favourite amusement is to nail dogs to
tables and open them alive; to try how long life may be continued in
various degrees of mutilation, or with the excision or laceration of the
vital parts; to examine whether burning irons are felt more acutely by
the bone or tendon; and whether the more lasting agonies are produced by
poison forced into the mouth, or injected into the veins.

It is not without reluctance that I offend the sensibility of the tender
mind with images like these. If such cruelties were not practised, it
were to be desired that they should not be conceived; but, since they
are published every day with ostentation, let me be allowed once to
mention them, since I mention them with abhorrence.

Mead has invidiously remarked of Woodward, that he gathered shells and
stones, and would pass for a philosopher. With pretensions much less
reasonable, the anatomical novice tears out the living bowels of an
animal, and styles himself physician, prepares himself by familiar
cruelty for that profession which he is to exercise upon the tender and
the helpless, upon feeble bodies and broken minds, and by which he has
opportunities to extend his arts of torture, and continue those
experiments upon infancy and age, which he has hitherto tried upon cats
and dogs.

What is alleged in defence of these hateful practices, every one knows;
but the truth is, that by knives, fire, and poison, knowledge is not
always sought, and is very seldom attained. The experiments that have
been tried, are tried again; he that burned an animal with irons
yesterday, will be willing to amuse himself with burning another
to-morrow. I know not, that by living dissections any discovery has been
made by which a single malady is more easily cured. And if the knowledge
of physiology has been somewhat increased, he surely buys knowledge
dear, who learns the use of the lacteals at the expense of his humanity.
It is time that universal resentment should arise against these horrid
operations, which tend to harden the heart, extinguish those sensations
which give man confidence in man, and make the physician more dreadful
than the gout or stone.

[1] Dr. Johnson gave this, among other mottos, to Mrs. Piozzi. They will
    be inserted in this Edition in their proper places, and indicated by
    an asterisk. See Mrs. Piozzi's Anecdotes, and Chalmers' British
    Essayists, vol. 33.




No. 18. SATURDAY, AUGUST 12, 1758.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

It commonly happens to him who endeavours to obtain distinction by
ridicule or censure, that he teaches others to practise his own arts
against himself; and that, after a short enjoyment of the applause paid
to his sagacity, or of the mirth excited by his wit, he is doomed to
suffer the same severities of scrutiny, to hear inquiry detecting his
faults, and exaggeration sporting with his failings.

The natural discontent of inferiority will seldom fail to operate in
some degree of malice against him who professes to superintend the
conduct of others, especially if he seats himself uncalled in the chair
of judicature, and exercises authority by his own commission.

You cannot, therefore, wonder that your observations on human folly, if
they produce laughter at one time, awaken criticism at another; and that
among the numbers whom you have taught to scoff at the retirement of
Drugget, there is one who offers his apology.

The mistake of your old friend is by no means peculiar. The publick
pleasures of far the greater part of mankind are counterfeit. Very few
carry their philosophy to places of diversion, or are very careful to
analyze their enjoyments. The general condition of life is so full of
misery, that we are glad to catch delight without inquiring whence it
comes, or by what power it is bestowed.

The mind is seldom quickened to very vigorous operations but by pain, or
the dread of pain. We do not disturb ourselves with the detection of
fallacies which do us no harm, nor willingly decline a pleasing effect
to investigate its cause. He that is happy, by whatever means, desires
nothing but the continuance of happiness, and is no more solicitous to
distribute his sensations into their proper species, than the common
gazer on the beauties of the spring to separate light into its original
rays.

Pleasure is therefore seldom such as it appears to others, nor often
such as we represent it to ourselves. Of the ladies that sparkle at a
musical performance, a very small number has any quick sensibility of
harmonious sounds. But every one that goes has her pleasure. She has the
pleasure of wearing fine clothes, and of showing them, of outshining
those whom she suspects to envy her; she has the pleasure of appearing
among other ladies in a place whither the race of meaner mortals seldom
intrudes, and of reflecting that, in the conversations of the next
morning, her name will be mentioned among those that sat in the first
row; she has the pleasure of returning courtesies, or refusing to return
them, of receiving compliments with civility, or rejecting them with
disdain. She has the pleasure of meeting some of her acquaintance, of
guessing why the rest are absent, and of telling them that she saw the
opera, on pretence of inquiring why they would miss it. She has the
pleasure of being supposed to be pleased with a refined amusement, and
of hoping to be numbered among the votaresses of harmony. She has the
pleasure of escaping for two hours the superiority of a sister, or the
control of a husband; and from all these pleasures she concludes, that
heavenly musick is the balm of life.

All assemblies of gaiety are brought together by motives of the same
kind. The theatre is not filled with those that know or regard the skill
of the actor, nor the ball-room by those who dance, or attend to the
dancers. To all places of general resort, where the standard of pleasure
is erected, we run with equal eagerness, or appearance of eagerness, for
very different reasons. One goes that he may say he has been there,
another because he never misses. This man goes to try what he can find,
and that to discover what others find. Whatever diversion is costly will
be frequented by those who desire to be thought rich; and whatever has,
by any accident, become fashionable, easily continues its reputation,
because every one is ashamed of not partaking it.

To every place of entertainment we go with expectation and desire of
being pleased; we meet others who are brought by the same motives; no
one will be the first to own the disappointment; one face reflects the
smile of another, till each believes the rest delighted, and endeavours
to catch and transmit the circulating rapture. In time all are deceived
by the cheat to which all contribute. The fiction of happiness is
propagated by every tongue, and confirmed by every look, till at last
all profess the joy which they do not feel, consent to yield to the
general delusion; and when the voluntary dream is at an end, lament that
bliss is of so short a duration.

If Drugget pretended to pleasures of which he had no perception, or
boasted of one amusement where he was indulging another, what did he
which is not done by all those who read his story? of whom some pretend
delight in conversation, only because they dare not be alone; some
praise the quiet of solitude, because they are envious of sense, and
impatient of folly; and some gratify their pride, by writing characters
which expose the vanity of life.

I am, Sir,

Your humble servant.




No. 19. SATURDAY, AUGUST 19, 1758.

Some of those ancient sages that have exercised their abilities in the
inquiry after the supreme good, have been of opinion, that the highest
degree of earthly happiness is quiet; a calm repose both of mind and
body, undisturbed by the sight of folly or the noise of business, the
tumults of publick commotion, or the agitations of private interest: a
state in which the mind has no other employment, but to observe and
regulate her own motions, to trace thought from thought, combine one
image with another, raise systems of science, and form theories of
virtue.

To the scheme of these solitary speculatists, it has been justly
objected, that if they are happy, they are happy only by being useless.
That mankind is one vast republick, where every individual receives many
benefits from the labours of others, which, by labouring in his turn for
others, he is obliged to repay; and that where the united efforts of all
are not able to exempt all from misery, none have a right to withdraw
from their task of vigilance, or to be indulged in idle wisdom or
solitary pleasures.

It is common for controvertists, in the heat of disputation, to add one
position to another till they reach the extremities of knowledge, where
truth and falsehood lose their distinction. Their admirers follow them
to the brink of absurdity, and then start back from each side towards
the middle point. So it has happened in this great disquisition. Many
perceive alike the force of the contrary arguments, find quiet shameful,
and business dangerous, and therefore pass their lives between them, in
bustle without business, and negligence without quiet.

Among the principal names of this moderate set is that great philosopher
Jack Whirler, whose business keeps him in perpetual motion, and whose
motion always eludes his business; who is always to do what he never
does, who cannot stand still because he is wanted in another place, and
who is wanted in many places because he stays in none.

Jack has more business than he can conveniently transact in one house;
he has therefore one habitation near Bow-church, and another about a
mile distant. By this ingenious distribution of himself between two
houses, Jack has contrived to be found at neither. Jack's trade is
extensive, and he has many dealers; his conversation is sprightly, and
he has many companions; his disposition is kind, and he has many
friends. Jack neither forbears pleasure for business, nor omits business
for pleasure, but is equally invisible to his friends and his customers;
to him that comes with an invitation to a club, and to him that waits to
settle an account.

When you call at his house, his clerk tells you that Mr. Whirler has
just stept out, but will be at home exactly at two; you wait at a
coffee-house till two, and then find that he has been at home, and is
gone out again, but left word that he should be at the Half-moon tavern
at seven, where he hopes to meet you. At seven you go to the tavern. At
eight in comes Mr. Whirler to tell you that he is glad to see you, and
only begs leave to run for a few minutes to a gentleman that lives near
the Exchange, from whom he will return before supper can be ready. Away
he runs to the Exchange, to tell those who are waiting for him that he
must beg them to defer the business till to-morrow, because his time is
come at the Half-moon.

Jack's cheerfulness and civility rank him among those whose presence
never gives pain, and whom all receive with fondness and caresses. He
calls often on his friends, to tell them that he will come again
to-morrow; on the morrow he comes again, to tell them how an unexpected
summons hurries him away.--When he enters a house, his first declaration
is, that he cannot sit down; and so short are his visits, that he seldom
appears to have come for any other reason, but to say, He must go.

The dogs of Egypt, when thirst brings them to the Nile, are said to run
as they drink for fear of the crocodiles. Jack Whirler always dines at
full speed. He enters, finds the family at table, sits familiarly down,
and fills his plate; but while the first morsel is in his mouth, hears
the clock strike, and rises; then goes to another house, sits down
again, recollects another engagement, has only time to taste the soup,
makes a short excuse to the company, and continues through another
street his desultory dinner.

But, overwhelmed as he is with business, his chief desire is to have
still more. Every new proposal takes possession of his thoughts; he soon
balances probabilities, engages in the project, brings it almost to
completion, and then forsakes it for another, which he catches with the
same alacrity, urges with the same vehemence, and abandons with the same
coldness.

Every man may be observed to have a certain strain of lamentation, some
peculiar theme of complaint, on which he dwells in his moments of
dejection. Jack's topick of sorrow is the want of time. Many an
excellent design languishes in empty theory for want of time. For the
omission of any civilities, want of time is his plea to others; for the
neglect of any affairs, want of time is his excuse to himself. That he
wants time, he sincerely believes; for he once pined away many months
with a lingering distemper, for want of time to attend to his health.

Thus Jack Whirler lives in perpetual fatigue without proportionate
advantage, because he does not consider that no man can see all with his
own eyes, or do all with his own hands; that whoever is engaged in
multiplicity of business, must transact much by substitution, and leave
something to hazard; and that he who attempts to do all, will waste his
life in doing little.




No. 20. SATURDAY, AUGUST 26, 1758.

There is no crime more infamous than the violation of truth. It is
apparent that men can be social beings no longer than they believe each
other. When speech is employed only as the vehicle of falsehood, every
man must disunite himself from others, inhabit his own cave, and seek
prey only for himself.

Yet the law of truth, thus sacred and necessary, is broken without
punishment, without censure, in compliance with inveterate prejudice and
prevailing passions. Men are willing to credit what they wish, and
encourage rather those who gratify them with pleasure, than those that
instruct them with fidelity.

For this reason every historian discovers his country; and it is
impossible to read the different accounts of any great event, without a
wish that truth had more power over partiality.

Amidst the joy of my countrymen for the acquisition of Louisbourg, I
could not forbear to consider how differently this revolution of
American power is not only now mentioned by the contending nations, but
will be represented by the writers of another century.

The English historian will imagine himself barely doing justice to
English virtue, when he relates the capture of Louisbourg in the
following manner:

"The English had hitherto seen, with great indignation, their attempts
baffled and their force defied by an enemy, whom they considered
themselves as entitled to conquer by the right of prescription, and whom
many ages of hereditary superiority had taught them to despise. Their
fleets were more numerous, and their seamen braver, than those of
France; yet they only floated useless on the ocean, and the French
derided them from their ports. Misfortunes, as is usual, produced
discontent, the people murmured at the ministers, and the ministers
censured the commanders.

"In the summer of this year, the English began to find their success
answerable to their cause. A fleet and an army were sent to America to
dislodge the enemies from the settlements which they had so perfidiously
made, and so insolently maintained, and to repress that power which was
growing more every day by the association of the Indians, with whom
these degenerate Europeans intermarried, and whom they secured to their
party by presents and promises.

"In the beginning of June the ships of war and vessels containing the
land-forces appeared before Louisbourg, a place so secured by nature
that art was almost superfluous, and yet fortified by art as if nature
had left it open. The French boasted that it was impregnable, and spoke
with scorn of all attempts that could be made against it. The garrison
was numerous, the stores equal to the longest siege, and their engineers
and commanders high in reputation. The mouth of the harbour was so
narrow, that three ships within might easily defend it against all
attacks from the sea. The French had, with that caution which cowards
borrow from fear, and attribute to policy, eluded our fleets, and sent
into that port five great ships and six smaller, of which they sunk four
in the mouth of the passage, having raised batteries and posted troops
at all the places where they thought it possible to make a descent. The
English, however, had more to dread from the roughness of the sea, than
from the skill or bravery of the defendants. Some days passed before the
surges, which rise very high round that island, would suffer them to
land. At last their impatience could be restrained no longer; they got
possession of the shore with little loss by the sea, and with less by
the enemy. In a few days the artillery was landed, the batteries were
raised, and the French had no other hope than to escape from one post to
another. A shot from the batteries fired the powder in one of their
largest ships, the flame spread to the two next, and all three were
destroyed; the English admiral sent his boats against the two large
ships yet remaining, took them without resistance, and terrified the
garrison to an immediate capitulation."

Let us now oppose to this English narrative the relation which will be
produced, about the same time, by the writer of the age of Louis XV.

"About this time the English admitted to the conduct of affairs a man
who undertook to save from destruction that ferocious and turbulent
people, who, from the mean insolence of wealthy traders, and the lawless
confidence of successful robbers, were now sunk in despair and stupified
with horrour. He called in the ships which had been dispersed over the
ocean to guard their merchants, and sent a fleet and an army, in which
almost the whole strength of England was comprised, to secure their
possessions in America, which were endangered alike by the French arms
and the French virtue. We had taken the English fortresses by force, and
gained the Indian nations by humanity. The English, wherever they come,
are sure to have the natives for their enemies; for the only motive of
their settlements is avarice, and the only consequence of their success
is oppression. In this war they acted like other barbarians; and, with a
degree of outrageous cruelty, which the gentleness of our manners
scarcely suffers us to conceive, offered rewards by open proclamation to
those who should bring in the scalps of Indian women and children. A
trader always makes war with the cruelty of a pirate.

"They had long looked with envy and with terrour upon the influence
which the French exerted over all the northern regions of America by the
possession of Louisbourg, a place naturally strong, and new-fortified
with some slight outworks. They hoped to surprise the garrison
unprovided; but that sluggishness, which always defeats their malice,
gave us time to send supplies, and to station ships for the defence of
the harbour. They came before Louisbourg in June, and were for some time
in doubt whether they should land. But the commanders, who had lately
seen an admiral shot for not having done what he had not power to do,
durst not leave the place unassaulted. An Englishman has no ardour for
honour, nor zeal for duty; he neither values glory nor loves his king,
but balances one danger with another, and will fight rather than be
hanged. They therefore landed, but with great loss their engineers had,
in the last war with the French, learned something of the military
science, and made their approaches with sufficient skill; but all their
efforts had been without effect, had not a ball unfortunately fallen
into the powder of one of our ships, which communicated the fire to the
rest, and, by opening the passage of the harbour, obliged the garrison
to capitulate. Thus was Louisbourg lost, and our troops marched out with
the admiration of their enemies, who durst hardly think themselves
masters of the place."




No. 21. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 1758.

TO THE IDLER.

Dear Mr. Idler,

There is a species of misery, or of disease, for which our language is
commonly supposed to be without a name, but which I think is
emphatically enough denominated _listlessness_, and which is commonly
termed a want of something to do.

Of the unhappiness of this state I do not expect all your readers to
have an adequate idea. Many are overburdened with business, and can
imagine no comfort but in rest; many have minds so placid, as willingly
to indulge a voluntary lethargy; or so narrow, as easily to be filled to
their utmost capacity. By these I shall not be understood, and therefore
cannot be pitied. Those only will sympathize with my complaint, whose
imagination is active, and resolution weak, whose desires are ardent,
and whose choice is delicate; who cannot satisfy themselves with
standing still, and yet cannot find a motive to direct their course.

I was the second son of a gentleman, whose estate was barely sufficient
to support himself and his heir in the dignity of killing game. He
therefore made use of the interest which the alliances of his family
afforded him, to procure me a post in the army. I passed some years in
the most contemptible of all human stations, that of a soldier in time
of peace. I wandered with the regiment as the quarters were changed,
without opportunity for business, taste for knowledge, or money for
pleasure. Wherever I came, I was for some time a stranger without
curiosity, and afterwards an acquaintance without friendship. Having
nothing to hope in these places of fortuitous residence, I resigned my
conduct to chance; I had no intention to offend, I had no ambition to
delight.

I suppose every man is shocked when he hears how frequently soldiers are
wishing for war. The wish is not always sincere; the greater part are
content with sleep and lace, and counterfeit an ardour which they do not
feel; but those who desire it most are neither prompted by malevolence
nor patriotism; they neither pant for laurels, nor delight in blood; but
long to be delivered from the tyranny of idleness, and restored to the
dignity of active beings.

I never imagined myself to have more courage than other men, yet was
often involuntarily wishing for a war, but of a war, at that time, I had
no prospect; and being enabled, by the death of an uncle, to live
without my pay, I quitted the army, and resolved to regulate my own
motions.

I was pleased, for a while, with the novelty of independence, and
imagined that I had now found what every man desires. My time was in my
own power, and my habitation was wherever my choice should fix it. I
amused myself for two years in passing from place to place, and
comparing one convenience with another; but being at last ashamed of
inquiry, and weary of uncertainty, I purchased a house, and established
my family.

I now expected to begin to be happy, and was happy for a short time with
that expectation. But I soon perceived my spirits to subside, and my
imagination to grow dark. The gloom thickened every day round me. I
wondered by what malignant power my peace was blasted, till I discovered
at last that I had nothing to do.

Time, with all its celerity, moves slowly to him whose whole employment
is to watch its flight. I am forced upon a thousand shifts to enable me
to endure the tediousness of the day. I rise when I can sleep no longer,
and take my morning-walk; I see what I have seen before, and return. I
sit down, and persuade myself that I sit down to think; find it
impossible to think without a subject, rise up to inquire after news,
and endeavour to kindle in myself an artificial impatience for
intelligence of events, which will never extend any consequence to me,
but that, a few minutes, they abstract me from myself.

When I have heard any thing that may gratify curiosity, I am busied for
a while in running to relate it. I hasten from one place of concourse,
to another, delighted with my own importance, and proud to think that I
am doing something, though I know that another hour would spare my
labour.

I had once a round of visits, which I paid very regularly; but I have
now tired most of my friends. When I have sat down I forget to rise, and
have more than once overheard one asking another, when I would be gone.
I perceive the company tired, I observe the mistress of the family
whispering to her servants, I find orders given to put off business till
to-morrow, I see the watches frequently inspected, and yet cannot
withdraw to the vacuity of solitude, or venture myself in my own
company.

Thus burdensome to myself and others, I form many schemes of employment
which may make my life useful or agreeable, and exempt me from the
ignominy of living by sufferance. This new course I have long designed,
but have not yet begun. The present moment is never proper for the
change, but there is always a time in view when all obstacles will be
removed, and I shall surprise all that know me with a new distribution
of my time. Twenty years have past since I have resolved a complete
amendment, and twenty years have been lost in delays. Age is coming upon
me; and I should look back with rage and despair upon the waste of life,
but that I am now beginning in earnest to begin a reformation.

I am, Sir,
Your humble servant,

DICK LINGER.




No. 22. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1758.

  _Oh nomen dulce libertatis! Oh jus eximium nostra civitatis!_
                                            CICERO.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

As I was passing lately under one of the gates of this city, I was
struck with horrour by a rueful cry, which summoned me _to remember the
poor debtors_.

The wisdom and justice of the English laws are, by Englishmen at least,
loudly celebrated: but scarcely the most zealous admirers of our
institutions can think that law wise, which, when men are capable of
work, obliges them to beg; or just, which exposes the liberty of one to
the passions of another.

The prosperity of a people is proportionate to the number of hands and
minds usefully employed. To the community, sedition is a fever,
corruption is a gangrene, and idleness an atrophy. Whatever body, and
whatever society, wastes more than it acquires, must gradually decay;
and every being that continues to be fed, and ceases to labour, takes
away something from the publick stock.

The confinement, therefore, of any man in the sloth and darkness of a
prison, is a loss to the nation, and no gain to the creditor. For of the
multitudes who are pining in those cells of misery, a very small part is
suspected of any fraudulent act by which they retain what belongs to
others. The rest are imprisoned by the wantonness of pride, the
malignity of revenge, or the acrimony of disappointed expectation.

If those, who thus rigorously exercise the power which the law has put
into their hands, be asked, why they continue to imprison those whom
they know to be unable to pay them; one will answer, that his debtor
once lived better than himself; another, that his wife looked above her
neighbours, and his children went in silk clothes to the dancing-school;
and another, that he pretended to be a joker and a wit. Some will reply,
that if they were in debt, they should meet with the same treatment;
some, that they owe no more than they can pay, and need therefore give
no account of their actions. Some will confess their resolution, that
their debtors shall rot in jail; and some will discover, that they hope,
by cruelty, to wring the payment from their friends.

The end of all civil regulations is to secure private happiness from
private malignity; to keep individuals from the power of one another;
but this end is apparently neglected, when a man, irritated with loss,
is allowed to be the judge of his own cause, and to assign the
punishment of his own pain; when the distinction between guilt and
happiness, between casualty and design, is intrusted to eyes blind with
interest, to understandings depraved by resentment.

Since poverty is punished among us as a crime, it ought at least to be
treated with the same lenity as other crimes; the offender ought not to
languish at the will of him whom he has offended, but to be allowed some
appeal to the justice of his country. There can be no reason why any
debtor should be imprisoned, but that he may be compelled to payment;
and a term should therefore be fixed, in which the creditor should
exhibit his accusation of concealed property. If such property can be
discovered, let it be given to the creditor; if the charge is not
offered, or cannot be proved, let the prisoner be dismissed.

Those who made the laws have apparently supposed, that every deficiency
of payment is the crime of the debtor. But the truth is, that the
creditor always shares the act, and often more than shares the guilt, of
improper trust. It seldom happens that any man imprisons another but for
debts which he suffered to be contracted in hope of advantage to
himself, and for bargains in which he proportioned his profit to his own
opinion of the hazard; and there is no reason why one should punish the
other for a contract in which both concurred.

Many of the inhabitants of prisons may justly complain of harder
treatment. He that once owes more than he can pay, is often obliged to
bribe his creditor to patience, by increasing his debt. Worse and worse
commodities, at a higher and higher price, are forced upon him; he is
impoverished by compulsive traffick, and at last overwhelmed, in the
common receptacles of misery, by debts, which, without his own consent,
were accumulated on his head. To the relief of this distress, no other
objection can be made, but that by an easy dissolution of debts fraud
will be left without punishment, and imprudence without awe; and that
when insolvency should be no longer punishable, credit will cease.

The motive to credit is the hope of advantage. Commerce can never be at
a stop, while one man wants what another can supply; and credit will
never be denied, while it is likely to be repaid with profit. He that
trusts one whom he designs to sue, is criminal by the act of trust: the
cessation of such insidious traffick is to be desired, and no reason can
be given why a change of the law should impair any other.

We see nation trade with nation, where no payment can be compelled.
Mutual convenience produces mutual confidence; and the merchants
continue to satisfy the demands of each other, though they have nothing
to dread but the loss of trade.

It is vain to continue an institution, which experience shows to be
ineffectual. We have now imprisoned one generation of debtors after
another, but we do not find that their numbers lessen. We have now
learned that rashness and imprudence will not be deterred from taking
credit; let us try whether fraud and avarice may be more easily
restrained from giving it[1].

I am, Sir, &c.


[1] This number was substituted, for some reason not ascertained, for
the keenly satirical original, which is reprinted at the end of this
volume.

The observations of the present paper are such as would naturally
suggest themselves to an honest and benevolent mind like Johnson's; but
their political correctness may reasonably be questioned. An attempt has
been made, since his day, to provide a humane protection for the
unfortunate debtor. But has it not, at the same time, exposed the
confiding tradesman to deception and to consequent ruin, by destroying
all adequate punishment, and therefore removing every check upon vice
and prodigality? In a _Dictionnaire des Gens du Monde_, insolvency has
been, not unaptly, defined, a mode of getting rich by infallible rules!
See Idler 38, and Note.




No. 23. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 1758.

Life has no pleasure higher or nobler than that of friendship. It is
painful to consider, that this sublime enjoyment may be impaired or
destroyed by innumerable causes, and that there is no human possession
of which the duration is less certain.

Many have talked, in very exalted language, of the perpetuity of
friendship, of invincible constancy, and unalienable kindness; and some
examples have been seen of men who have continued faithful to their
earliest choice, and whose affection has predominated over changes of
fortune, and contrariety of opinion.

But these instances are memorable, because they are rare. The friendship
which is to be practised or expected by common mortals, must take its
rise from mutual pleasure, and must end when the power ceases of
delighting each other.

Many accidents therefore may happen, by which the ardour of kindness
will be abated, without criminal baseness or contemptible inconstancy on
either part. To give pleasure is not always in our power; and little
does he know himself, who believes that he can be always able to receive
it.

Those who would gladly pass their days together may be separated by the
different course of their affairs; and friendship, like love, is
destroyed by long absence, though it may be increased by short
intermissions. What we have missed long enough to want it, we value more
when it is regained; but that which has been lost till it is forgotten,
will be found at last with little gladness, and with still less if a
substitute has supplied the place. A man deprived of the companion to
whom he used to open his bosom, and with whom he shared the hours of
leisure and merriment, feels the day at first hanging heavy on him; his
difficulties oppress, and his doubts distract him; he sees time come and
go without his wonted gratification, and all is sadness within, and
solitude about him. But this uneasiness never lasts long; necessity
produces expedients, new amusements are discovered, and new conversation
is admitted.

No expectation is more frequently disappointed, than that which
naturally arises in the mind from the prospect of meeting an old friend
after long separation. We expect the attraction to be revived, and the
coalition to be renewed; no man considers how much alteration time has
made in himself, and very few inquire what effect it has had upon
others. The first hour convinces them that the pleasure, which they had
formerly enjoyed, is for ever at an end; different scenes have made
different impressions; the opinions of both are changed; and that
similitude of manners and sentiment is lost, which confirmed them both
in the approbation of themselves.

Friendship is often destroyed by opposition of interest, not only by the
ponderous and visible interest which the desire of wealth and greatness
forms and maintains, but by a thousand secret and slight competitions,
scarcely known to the mind upon which they operate. There is scarcely
any man without some favourite trifle which he values above greater
attainments, some desire of petty praise which he cannot patiently
suffer to be frustrated. This minute ambition is sometimes crossed
before it is known, and sometimes defeated by wanton petulance; but such
attacks are seldom made without the loss of friendship; for whoever has
once found the vulnerable part will always be feared, and the resentment
will burn on in secret, of which shame hinders the discovery.

This, however, is a slow malignity, which a wise man will obviate as
inconsistent with quiet, and a good man will repress as contrary to
virtue; but human happiness is sometimes violated by some more sudden
strokes.

A dispute begun in jest upon a subject which, a moment before, was on
both parts regarded with careless indifference, is continued by the
desire of conquest, till vanity kindles into rage, and opposition
rankles into enmity. Against this hasty mischief, I know not what
security can be obtained: men will be sometimes surprised into quarrels;
and though they might both hasten to reconciliation, as soon as their
tumult had subsided, yet two minds will seldom be found together, which
can at once subdue their discontent, or immediately enjoy the sweets of
peace, without remembering the wounds of the conflict.

Friendship has other enemies. Suspicion is always hardening the
cautious, and disgust repelling the delicate. Very slender differences
will sometimes part those whom long reciprocation of civility or
beneficence has united. Lonelove and Ranger retired into the country to
enjoy the company of each other, and returned in six weeks cold and
petulant; Ranger's pleasure was to walk in the fields, and Lonelove's to
sit in a bower; each had complied with the other in his turn, and each
was angry that compliance had been exacted.

The most fatal disease of friendship is gradual decay, or dislike hourly
increased by causes too slender for complaint, and too numerous for
removal.--Those who are angry may be reconciled; those who have been
injured may receive a recompense: but when the desire of pleasing and
willingness to be pleased is silently diminished, the renovation of
friendship is hopeless; as, when the vital powers sink into languor,
there is no longer any use of the physician.




No. 24. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 30, 1758.

When man sees one of the inferior creatures perched upon a tree, or
basking in the sunshine, without any apparent endeavour or pursuit, he
often asks himself, or his companion, _On what that animal can be
supposed to be thinking_?

Of this question, since neither bird nor beast can answer it, we must be
content to live without the resolution. We know not how much the brutes
recollect of the past, or anticipate of the future; what power they have
of comparing and preferring; or whether their faculties may not rest in
motionless indifference, till they are moved by the presence of their
proper object, or stimulated to act by corporal sensations.

I am the less inclined to these superfluous inquiries, because I have
always been able to find sufficient matter for curiosity in my own
species. It is useless to go far in quest of that which may be found at
home; a very narrow circle of observation will supply a sufficient
number of men and women, who might be asked, with equal propriety, _On
what they can be thinking_?

It is reasonable to believe, that thought, like every thing else, has
its causes and effects; that it must proceed from something known, done,
or suffered; and must produce some action or event. Yet how great is the
number of those in whose minds no source of thought has ever been
opened, in whose life no consequence of thought is ever discovered; who
have learned nothing upon which they can reflect; who have neither seen
nor felt any thing which could leave its traces on the memory; who
neither foresee nor desire any change in their condition, and have
therefore neither fear, hope, nor design, and yet are supposed to be
thinking beings.

To every act a subject is required. He that thinks must think upon
something. But tell me, ye that pierce deepest into nature, ye that take
the widest surveys of life, inform me, kind shades of Malbranche and of
Locke, what that something can be, which excites and continues thought
in maiden aunts with small fortunes; in younger brothers that live upon
annuities; in traders retired from business; in soldiers absent from
their regiments; or in widows that have no children?

Life is commonly considered as either active or contemplative; but
surely this division, how long soever it has been received, is
inadequate and fallacious. There are mortals whose life is certainly not
active, for they do neither good nor evil; and whose life cannot be
properly called contemplative, for they never attend either to the
conduct of men, or the works of nature, but rise in the morning, look
round them till night in careless stupidity, go to bed and sleep, and
rise again in the morning.

It has been lately a celebrated question in the schools of philosophy,
_Whether the soul always thinks_! Some have defined the soul to be the
_power of thinking_; concluded that its essence consists in act; that,
if it should cease to act, it would cease to be; and that cessation of
thought is but another name for extinction of mind. This argument is
subtle, but not conclusive; because it supposes what cannot be proved,
that the nature of mind is properly defined. Others affect to disdain
subtilty, when subtilty will not serve their purpose, and appeal to
daily experience. We spend many hours, they say, in sleep, without the
least remembrance of any thoughts which then passed in our minds; and
since we can only by our own consciousness be sure that we think, why
should we imagine that we have had thought of which no consciousness
remains?

This argument, which appeals to experience, may from experience be
confuted. We every day do something which we forget when it is done, and
know to have been done only by consequence. The waking hours are not
denied to have been passed in thought; yet he that shall endeavour to
recollect on one day the ideas of the former, will only turn the eye of
reflection upon vacancy; he will find that the greater part is
irrevocably vanished, and wonder how the moments could come and go, and
leave so little behind them.

To discover only that the arguments on both sides are defective, and to
throw back the tenet into its former uncertainty, is the sport of wanton
or malevolent skepticism, delighting to see the sons of philosophy at
work upon a task which never can be decided. I shall suggest an argument
hitherto overlooked, which may perhaps determine the controversy.

If it be impossible to think without materials, there must necessarily
be minds that do not always think; and whence shall we furnish materials
for the meditation of the glutton between his meals, of the sportsman in
a rainy month, of the annuitant between the days of quarterly payment,
of the politician when the mails are detained by contrary winds?

But how frequent soever may be the examples of existence without
thought, it is certainly a state not much to be desired. He that lives
in torpid insensibility, wants nothing of a carcass but putrefaction. It
is the part of every inhabitant of the earth to partake the pains and
pleasures of his fellow-beings; and, as in a road through a country
desert and uniform, the traveller languishes for want of amusement, so
the passage of life will be tedious and irksome to him who does not
beguile it by diversified ideas.




No. 25. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 7, 1758.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

I am a very constant frequenter of the playhouse, a place to which I
suppose the _Idler_ not much a stranger, since he can have no where else
so much entertainment with so little concurrence of his own endeavour.
At all other assemblies, he that comes to receive delight, will be
expected to give it; but in the theatre nothing is necessary to the
amusement of two hours, but to sit down and be willing to be pleased.

The last week has offered two new actors to the town. The appearance and
retirement of actors are the great events of the theatrical world; and
their first performances fill the pit with conjecture and
prognostication, as the first actions of a new monarch agitate nations
with hope or fear.

What opinion I have formed of the future excellence of these candidates
for dramatick glory, it is not necessary to declare. Their entrance gave
me a higher and nobler pleasure than any borrowed character can afford.
I saw the ranks of the theatre emulating each other in candour and
humanity, and contending who should most effectually assist the
struggles of endeavour, dissipate the blush of diffidence, and still the
flutter of timidity.

This behaviour is such as becomes a people, too tender to repress those
who wish to please, too generous to insult those who can make no
resistance. A publick performer is so much in the power of spectators,
that all unnecessary severity is restrained by that general law of
humanity, which forbids us to be cruel where there is nothing to be
feared.

In every new performer something must be pardoned. No man can, by any
force of resolution, secure to himself the full possession of his own
powers under the eye of a large assembly. Variation of gesture, and
flexion of voice, are to be obtained only by experience.

There is nothing for which such numbers think themselves qualified as
for theatrical exhibition. Every human being has an action graceful to
his own eye, a voice musical to his own ear, and a sensibility which
nature forbids him to know that any other bosom can excel. An art in
which such numbers fancy themselves excellent, and which the publick
liberally rewards, will excite many competitors, and in many attempts
there must be many miscarriages.

The care of the critick should be to distinguish errour from inability,
faults of inexperience from defects of nature. Action irregular and
turbulent may be reclaimed; vociferation vehement and confused may be
restrained and modulated; the stalk of the tyrant may become the gait of
the man; the yell of inarticulate distress may be reduced to human
lamentation. All these faults should be for a time overlooked, and
afterwards censured with gentleness and candour. But if in an actor
there appears an utter vacancy of meaning, a frigid equality, a stupid
languor, a torpid apathy, the greatest kindness that can be shown him is
a speedy sentence of expulsion.

I am, Sir, &c.

The plea which my correspondent has offered for young actors, I am very
far from wishing to invalidate. I always considered those combinations
which are sometimes formed in the playhouse, as acts of fraud or of
cruelty; he that applauds him who does not deserve praise, is
endeavouring to deceive the publick; he that hisses in malice or sport,
is an oppressor and a robber.

But surely this laudable forbearance might be justly extended to young
poets. The art of the writer, like that of the player, is attained by
slow degrees. The power of distinguishing and discriminating comick
characters, or of filling tragedy with poetical images, must be the gift
of nature, which no instruction nor labour can supply; but the art of
dramatick disposition, the contexture of the scenes, the opposition of
characters, the involution of the plot, the expedients of suspension,
and the stratagems of surprise, are to be learned by practice; and it is
cruel to discourage a poet for ever, because he has not from genius what
only experience can bestow.

Life is a stage. Let me likewise solicit candour for the young actor on
the stage of life. They that enter into the world are too often treated
with unreasonable rigour by those that were once as ignorant and heady
as themselves; and distinction is not always made between the faults
which require speedy and violent eradication, and those that will
gradually drop away in the progression of life. Vicious solicitations of
appetite, if not checked, will grow more importunate; and mean arts of
profit or ambition will gather strength in the mind, if they are not
early suppressed. But mistaken notions of superiority, desires of
useless show, pride of little accomplishments, and all the train of
vanity, will be brushed away by the wing of time.

Reproof should not exhaust its power upon petty failings; let it watch
diligently against the incursion of vice, and leave foppery and futility
to die of themselves.




No. 26 SATURDAY, OCTOBER 14, 1758.

Mr. Idler,

I never thought that I should write any thing to be printed; but having
lately seen your first essay, which was sent down into the kitchen, with
a great bundle of gazettes and useless papers, I find that you are
willing to admit any correspondent, and therefore hope you will not
reject me. If you publish my letter, it may encourage others, in the
same condition with myself, to tell their stories, which may be,
perhaps, as useful as those of great ladies.

I am a poor girl. I was bred in the country at a charity-school,
maintained by the contributions of wealthy neighbours. The ladies, or
patronesses, visited us from time to time, examined how we were taught,
and saw that our clothes were clean. We lived happily enough, and were
instructed to be thankful to those at whose cost we were educated. I was
always the favourite of my mistress; she used to call me to read and
show my copybook to all strangers, who never dismissed me without
commendation, and very seldom without a shilling.

At last the chief of our subscribers, having passed a winter in London,
came down full of an opinion new and strange to the whole country. She
held it little less than criminal to teach poor girls to read and write.
They who are born to poverty, she said, are born to ignorance, and will
work the harder the less they know. She told her friends, that London
was in confusion by the insolence of servants; that scarcely a wench was
to be got for _all work_, since education had made such numbers of fine
ladies; that nobody would now accept a lower title than that of a
waiting-maid, or something that might qualify her to wear laced shoes
and long ruffles, and to sit at work in the parlour window. But she was
resolved, for her part, to spoil no more girls; those, who were to live
by their hands, should neither read nor write out of her pocket; the
world was bad enough already, and she would have no part in making it
worse.

She was for a short time warmly opposed; but she persevered in her
notions, and withdrew her subscription. Few listen without a desire of
conviction to those who advise them to spare their money. Her example
and her arguments gained ground daily; and in less than a year the whole
parish was convinced, that the nation would be ruined, if the children
of the poor were taught to read and write.

Our school was now dissolved: my mistress kissed me when we parted, and
told me, that, being old and helpless, she could not assist me; advised
me to seek a service, and charged me not to forget what I had learned.

My reputation for scholarship, which had hitherto recommended me to
favour, was, by the adherents to the new opinion, considered as a crime;
and, when I offered myself to any mistress, I had no other answer than,
"Sure, child, you would not work! hard work is not fit for a pen-woman;
a scrubbing-brush would spoil your hand, child!"

I could not live at home; and while I was considering to what I should
betake me, one of the girls, who had gone from our school to London,
came down in a silk gown, and told her acquaintance how well she lived,
what fine things she saw, and what great wages she received. I resolved
to try my fortune, and took my passage in the next week's waggon to
London. I had no snares laid for me at my arrival, but came safe to a
sister of my mistress, who undertook to get me a place. She knew only
the families of mean tradesmen; and I, having no high opinion of my own
qualifications, was willing to accept the first offer.

My first mistress was wife of a working watch-maker, who earned more
than was sufficient to keep his family in decency and plenty; but it was
their constant practice to hire a chaise on Sunday, and spend half the
wages of the week on Richmond Hill; of Monday he commonly lay half in
bed, and spent the other half in merriment; Tuesday and Wednesday
consumed the rest of his money; and three days every week were passed in
extremity of want by us who were left at home, while my master lived on
trust at an alehouse. You may be sure, that of the sufferers, the maid
suffered most; and I left them, after three months, rather than be
starved.

I was then maid to a hatter's wife. There was no want to be dreaded, for
they lived in perpetual luxury. My mistress was a diligent woman, and
rose early in the morning to set the journeymen to work; my master was a
man much beloved by his neighbours, and sat at one club or other every
night. I was obliged to wait on my master at night, and on my mistress
in the morning. He seldom came home before two, and she rose at five. I
could no more live without sleep than without food, and therefore
entreated them to look out for another servant.

My next removal was to a linen-draper's, who had six children. My
mistress, when I first entered the house, informed me, that I must never
contradict the children, nor suffer them to cry. I had no desire to
offend, and readily promised to do my best. But when I gave them their
breakfast, I could not help all first; when I was playing with one in my
lap, I was forced to keep the rest in expectation. That which was not
gratified, always resented the injury with a loud outcry, which put my
mistress in a fury at me, and procured sugar-plums to the child. I could
not keep six children quiet, who were bribed to be clamorous; and was
therefore dismissed, as a girl honest, but not good-natured.

I then lived with a couple that kept a petty shop of remnants and cheap
linen. I was qualified to make a bill, or keep a book; and being
therefore often called, at a busy time, to serve the customers, expected
that I should now be happy, in proportion as I was useful. But my
mistress appropriated every day part of the profit to some private use,
and, as she grew bolder in her thefts, at last deducted such sums, that
my master began to wonder how he sold so much, and gained so little. She
pretended to assist his inquiries, and began, very gravely, to hope that
"Betty was honest, and yet those sharp girls were apt to be
light-fingered." You will believe that I did not stay there much longer.

The rest of my story I will tell you in another letter; and only beg to
be informed, in some paper, for which of my places, except perhaps the
last, I was disqualified by my skill in reading and writing.

I am, Sir,

Your very humble servant,

BETTY BROOM.




 No. 27. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 21, 1758.

It has been the endeavour of all those whom the world has reverenced for
superior wisdom, to persuade man to be acquainted with himself, to learn
his own powers and his own weakness, to observe by what evils he is most
dangerously beset, and by what temptations most easily overcome.

This counsel has been often given with serious dignity, and often
received with appearance of conviction; but, as very few can search deep
into their own minds without meeting what they wish to hide from
themselves, scarcely any man persists in cultivating such disagreeable
acquaintance, but draws the veil again between his eyes and his heart,
leaves his passions and appetites as he found them, and advises others
to look into themselves.

This is the common result of inquiry even among those that endeavour to
grow wiser or better: but this endeavour is far enough from frequency;
the greater part of the multitudes that swarm upon the earth have never
been disturbed by such uneasy curiosity, but deliver themselves up to
business or to pleasure, plunge into the current of life, whether placid
or turbulent, and pass on from one point or prospect to another,
attentive rather to any thing than the state of their minds; satisfied,
at an easy rate, with an opinion, that they are no worse than others,
that every man must mind his own interest, or that their pleasures hurt
only themselves, and are therefore no proper subjects of censure.

Some, however, there are, whom the intrusion of scruples, the
recollection of better notions, or the latent reprehension of good
examples, will not suffer to live entirely contented with their own
conduct; these are forced to pacify the mutiny of reason with fair
promises, and quiet their thoughts with designs of calling all their
actions to review, and planning a new scheme for the time to come.

There is nothing which we estimate so fallaciously as the force of our
own resolutions, nor any fallacy which we so unwillingly and tardily
detect. He that has resolved a thousand times, and a thousand times
deserted his own purpose, yet suffers no abatement of his confidence,
but still believes himself his own master; and able, by innate vigour of
soul, to press forward to his end, through all the obstructions that
inconveniencies or delights can put in his way.

That this mistake should prevail for a time, is very natural. When
conviction is present, and temptation out of sight, we do not easily
conceive how any reasonable being can deviate from his true interest.
What ought to be done, while it yet hangs only on speculation, is so
plain and certain, that there is no place for doubt; the whole soul
yields itself to the predominance of truth, and readily determines to do
what, when the time of action comes, will be at last omitted.

I believe most men may review all the lives that have passed within
their observation, without remembering one efficacious resolution, or
being able to tell a single instance of a course of practice suddenly
changed in consequence of a change of opinion, or an establishment of
determination. Many, indeed, alter their conduct, and are not at fifty
what they were at thirty; but they commonly varied imperceptibly from
themselves, followed the train of external causes, and rather suffered
reformation than made it.

It is not uncommon to charge the difference between promise and
performance, between profession and reality, upon deep design and
studied deceit; but the truth is, that there is very little hypocrisy in
the world; we do not so often endeavour or wish to impose on others, as
on ourselves; we resolve to do right, we hope to keep our resolutions,
we declare them to confirm our own hope, and fix our own inconstancy by
calling witnesses of our actions; but at last habit prevails, and those
whom we invited to our triumph laugh at our defeat.

Custom is commonly too strong for the most resolute resolver, though
furnished for the assault with all the weapons of philosophy. "He that
endeavours to free himself from an ill habit," says Bacon, "must not
change too much at a time, lest he should be discouraged by difficulty;
nor too little, for then he will make but slow advances." This is a
precept which may be applauded in a book, but will fail in the trial, in
which every change will be found too great or too little. Those who have
been able to conquer habit, are like those that are fabled to have
returned from the realms of Pluto:

 --"Pauci, quos aequus amavit
  Jupiter, atque ardens evexit ad aethera virtus."

They are sufficient to give hope, but not security; to animate the
contest, but not to promise victory.

Those who are in the power of evil habits must conquer them as they can;
and conquered they must be, or neither wisdom nor happiness can be
attained; but those who are not yet subject to their influence may, by
timely caution, preserve their freedom; they may effectually resolve to
escape the tyrant, whom they will very vainly resolve to conquer.




No. 28. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 28, 1758.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

It is very easy for a man who sits idle at home, and has nobody to
please but himself, to ridicule or to censure the common practices of
mankind; and those who have no present temptation to break the rules of
propriety, may applaud his judgment, and join in his merriment; but let
the author or his readers mingle with common life, they will find
themselves irresistibly borne away by the stream of custom, and must
submit, after they have laughed at others, to give others the same
opportunity of laughing at them.

There is no paper published by the Idler which I have read with more
approbation than that which censures the practice of recording vulgar
marriages in the newspapers. I carried it about in my pocket, and read
it to all those whom I suspected of having published their nuptials, or
of being inclined to publish them, and sent transcripts of it to all the
couples that transgressed your precepts for the next fortnight. I hoped
that they were all vexed, and pleased myself with imagining their
misery.

But short is the triumph of malignity. I was married last week to Miss
Mohair, the daughter of a salesman; and, at my first appearance after
the wedding night, was asked, by my wife's mother, whether I had sent
our marriage to the Advertiser? I endeavoured to show how unfit it was
to demand the attention of the publick to our domestick affairs; but she
told me, with great vehemence, "That she would not have it thought to be
a stolen match; that the blood of the Mohairs should never be disgraced;
that her husband had served all the parish offices but one; that she had
lived five-and-thirty years at the same house, had paid every body
twenty shillings in the pound, and would have me know, though she was
not as fine and as flaunting as Mrs. Gingham, the deputy's wife, she was
not ashamed to tell her name, and would show her face with the best of
them; and since I had married her daughter--" At this instant entered my
father-in-law, a grave man, from whom I expected succour; but upon
hearing the case, he told me, "That it would be very imprudent to miss
such an opportunity of advertising my shop; and that when notice was
given of my marriage, many of my wife's friends would think themselves
obliged to be my customers." I was subdued by clamour on one side, and
gravity on the other, and shall be obliged to tell the town, that "three
days ago Timothy Mushroom, an eminent oilman in Seacoal-lane, was
married to Miss Polly Mohair of Lothbury, a beautiful young lady, with a
large fortune."

I am, Sir, &c.

Sir,

I am the unfortunate wife of the grocer whose letter you published about
ten weeks ago, in which he complains, like a sorry fellow, that I loiter
in the shop with my needle-work in my hand, and that I oblige him to
take me out on Sundays, and keep a girl to look after the child. Sweet
Mr. Idler, if you did but know all, you would give no encouragement to
such an unreasonable grumbler. I brought him three hundred pounds, which
set him up in a shop, and bought in a stock, on which, with good
management, we might live comfortably; but now I have given him a shop,
I am forced to watch him and the shop too. I will tell you, Mr. Idler,
how it is. There is an alehouse over the way, with a ninepin alley, to
which he is sure to run when I turn my back, and there he loses his
money, for he plays at ninepins as he does every thing else. While he is
at this favourite sport, he sets a dirty boy to watch his door, and call
him to his customers; but he is so long in coming, and so rude when he
comes, that our custom falls off every day.

Those who cannot govern themselves, must be governed. I have resolved to
keep him for the future behind his counter, and let him bounce at his
customers if he dares. I cannot be above stairs and below at the same
time, and have therefore taken a girl to look after the child, and dress
the dinner; and, after all, pray who is to blame?

On a Sunday, it is true, I make him walk abroad, and sometimes carry the
child; I wonder who should carry it! But I never take him out till after
church-time, nor would do it then, but that, if he is left alone, he
will be upon the bed. On a Sunday, if he stays at home, he has six
meals, and, when he can eat no longer, has twenty stratagems to escape
from me to the alehouse; but I commonly keep the door locked, till
Monday produces something for him to do.

This is the true state of the case, and these are the provocations for
which he has written his letter to you. I hope you will write a paper to
show, that, if a wife must spend her whole time in watching her husband,
she cannot conveniently tend her child, or sit at her needle.

I am, Sir, &c.

Sir,

There is in this town a species of oppression which the law has not
hitherto prevented or redressed.

I am a chairman. You know, Sir, we come when we are called, and are
expected to carry all who require our assistance. It is common for men
of the most unwieldy corpulence to crowd themselves into a chair, and
demand to be carried for a shilling as far as an airy young lady whom we
scarcely feel upon our poles. Surely we ought to be paid, like all other
mortals, in proportion to our labour. Engines should be fixed in proper
places to weigh chairs as they weigh waggons; and those, whom ease and
plenty have made unable to carry themselves, should give part of their
superfluities to those who carry them.

I am, Sir, &c.




No. 29. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 1758.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

I have often observed, that friends are lost by discontinuance of
intercourse without any offence on either part, and have long known,
that it is more dangerous to be forgotten than to be blamed; I therefore
make haste to send you the rest of my story, lest, by the delay of
another fortnight, the name of Betty Broom might be no longer remembered
by you or your readers.

Having left the last place in haste, to avoid the charge or the
suspicion of theft, I had not secured another service, and was forced to
take a lodging in a back-street. I had now got good clothes. The woman
who lived in the garret opposite to mine was very officious, and offered
to take care of my room and clean it, while I went round to my
acquaintance to inquire for a mistress. I knew not why she was so kind,
nor how I could recompense her; but in a few days I missed some of my
linen, went to another lodging, and resolved not to have another friend
in the next garret.

In six weeks I became under-maid at the house of a mercer in Cornhill,
whose son was his apprentice. The young gentleman used to sit late at
the tavern, without the knowledge of his father; and I was ordered by my
mistress to let him in silently to his bed under the counter, and to be
very careful to take away his candle. The hours which I was obliged to
watch, whilst the rest of the family was in bed, I considered as
supernumerary, and, having no business assigned for them, thought myself
at liberty to spend them my own way: I kept myself awake with a book,
and for some time liked my state the better for this opportunity of
reading. At last, the upper-maid found my book, and showed it to my
mistress, who told me, that wenches like me might spend their time
better; that she never knew any of the readers that had good designs in
their heads; that she could always find something else to do with her
time, than to puzzle over books; and did not like that such a fine lady
should sit up for her young master.

This was the first time that I found it thought criminal or dangerous to
know how to read. I was dismissed decently, lest I should tell tales,
and had a small gratuity above my wages.

I then lived with a gentlewoman of a small fortune. This was the only
happy part of my life. My mistress, for whom publick diversions were too
expensive, spent her time with books, and was pleased to find a maid who
could partake her amusements. I rose early in the morning, that I might
have time in the afternoon to read or listen, and was suffered to tell
my opinion, or express my delight. Thus fifteen months stole away, in
which I did not repine that I was born to servitude. But a burning fever
seized my mistress, of whom I shall say no more, than that her servant
wept upon her grave.

I had lived in a kind of luxury, which made me very unfit for another
place; and was rather too delicate for the conversation of a kitchen; so
that when I was hired in the family of an East-India director, my
behaviour was so different, as they said, from that of a common servant,
that they concluded me a gentlewoman in disguise, and turned me out in
three weeks, on suspicion of some design which they could not
comprehend.

I then fled for refuge to the other end of the town, where I hoped to
find no obstruction from my new accomplishments, and was hired under the
housekeeper in a splendid family. Here I was too wise for the maids, and
too nice for the footmen; yet I might have lived on without much
uneasiness, had not my mistress, the housekeeper, who used to employ me
in buying necessaries for the family, found a bill which I had made of
one day's expense. I suppose it did not quite agree with her own book,
for she fiercely declared her resolution, that there should be no pen
and ink in that kitchen but her own.

She had the justice, or the prudence, not to injure my reputation; and I
was easily admitted into another house in the neighbourhood, where my
business was to sweep the rooms and make the beds. Here I was, for some
time, the favourite of Mrs. Simper, my lady's woman, who could not bear
the vulgar girls, and was happy in the attendance of a young woman of
some education. Mrs. Simper loved a novel, though she could not read
hard words, and therefore, when her lady was abroad, we always laid hold
on her books. At last, my abilities became so much celebrated, that the
house-steward used to employ me in keeping his accounts. Mrs. Simper
then found out, that my sauciness was grown to such a height that nobody
could endure it, and told my lady, that there never had been a room well
swept, since Betty Broom came into the house.

I was then hired by a consumptive lady, who wanted a maid that could
read and write. I attended her four years, and though she was never
pleased, yet when I declared my resolution to leave her, she burst into
tears, and told me that I must bear the peevishness of a sick bed, and I
should find myself remembered in her will. I complied, and a codicil was
added in my favour; but in less than a week, when I set her gruel before
her, I laid the spoon on the left side, and she threw her will into the
fire. In two days she made another, which she burnt in the same manner,
because she could not eat her chicken. A third was made, and destroyed
because she heard a mouse within the wainscot, and was sure that I
should suffer her to be carried away alive. After this I was for some
time out of favour, but as her illness grew upon her, resentment and
sullenness gave way to kinder sentiments. She died, and left me five
hundred pounds; with this fortune I am going to settle in my native
parish, where I resolve to spend some hours every day in teaching poor
girls to read and write[1].

I am, Sir,
Your humble servant,

BETTY BROOM.
[1] Mrs. Gardiner, a pious, sensible, and charitable woman, for whom
    Johnson entertained a high respect, is said to have afforded a hint
    for the story of Betty Broom, from her zealous support of a Ladies'
    Charity-school, confined to females. Boswell, vol. iv.




No. 30. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 1758.

The desires of man increase with his acquisitions; every step which he
advances brings something within his view, which he did not see before,
and which, as soon as he sees it, he begins to want. Where necessity
ends, curiosity begins; and no sooner are we supplied with every thing
that nature can demand, than we sit down to contrive artificial
appetites.

By this restlessness of mind, every populous and wealthy city is filled
with innumerable employments, for which the greater part of mankind is
without a name; with artificers, whose labour is exerted in producing
such petty conveniencies, that many shops are furnished with
instruments, of which the use can hardly be found without inquiry, but
which he that once knows them quickly learns to number among necessary
things.

Such is the diligence with which, in countries completely civilized, one
part of mankind labours for another, that wants are supplied faster than
they can be formed, and the idle and luxurious find life stagnate for
want of some desire to keep it in motion. This species of distress
furnishes a new set of occupations; and multitudes are busied, from day
to day, in finding the rich and the fortunate something to do.

It is very common to reproach those artists as useless, who produce only
such superfluities as neither accommodate the body, nor improve the
mind; and of which no other effect can be imagined, than that they are
the occasions of spending money, and consuming time.

But this censure will be mitigated, when it is seriously considered,
that money and time are the heaviest burdens of life, and that the
unhappiest of all mortals are those who have more of either than they
know how to use. To set himself free from these incumbrances, one
hurries to Newmarket; another travels over Europe; one pulls down his
house and calls architects about him; another buys a seat in the
country, and follows his hounds over hedges and through rivers; one
makes collections of shells; and another searches the world for tulips
and carnations.

He is surely a publick benefactor who finds employment for those to whom
it is thus difficult to find it for themselves. It is true, that this is
seldom done merely from generosity or compassion; almost every man seeks
his own advantage in helping others, and therefore it is too common for
mercenary officiousness to consider rather what is grateful, than what
is right.

We all know that it is more profitable to be loved than esteemed; and
ministers of pleasure will always be found, who study to make themselves
necessary, and to supplant those who are practising the same arts.

One of the amusements of idleness is reading without the fatigue of
close attention, and the world therefore swarms with writers whose wish
is not to be studied, but to be read.

No species of literary men has lately been so much multiplied as the
writers of news. Not many years ago the nation was content with one
gazette; but now we have not only in the metropolis papers for every
morning and every evening, but almost every large town has its weekly
historian, who regularly circulates his periodical intelligence, and
fills the villages of his district with conjectures on the events of
war, and with debates on the true interest of Europe.

To write news in its perfection requires such a combination of
qualities, that a man completely fitted for the task is not always to be
found. In Sir Henry Wotton's jocular definition, _An ambassador_ is said
to be _a man of virtue sent abroad to tell lies for the advantage of his
country_; a news-writer is _a man without virtue, who writes lies at
home for his own profit_. To these compositions is required neither
genius nor knowledge, neither industry nor sprightliness; but contempt
of shame and indifference to truth are absolutely necessary. He who by a
long familiarity with infamy has obtained these qualities, may
confidently tell to-day what he intends to contradict to-morrow; he may
affirm fearlessly what he knows that he shall be obliged to recant, and
may write letters from Amsterdam or Dresden to himself.

In a time of war the nation is always of one mind, eager to hear
something good of themselves and ill of the enemy. At this time the task
of news-writers is easy: they have nothing to do but to tell that a
battle is expected, and afterwards that a battle has been fought, in
which we and our friends, whether conquering or conquered, did all, and
our enemies did nothing.

Scarcely any thing awakens attention like a tale of cruelty. The writer
of news never fails in the intermission of action to tell how the
enemies murdered children and ravished virgins; and, if the scene of
action be somewhat distant, scalps half the inhabitants of a province.

Among the calamities of war may be justly numbered the diminution of the
love of truth, by the falsehoods which interest dictates, and credulity
encourages. A peace will equally leave the warriour and relater of wars
destitute of employment; and I know not whether more is to be dreaded
from streets filled with soldiers accustomed to plunder, or from garrets
filled with scribblers accustomed to lie.




No. 31. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 1758.

Many moralists have remarked, that pride has of all human vices the
widest dominion, appears in the greatest multiplicity of forms, and lies
hid under the greatest variety of disguises; of disguises, which, like
the moon's _veil of brightness_, are both its _lustre and its shade_,
and betray it to others, though they hide it from ourselves.

It is not my intention to degrade pride from this pre-eminence of
mischief; yet I know not whether idleness may not maintain a very
doubtful and obstinate competition.

There are some that profess idleness in its full dignity, who call
themselves the _Idle_, as Busiris in the play calls himself the _Proud_;
who boast that they do nothing, and thank their stars that they have
nothing to do; who sleep every night till they can sleep no longer, and
rise only that exercise may enable them to sleep again; who prolong the
reign of darkness by double curtains, and never see the sun but to _tell
him how they hate his beams_; whose whole labour is to vary the posture
of indolence, and whose day differs from their night, but as a couch or
chair differs from a bed.

These are the true and open votaries of idleness, for whom she weaves
the garlands of poppies, and into whose cup she pours the waters of
oblivion; who exist in a state of unruffled stupidity, forgetting and
forgotten; who have long ceased to live, and at whose death the
survivors can only say, that they have ceased to breathe.

But idleness predominates in many lives where it is not suspected; for,
being a vice which terminates in itself, it may be enjoyed without
injury to others; and it is therefore not watched like fraud, which
endangers property; or like pride, which naturally seeks its
gratifications in another's inferiority. Idleness is a silent and
peaceful quality, that neither raises envy by ostentation, nor hatred by
opposition; and therefore nobody is busy to censure or detect it.

As pride sometimes is hid under humility, idleness is often covered by
turbulence and hurry. He that neglects his known duty and real
employment, naturally endeavours to crowd his mind with something that
may bar out the remembrance of his own folly, and does any thing but
what he ought to do with eager diligence, that he may keep himself in
his own favour.

Some are always in a state of preparation, occupied in previous
measures, forming plans, accumulating materials, and providing for the
main affair. These are certainly under the secret power of idleness.
Nothing is to be expected from the workman whose tools are for ever to
be sought. I was once told by a great master, that no man ever excelled
in painting, who was eminently curious about pencils and colours.

There are others to whom idleness dictates another expedient, by which
life may be passed unprofitably away without the tediousness of many
vacant hours. The art is, to fill the day with petty business, to have
always something in hand which may raise curiosity, but not solicitude,
and keep the mind in a state of action, but not of labour.

This art has for many years been practised by my old friend Sober with
wonderful success. Sober is a man of strong desires and quick
imagination, so exactly balanced by the love of ease, that they can
seldom stimulate him to any difficult undertaking; they have, however,
so much power, that they will not suffer him to lie quite at rest; and
though they do not make him sufficiently useful to others, they make him
at least weary of himself.

Mr. Sober's chief pleasure is conversation; there is no end of his talk
or his attention; to speak or to hear is equally pleasing; for he still
fancies that he is teaching or learning something, and is free for the
time from his own reproaches.

But there is one time at night when he must go home, that his friends
may sleep; and another time in the morning, when all the world agrees to
shut out interruption. These are the moments of which poor Sober
trembles at the thought. But the misery of these tiresome intervals he
has many means of alleviating. He has persuaded himself that the manual
arts are undeservedly overlooked; he has observed in many trades the
effects of close thought, and just ratiocination. From speculation he
proceeded to practice, and supplied himself with the tools of a
carpenter, with which he mended his coal-box very successfully, and
which he still continues to employ, as he finds occasion.

He has attempted at other times the crafts of the shoemaker, tinman,
plumber, and potter; in all these arts he has failed, and resolves to
qualify himself for them by better information. But his daily amusement
is chymistry. He has a small furnace, which he employs in distillation,
and which has long been the solace of his life. He draws oils and
waters, and essences and spirits, which he knows to be of no use; sits
and counts the drops, as they come from his retort, and forgets that,
whilst a drop is falling, a moment flies away.

Poor Sober! I have often teased him with reproof, and he has often
promised reformation; for no man is so much open to conviction as the
Idler, but there is none on whom it operates so little. What will be the
effect of this paper I know not; perhaps, he will read it and laugh, and
light the fire in his furnace; but my hope is, that he will quit his
trifles, and betake himself to rational and useful diligence[1].

[1] In Mr. Sober, we may recognise traits of Dr. Johnson's own
    character. No. 67 of the Idler is another portrait of him.




No. 32. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 25, 1758.

Among the innumerable mortifications that waylay human arrogance on
every side, may well be reckoned our ignorance of the most common
objects and effects, a defect of which we become more sensible, by every
attempt to supply it. Vulgar and inactive minds confound familiarity
with knowledge, and conceive themselves informed of the whole nature of
things when they are shown their form or told their use; but the
speculatist, who is not content with superficial views, harasses himself
with fruitless curiosity, and still as he inquires more, perceives only
that he knows less.

Sleep is a state in which a great part of every life is passed. No
animal has been yet discovered, whose existence is not varied with
intervals of insensibility; and some late philosophers have extended the
empire of sleep over the vegetable world.

Yet of this change, so frequent, so great, so general, and so necessary,
no searcher has yet found either the efficient or final cause; or can
tell by what power the mind and body are thus chained down in
irresistible stupefaction; or what benefits the animal receives from
this alternate suspension of its active powers.

Whatever may be the multiplicity or contrariety of opinions upon this
subject, nature has taken sufficient care that theory shall have little
influence on practice. The most diligent inquirer is not able long to
keep his eyes open; the most eager disputant will begin about midnight
to desert his argument; and, once in four-and-twenty hours, the gay and
the gloomy, the witty and the dull, the clamorous and the silent, the
busy and the idle, are all overpowered by the gentle tyrant, and all lie
down in the equality of sleep.

Philosophy has often attempted to repress insolence, by asserting, that
all conditions are levelled by death; a position which, however it may
deject the happy, will seldom afford much comfort to the wretched. It is
far more pleasing to consider, that, sleep is equally a leveller with
death; that the time is never at a great distance, when the balm of rest
shall be diffused alike upon every head, when the diversities of life
shall stop their operation, and the high and the low shall lie down
together[1].

It is somewhere recorded of Alexander, that in the pride of conquests,
and intoxication of flattery, he declared that he only perceived himself
to be a man by the necessity of sleep. Whether he considered sleep as
necessary to his mind or body, it was indeed a sufficient evidence of
human infirmity; the body which required such frequency of renovation,
gave but faint promises of immortality; and the mind which, from time to
time, sunk gladly into insensibility, had made no very near approaches
to the felicity of the supreme and self-sufficient nature.

I know not what can tend more to repress all the passions, that disturb
the peace of the world, than the consideration that there is no height
of happiness or honour, from which man does not eagerly descend to a
state of unconscious repose; that the best condition of life is such,
that we contentedly quit its good to be disentangled from its evils;
that in a few hours splendour fades before the eye, and praise itself
deadens in the ear; the senses withdraw from their objects, and reason
favours the retreat.

What then are the hopes and prospects of covetousness, ambition, and
rapacity? Let him that desires most have all his desires gratified, he
never shall attain a state which he can, for a day and a night,
contemplate with satisfaction, or from which, if he had the power of
perpetual vigilance, he would not long for periodical separations.

All envy would be extinguished, if it were universally known that there
are none to be envied, and surely none can be much envied who are not
pleased with themselves. There is reason to suspect, that the
distinctions of mankind have more show than value, when it is found that
all agree to be weary alike of pleasures and of cares; that the powerful
and the weak, the celebrated and obscure, join in one common wish, and
implore from nature's hand the nectar of oblivion.

Such is our desire of abstraction from ourselves, that very few are
satisfied with the quantity of stupefaction which the needs of the body
force upon the mind. Alexander himself added intemperance to sleep, and
solaced with the fumes of wine the sovereignty of the world: and almost
every man has some art by which he steals his thoughts away from his
present state.

It is not much of life that is spent in close attention to any important
duty. Many hours of every day are suffered to fly away without any
traces left upon the intellects. We suffer phantoms to rise up before
us, and amuse ourselves with the dance of airy images, which, after a
time, we dismiss for ever, and know not how we have been busied.

Many have no happier moments than those that they pass in solitude,
abandoned to their own imagination, which sometimes puts sceptres in
their hands or mitres on their heads, shifts the scene of pleasure with
endless variety, bids all the forms of beauty sparkle before them, and
gluts them with every change of visionary luxury.

It is easy in these semi-slumbers to collect all the possibilities of
happiness, to alter the course of the sun, to bring back the past, and
anticipate the future, to unite all the beauties of all seasons, and all
the blessings of all climates, to receive and bestow felicity, and
forget that misery is the lot of man. All this is a voluntary dream, a
temporary recession from the realities of life to airy fictions; and
habitual subjection of reason to fancy.

Others are afraid to be alone, and amuse themselves by a perpetual
succession of companions: but the difference is not great; in solitude
we have our dreams to ourselves, and in company we agree to dream in
concert. The end sought in both is forgetfulness of ourselves.

[1] "For half their life," says Aristotle, "the happy differ not from
    the wretched.".--Nichom. Ethic, i. 13.

  [Greek: Hypn odunas adaaes, Hypne d algeon
  Euaaes haemin elthois,
  Euaion, euaion anax.]      Soph. Philoct. 827.




 No. 33. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 2, 1758.

[I hope the author of the following letter[1] will excuse the omission
of some parts, and allow me to remark, that the Journal of the Citizen
in the Spectator has almost precluded the attempt of any future writer.]

 --_Non ita Romuli   Praescriptum, et intonsi Catonis
Auspiciis, veterumque normâ_. HOR. Lib. ii. Ode xv. 10.

Sir,

You have often solicited correspondence. I have sent you the Journal of
a Senior Fellow, or Genuine Idler, just transmitted from Cambridge by a
facetious correspondent, and warranted to have been transcribed from the
common-place book of the journalist.

Monday, Nine o'Clock. Turned off my bed-maker for waking me at eight.
Weather rainy. Consulted my weather-glass. No hopes of a ride before
dinner.

Ditto, Ten. After breakfast, transcribed half a sermon from Dr. Hickman.
N.B. Never to transcribe any more from Calamy; Mrs. Pilcocks, at my
curacy, having one volume of that author lying in her parlour-window.

Ditto, Eleven. Went down into my cellar. Mem. My Mountain will be fit to
drink in a month's time. N.B. To remove the five-year old port into the
new bin on the left hand.

Ditto, Twelve. Mended a pen. Looked at my weather-glass again.
Quicksilver very low. Shaved. Barber's hand shakes.

Ditto, One. Dined alone in my room on a sole. N.B. The shrimp-sauce not
so good as Mr. H. of Peterhouse and I used to eat in London last winter
at the Mitre in Fleet-street. Sat down to a pint of Madeira. Mr. H.
surprised me over it. We finished two bottles of port together, and were
very cheerful. Mem. To dine with Mr. H. at Peterhouse next Wednesday.
One of the dishes a leg of pork and pease, by my desire.

Ditto, Six. Newspaper in the common room.

Ditto, Seven. Returned to my room. Made a tiff of warm punch, and to bed
before nine; did not fall asleep till ten, a young fellow commoner being
very noisy over my head.

Tuesday, Nine, Rose squeamish. A fine morning. Weather-glass very high.

Ditto, Ten. Ordered my horse, and rode to the five-mile stone on the
Newmarket road. Appetite gets better. A pack of hounds, in full cry,
crossed the road, and startled my horse.

Ditto, Twelve. Drest. Found a letter on my table to be in London the
19th inst. Bespoke a new wig.

Ditto, One. At dinner in the hall. Too much water in the soup. Dr. Dry
always orders the beef to be salted too much for me.

Ditto, Two. In the common room. Dr. Dry gave us an instance of a
gentleman who kept the gout out of his stomach by drinking old Madeira.
Conversation chiefly on the expeditions. Company broke up at four. Dr.
Dry and myself played at backgammon for a brace of snipes. Won.

Ditto, Five. At the coffee-house. Met Mr. H. there. Could not get a
sight of the Monitor.

Ditto, Seven. Returned home, and stirred my fire. Went to the common
room, and supped on the snipes with Dr. Dry.

Ditto, Eight. Began the evening in the common room. Dr. Dry told several
stories. Were very merry. Our new fellow, that studies physick, very
talkative toward twelve. Pretends he will bring the youngest Miss ---- to
drink tea with me soon. Impertinent blockhead!

Wednesday, Nine. Alarmed with a pain in my ankle. Q. The gout? Fear I
can't dine at Peterhouse; but I hope a ride will set all to rights.
Weather-glass below Fair.

Ditto, Ten. Mounted my horse, though the weather suspicious. Pain in my
ankle entirely gone. Caught in a shower coming back. Convinced that my
weather-glass is the best in Cambridge.

Ditto, Twelve. Drest. Sauntered up to the Fish-monger's hill. Met Mr. H.
and went with him to Peterhouse. Cook made us wait thirty-six minutes
beyond the time. The company, some of my Emmanuel friends. For dinner, a
pair of soles, a leg of pork and pease, among other things. Mem.
Pease-pudding not boiled enough. Cook reprimanded and sconced in my
presence.

Ditto, after Dinner. Pain in my ankle returns. Dull all the afternoon.
Rallied for being no company. Mr. H.'s account of the accommodations on
the road in his Bath journey.

Ditto, Six. Got into spirits. Never was more chatty. We sat late at
whist. Mr. H. and self agreed at parting to take a gentle ride, and dine
at the old house on the London road to-morrow.

Thursday, Nine. My sempstress. She has lost the measure of my wrist.
Forced to be measured again. The baggage has got a trick of smiling.

Ditto, Ten to Eleven. Made some rappee snuff. Read the magazines.
Received a present of pickles from Miss Pilcocks. Mem. To send in return
some collared eel, which I know both the old lady and miss are fond of.

Ditto, Eleven. Glass very high. Mounted at the gate with Mr. H. Horse
skittish, and wants exercise. Arrive at the old house. All the
provisions bespoke by some rakish fellow-commoner in the next room, who
had been on a scheme to Newmarket. Could get nothing but mutton-chops
off the worst end. Port very new. Agree to try some other house
to-morrow.

Here the journal breaks off: for the next morning, as my friend informs
me, our genial academick was waked with a severe fit of the gout; and,
at present, enjoys all the dignity of that disease. But I believe we
have lost nothing by this interruption: since a continuation of the
remainder of the journal, through the remainder of the week, would most
probably have exhibited nothing more than a repeated relation of the
same circumstances of idling and luxury.

I hope it will not be concluded, from this specimen of academick life,
that I have attempted to decry our universities. If literature is not
the essential requisite of the modern academick, I am yet persuaded,
that Cambridge and Oxford, however degenerated, surpass the fashionable
_academies_ of our metropolis, and the _gymnasia_ of foreign countries.
The number of learned persons in these celebrated seats is still
considerable, and more conveniencies and opportunities for study still
subsist in them, than in any other place. There is at least one very
powerful incentive to learning; I mean the GENIUS _of the place_. It is
a sort of inspiring deity, which every youth of quick sensibility and
ingenious disposition creates to himself, by reflecting, that he is
placed under those venerable walls, where a HOOKER and a HAMMOND, a
BACON and a NEWTON, once pursued the same course of science, and from
whence they soared to the most elevated heights of literary fame. This
is that incitement which Tully, according to his own testimony,
experienced at Athens, when he contemplated the porticos where Socrates
sat, and the laurel-groves where Plato disputed[2].

But there are other circumstances, and of the highest importance, which
render our colleges superior to all other places of education. Their
institutions, although somewhat fallen from their primaeval simplicity,
are such as influence, in a particular manner, the moral conduct of
their youth; and in this general depravity of manners and laxity of
principles, pure religion is no where more strongly inculcated. The
_academies_, as they are presumptuously styled, are too low to be
mentioned; and foreign seminaries are likely to prejudice the unwary
mind with Calvinism. But English universities render their students
virtuous, at least by excluding all opportunities of vice; and, by
teaching them the principles of the Church of England, confirm them in
those of true Christianity.

[1] Mr. Thomas Warton.

[2] A rich assemblage of examples, of the "influence of perceptible
    objects in reviving former thoughts and former feelings," is
    collected in Dr. Brown's Philosophy of the Human Mind, vol. 2,
    Lecture 38.




No. 34. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 9, 1758.

To illustrate one thing by its resemblance to another, has been always
the most popular and efficacious art of instruction. There is indeed no
other method of teaching that of which any one is ignorant, but by means
of something already known; and a mind so enlarged by contemplation, and
inquiry, that it has always many objects within its view, will seldom be
long without some near and familiar image through which an easy
transition may be made to truths more distant and obscure.

Of the parallels which have been drawn by wit and curiosity, some are
literal and real, as between poetry and painting, two arts which pursue
the same end, by the operation of the same mental faculties, and which
differ only as the one represents things by marks permanent and natural,
the other by signs accidental and arbitrary. The one, therefore, is more
easily and generally understood, since similitude of form is immediately
perceived; the other is capable of conveying more ideas, for men have
thought and spoken of many things which they do not see.

Other parallels are fortuitous and fanciful, yet these have sometimes
been extended to many particulars of resemblance by a lucky concurrence
of diligence and chance. The animal body is composed of many members,
united under the direction of one mind: any number of individuals,
connected for some common purpose, is therefore called a body. From this
participation of the same appellation arose the comparison of the body
natural and body politick, of which, how far soever it has been deduced,
no end has hitherto been found.

In these imaginary similitudes, the same word is used at once in its
primitive and metaphorical sense. Thus health, ascribed to the body
natural, is opposed to sickness; but attributed to the body politick
stands as contrary to adversity. These parallels therefore have more of
genius, but less of truth; they often please, but they never convince.

Of this kind is a curious speculation frequently indulged by a
philosopher of my acquaintance, who had discovered, that the qualities
requisite to conversation are very exactly represented by a bowl of
punch.

Punch, says this profound investigator, is a liquor compounded of spirit
and acid juices, sugar and water. The spirit, volatile and fiery, is the
proper emblem of vivacity and wit; the acidity of the lemon will very
aptly figure pungency of raillery, and acrimony of censure; sugar is the
natural representative of luscious adulation and gentle complaisance;
and water is the proper hieroglyphick of easy prattle, innocent and
tasteless.

Spirit alone is too powerful for use. It will produce madness rather
than merriment; and instead of quenching thirst will inflame the blood.
Thus wit, too copiously poured out, agitates the hearer with emotions
rather violent than pleasing; every one shrinks from the force of its
oppression, the company sits entranced and overpowered; all are
astonished, but nobody is pleased.

The acid juices give this genial liquor all its power of stimulating the
palate. Conversation would become dull and vapid, if negligence were not
sometimes roused, and sluggishness quickened, by due severity of
reprehension. But acids unmixed will distort the face and torture the
palate; and he that has no other qualities than penetration and
asperity, he whose constant employment is detection and censure, who
looks only to find faults, and speaks only to punish them, will soon be
dreaded, hated and avoided.

The taste of sugar is generally pleasing, but it cannot long be eaten by
itself. Thus meekness and courtesy will always recommend the first
address, but soon pall and nauseate, unless they are associated with
more sprightly qualities. The chief use of sugar is to temper the taste
of other substances; and softness of behaviour, in the same manner,
mitigates the roughness of contradiction, and allays the bitterness of
unwelcome truth.

Water is the universal vehicle by which are conveyed the particles
necessary to sustenance and growth, by which thirst is quenched, and all
the wants of life and nature are supplied. Thus all the business of the
world is transacted by artless and easy talk, neither sublimed by fancy,
nor discoloured by affectation, without either the harshness of satire,
or the lusciousness of flattery. By this limpid vein of language,
curiosity is gratified, and all the knowledge is conveyed which one man
is required to impart for the safety or convenience of another. Water is
the only ingredient in punch which can be used alone, and with which man
is content till fancy has framed an artificial want. Thus while we only
desire to have our ignorance informed, we are most delighted with the
plainest diction; and it is only in the moments of idleness or pride,
that we call for the gratifications of wit or flattery.

He only will please long, who, by tempering the acidity of satire with
the sugar of civility, and allaying the heat of wit with the frigidity
of humble chat, can make the true punch of conversation; and, as that
punch can be drunk in the greatest quantity which has the largest
proportion of water, so that companion will be oftenest welcome, whose
talk flows out with inoffensive copiousness, and unenvied insipidity.




No. 35. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 16, 1758.

TO THE IDLER.

Mr. Idler,

If it be difficult to persuade the idle to be busy, it is likewise, as
experience has taught me, not easy to convince the busy that it is
better to be idle. When you shall despair of stimulating sluggishness to
motion, I hope you will turn your thoughts towards the means of stilling
the bustle of pernicious activity.

I am the unfortunate husband of a _buyer of bargains_. My wife has
somewhere heard, that a good housewife _never_ has any thing to
_purchase when it is wanted_. This maxim is often in her mouth, and
always in her head. She is not one of those philosophical talkers that
speculate without practice; and learn sentences of wisdom only to repeat
them: she is always making additions to her stores; she never looks into
a broker's shop, but she spies something that may be wanted some time;
and it is impossible to make her pass the door of a house where she
hears _goods selling by auction_.

Whatever she thinks cheap, she holds it the duty of an economist to buy;
in consequence of this maxim, we are encumbered on every side with
useless lumber. The servants can scarcely creep to their beds through
the chests and boxes that surround them. The carpenter is employed once
a week in building closets, fixing cupboards, and fastening shelves; and
my house has the appearance of a ship stored for a voyage to the
colonies.

I had often observed that advertisements set her on fire; and therefore,
pretending to emulate her laudable frugality, I forbade the newspaper to
be taken any longer; but my precaution is vain; I know not by what
fatality, or by what confederacy, every catalogue of _genuine furniture_
comes to her hand, every advertisement of a warehouse newly opened, is
in her pocketbook, and she knows before any of her neighbours when the
stock of any man _leaving off trade_ is to be _sold cheap for ready
money_.

Such intelligence is to my dear-one the Syren's song. No engagement, no
duty, no interest, can withhold her from a sale, from which she always
returns congratulating herself upon her dexterity at a bargain; the
porter lays down his burden in the hall; she displays her new
acquisitions, and spends the rest of the day in contriving where they
shall be put.

As she cannot bear to have any thing uncomplete, one purchase
necessitates another; she has twenty feather-beds more than she can use,
and a late sale has supplied her with a proportionable number of Witney
blankets, a large roll of linen for sheets, and five quilts for every
bed, which she bought because the seller told her, that if she would
clear his hands he would let her have a bargain.

Thus by hourly encroachments my habitation is made narrower and
narrower; the dining-room is so crowded with tables, that dinner
scarcely can be served; the parlour is decorated with so many piles of
china, that I dare not step within the door; at every turn of the stairs
I have a clock, and half the windows of the upper floors are darkened,
that shelves may be set before them.

This, however, might be borne, if she would gratify her own inclinations
without opposing mine. But I, who am idle, am luxurious, and she
condemns me to live upon salt provisions. She knows the loss of buying
in small quantities, we have, therefore, whole hogs and quarters of
oxen. Part of our meat is tainted before it is eaten, and part is thrown
away because it is spoiled; but she persists in her system, and will
never buy any thing by single penny-worths.

The common vice of those who are still grasping at more, is to neglect
that which they already possess; but from this failing my charmer is
free. It is the great care of her life that the pieces of beef should be
boiled in the order in which they are bought; that the second bag of
pease should not be opened till the first be eaten; that every
feather-bed should be lain on in its turn; that the carpets should be
taken out of the chests once a month and brushed, and the rolls of linen
opened now and then before the fire. She is daily inquiring after the best
traps for mice, and keeps the rooms always scented by fumigations to
destroy the moths. She employs workmen, from time to time, to adjust six
clocks that never go, and clean five jacks that rust in the garret; and
a woman in the next alley lives by scouring the brass and pewter, which
are only laid up to tarnish again.

She is always imagining some distant time, in which she shall use
whatever she accumulates: she has four looking-glasses which she cannot
hang up in her house, but which will be handsome in more lofty rooms;
and pays rent for the place of a vast copper in some warehouse, because,
when we live in the country, we shall brew our own beer.

Of this life I have long been weary, but know not how to change it: all
the married men whom I consult advise me to have patience; but some old
bachelors are of opinion that, since she loves sales so well, she should
have a sale of her own; and I have, I think, resolved to open her
hoards, and advertise an auction.

I am, Sir,

Your very humble servant,

PETER PLENTY.




No. 30. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23, 1758.

The great differences that disturb the peace of mankind are not about
ends, but means. We have all the same general desires, but how those
desires shall be accomplished will for ever be disputed. The ultimate
purpose of government is temporal, and that of religion is eternal
happiness. Hitherto we agree; but here we must part, to try, according
to the endless varieties of passion and understanding combined with one
another, every possible form of government, and every imaginable tenet
of religion.

We are told by Cumberland that _rectitude_, applied to action or
contemplation, is merely metaphorical; and that as a _right_ line
describes the shortest passage from point to point, so a _right_ action
effects a good design by the fewest means; and so likewise a _right_
opinion is that which connects distant truths by the shortest train of
intermediate propositions.

To find the nearest way from truth to truth, or from purpose to effect,
not to use more instruments where fewer will be sufficient; not to move
by wheels and levers what will give way to the naked hand, is the great
proof of a healthful and vigorous mind, neither feeble with helpless
ignorance, nor overburdened with unwieldy knowledge.

But there are men who seem to think nothing so much the characteristick
of a genius, as to do common things in an uncommon manner; like
Hudibras, to _tell the clock by algebra_; or like the lady in Dr.
Young's satires, _to drink tea by stratagem_; to quit the beaten track,
only because it is known, and take a new path, however crooked or rough,
because the straight was found out before.

Every man speaks and writes with intent to be understood; and it can
seldom happen but he that understands himself, might convey his notions
to another, if, content to be understood, he did not seek to be admired;
but when once he begins to contrive how his sentiments may be received,
not with most ease to his reader, but with most advantage to himself, he
then transfers his consideration from words to sounds, from sentences to
periods, and as he grows more elegant becomes less intelligible.

It is difficult to enumerate every species of authors whose labours
counteract themselves; the man of exuberance and copiousness, who
diffuses every thought through so many diversities of expression, that
it is lost like water in a mist; the ponderous dictator of sentences,
whose notions are delivered in the lump, and are, like uncoined bullion,
of more weight than use; the liberal illustrator, who shows by examples
and comparisons what was clearly seen when it was first proposed; and
the stately son of demonstration, who proves with mathematical formality
what no man has yet pretended to doubt.

There is a mode of style for which I know not that the masters of
oratory have yet found a name; a style by which the most evident truths
are so obscured that they can no longer be perceived, and the most
familiar propositions so disguised that they cannot be known. Every
other kind of eloquence is the dress of sense; but this is the mask by
which a true master of his art will so effectually conceal it, that a
man will as easily mistake his own positions, if he meets them thus
transformed, as he may pass in a masquerade his nearest acquaintance.

This style may be called the _terrifick_, for its chief intention is to
terrify and amaze; it may be termed the _repulsive_, for its natural
effect is to drive away the reader; or it may be distinguished, in plain
English, by the denomination of the _bugbear style_, for it has more
terrour than danger, and will appear less formidable as it is more
nearly approached.

A mother tells her infant, that _two and two make four_; the child
remembers the proposition, and is able to count four to all the purposes
of life, till the course of his education brings him among philosophers,
who fright him from his former knowledge, by telling him, that four is a
certain aggregate of units; that all numbers being only the repetition
of an unit, which, though not a number itself, is the parent, root, or
original of all number, _four_ is the denomination assigned to a certain
number of such repetitions. The only danger is, lest, when he first
hears these dreadful sounds, the pupil should run away; if he has but
the courage to stay till the conclusion, he will find that, when
speculation has done its worst, two and two still make four.

An illustrious example of this species of eloquence may be found in
"Letters concerning Mind." The author begins by declaring, that "the
sorts of things are things that now are, have been, and shall be, and
the things that strictly _are_." In this position, except the last
clause, in which he uses something of the scholastick language, there is
nothing but what every man has heard, and imagines himself to know. But
who would not believe that some wonderful novelty is presented to his
intellect, when he is afterwards told, in the true bugbear style, that
"the _ares_, in the former sense, are things that lie between the
_have-beens_ and _shall-bes_. The _have-beens_ are things that are past;
the _shall-bes_ are things that are to come; and the things that _are_,
in the latter sense, are things that have not been, nor shall be, nor
stand in the midst of such as are before them, or shall be after them.
The things that _have been_, and _shall be_, have respect to present,
past, and future.

"Those likewise that now _are_ have moreover place; that, for instance,
which is here, that which is to the east, that which is to the west."

All this, my dear reader, is very strange; but though it be strange, it
is not new; survey these wonderful sentences again, and they will be
found to contain nothing more than very plain truths, which, till this
author arose, had always been delivered in plain language[1].


[1] These "Letters on Mind" were written by a Mr. Petvin, who after some
    years again astounded the literary public by sending forth, in
    diction equally terrific, another tract entitled a "Summary of the
    Soul's Perceptive Faculties," 1768. He was at that time compared to
    Duns Scotus, the subtle Doctor, who, in the weakness of old age,
    wept because he could not understand the subtleties of his earlier
    writings.




No. 37. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 30, 1758.

Those who are skilled in the extraction and preparation of metals
declare, that iron is every where to be found; and that not only its
proper ore is copiously treasured in the caverns of the earth, but that
its particles are dispersed throughout all other bodies.

If the extent of the human view could comprehend the whole frame of the
universe, I believe it would be found invariably true, that Providence
has given that in greatest plenty, which the condition of life makes of
greatest use; and that nothing is penuriously imparted, or placed far
from the reach of man, of which a more liberal distribution, or more
easy acquisition, would increase real and rational felicity.

Iron is common, and gold is rare. Iron contributes so much to supply the
wants of nature, that its use constitutes much of the difference between
savage and polished life, between the state of him that slumbers in
European palaces, and him that shelters himself in the cavities of a
rock from the chilness of the night, or the violence of the storm. Gold
can never be hardened into saws or axes; it can neither furnish
instruments of manufacture, utensils of agriculture, nor weapons of
defence; its only quality is to shine, and the value of its lustre
arises from its scarcity.

Throughout the whole circle, both of natural and moral life, necessaries
are as iron, and superfluities as gold. What we really need we may
readily obtain; so readily, that far the greater part of mankind has, in
the wantonness of abundance, confounded natural with artificial desires,
and invented necessities for the sake of employment, because the mind is
impatient of inaction, and life is sustained with so little labour, that
the tediousness of idle time cannot otherwise be supported.

Thus plenty is the original cause of many of our needs; and even the
poverty, which is so frequent and distressful in civilized nations,
proceeds often from that change of manners which opulence has produced.
Nature makes us poor only when we want necessaries; but custom gives the
name of poverty to the want of superfluities.

When Socrates passed through shops of toys and ornaments, he cried out,
"How many things are here which I do not need!" And the same exclamation
may every man make who surveys the common accommodations of life.

Superfluity and difficulty begin together. To dress food for the stomach
is easy, the art is to irritate the palate when the stomach is sufficed.
A rude hand may build walls, form roofs, and lay floors, and provide all
that warmth and security require; we only call the nicer artificers to
carve the cornice, or to paint the ceilings. Such dress as may enable
the body to endure the different seasons, the most unenlightened nations
have been able to procure; but the work of science begins in the
ambition of distinction, in variations of fashion, and emulation of
elegance. Corn grows with easy culture; the gardener's experiments are
only employed to exalt the flavours of fruits, and brighten the colours
of flowers.

Even of knowledge, those parts are most easy which are generally
necessary. The intercourse of society is maintained without the
elegancies of language. Figures, criticisms, and refinements, are the
work of those whom idleness makes weary of themselves. The commerce of
the world is carried on by easy methods of computation. Subtilty and
study are required only when questions are invented merely to puzzle,
and calculations are extended to show the skill of the calculator. The
light of the sun is equally beneficial to him whose eyes tell him that
it moves, and to him whose reason persuades him that it stands still;
and plants grow with the same luxuriance, whether we suppose earth or
water the parent of vegetation.

If we raise our thoughts to nobler inquiries, we shall still find
facility concurring with usefulness. No man needs stay to be virtuous,
till the moralists have determined the essence of virtue; our duty is
made apparent by its proximate consequences, though the general and
ultimate reason should never be discovered. Religion may regulate the
life of him to whom the Scotists and Thomists are alike unknown; and the
assertors of fate and free-will, however different in their talk, agree
to act in the same manner.

It is not my intention to depreciate the politer arts or abstruser
studies. That curiosity which always succeeds ease and plenty, was
undoubtedly given us as a proof of capacity which our present state is
not able to fill, as a preparative for some better mode of existence,
which shall furnish employment for the whole soul, and where pleasure
shall be adequate to our powers of fruition. In the mean time, let us
gratefully acknowledge that goodness which grants us ease at a cheap
rate, which changes the seasons where the nature of heat and cold has
not been yet examined, and gives the vicissitudes of day and night to
those who never marked the tropicks, or numbered the constellations.




No. 38. SATURDAY, JANUARY 6, 1759.

Since the publication of the letter concerning the condition of those
who are confined in gaols by their creditors, an inquiry is said to have
been made, by which it appears that more than twenty thousand[1] are at
this time prisoners for debt.

We often look with indifference on the successive parts of that, which,
if the whole were seen together, would shake us with emotion. A debtor
is dragged to prison, pitied for a moment, and then forgotten; another
follows him, and is lost alike in the caverns of oblivion; but when the
whole mass of calamity rises up at once, when twenty thousand reasonable
beings are heard all groaning in unnecessary misery, not by the
infirmity of nature, but the mistake or negligence of policy, who can
forbear to pity and lament, to wonder and abhor?

There is here no need of declamatory vehemence: we live in an age of
commerce and computation; let us, therefore, coolly inquire what is the
sum of evil which the imprisonment of debtors brings upon our country.

It seems to be the opinion of the later computists, that the inhabitants
of England do not exceed six millions, of which twenty thousand is the
three-hundredth part. What shall we say of the humanity or the wisdom of
a nation, that voluntarily sacrifices one in every three hundred to
lingering destruction?

The misfortunes of an individual do not extend their influence to many;
yet, if we consider the effects of consanguinity and friendship, and the
general reciprocation of wants and benefits, which make one man dear or
necessary to another, it may reasonably be supposed, that every man
languishing in prison gives trouble of some kind to two others who love
or need him. By this multiplication of misery we see distress extended
to the hundredth part of the whole society.

If we estimate at a shilling a day what is lost by the inaction, and
consumed in the support of each man thus chained down to involuntary
idleness, the publick loss will rise in one year to three hundred
thousand pounds; in ten years to more than a sixth part of our
circulating coin.

I am afraid that those who are best acquainted with the state of our
prisons will confess that my conjecture is too near the truth, when I
suppose that the corrosion of resentment, the heaviness of sorrow, the
corruption of confined air, the want of exercise, and sometimes of food,
the contagion of diseases, from which there is no retreat, and the
severity of tyrants, against whom there can be no resistance, and all
the complicated horrours of a prison, put an end every year to the life
of one in four of those that are shut up from the common comforts of
human life.

Thus perish yearly five thousand men overborne with sorrow, consumed by
famine, or putrefied by filth; many of them in the most vigorous and
useful part of life; for the thoughtless and imprudent are commonly
young, and the active and busy are seldom old.

According to the rule generally received, which supposes that one in
thirty dies yearly, the race of man may be said to be renewed at the end
of thirty years. Who would have believed till now, that of every English
generation, a hundred and fifty thousand perish in our gaols? that in
every century, a nation eminent for science, studious of commerce,
ambitious of empire, should willingly lose, in noisome dungeons, five
hundred thousand of its inhabitants; a number greater than has ever been
destroyed in the same time by pestilence and the sword?

A very late occurrence may show us the value of the number which we thus
condemn to be useless; in the reestablishment of the trained bands,
thirty thousand are considered as a force sufficient against all
exigencies. While, therefore, we detain twenty thousand in prison, we
shut up in darkness and uselessness two-thirds of an army which
ourselves judge equal to the defence of our country.

The monastick institutions have been often blamed, as tending to retard
the increase of mankind. And, perhaps, retirement ought rarely to be
permitted, except to those whose employment is consistent with
abstraction, and who, though solitary, will not be idle; to those whom
infirmity makes useless to the commonwealth, or to those who have paid
their due proportion to society, and who, having lived for others, may
be honourably dismissed to live for themselves. But whatever be the evil
or the folly of these retreats, those have no right to censure them
whose prisons contain greater numbers than the monasteries of other
countries. It is, surely, less foolish and less criminal to permit
inaction than compel it; to comply with doubtful opinions of happiness,
than condemn to certain and apparent misery; to indulge the
extravagancies of erroneous piety, than to multiply and enforce
temptations to wickedness.

The misery of gaols is not half their evil: they are filled with every
corruption which poverty and wickedness can generate between them; with
all the shameless and profligate enormities that can be produced by the
impudence of ignominy, the rage of want, and the malignity of despair.
In a prison the awe of the publick eye is lost, and the power of the law
is spent; there are few fears, there are no blushes. The lewd inflame
the lewd, the audacious harden the audacious. Every one fortifies
himself as he can against his own sensibility, endeavours to practise on
others the arts which are practised on himself; and gains the kindness
of his associates by similitude of manners.

Thus some sink amidst their misery, and others survive only to propagate
villany. It may be hoped, that our lawgivers will at length take away
from us this power of starving and depraving one another; but, if there
be any reason why this inveterate evil should not be removed in our age,
which true policy has enlightened beyond any former time, let those,
whose writings form the opinions and the practices of their
contemporaries, endeavour to transfer the reproach of such imprisonment
from the debtor to the creditor, till universal infamy shall pursue the
wretch whose wantonness of power, or revenge of disappointment, condemns
another to torture and to ruin; till he shall be hunted through the
world as an enemy to man, and find in riches no shelter from contempt.

Surely, he whose debtor has perished in prison, although he may acquit
himself of deliberate murder, must at least have his mind clouded with
discontent, when he considers how much another has suffered from him;
when he thinks on the wife bewailing her husband, or the children
begging the bread which their father would have earned. If there are any
made so obdurate by avarice or cruelty, as to revolve these consequences
without dread or pity, I must leave them to be awakened by some other
power, for I write only to human beings[2].


[1] This number was, at that time, confidently published; but the author
has since found reason to question the calculation.

[2] A series of Essays, entitled the Farrago, was published in 1792, for
    the benefit of the society for the discharge and relief of persons
    imprisoned for small debts. See Dr. Drake's Essays on the Rambler,
    &c. vol. ii. p. 427. The Congress of the United States passed a law
    in 1824, abolishing arrest and imprisonment for debt. The measure
    has yet to stand the test of practice and experience. See Idler 22.
    and note.




No. 39. SATURDAY, JANUARY 13, 1759.

  _Nec genus ornatus unun est: quod quamque decebit,
   Eligat_--OVID. Ars. Am. iii. 135.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

As none look more diligently about them than those who have nothing to
do, or who do nothing, I suppose it has not escaped your observation,
that the bracelet, an ornament of great antiquity, has been for some
years revived among the English ladies.

The genius of our nation is said, I know not for what reason, to appear
rather in improvement than invention. The bracelet was known in the
earliest ages; but it was formerly only a hoop of gold, or a cluster of
jewels, and showed nothing but the wealth or vanity of the wearer, till
our ladies, by carrying pictures on their wrists, made their ornaments
works of fancy and exercises of judgment.

This addition of art to luxury is one of the innumerable proofs that
might be given of the late increase of female erudition; and I have
often congratulated myself that my life has happened at a time when
those, on whom so much of human felicity depends, have learned to think
as well as speak, and when respect takes possession of the ear, while
love is entering at the eye.

I have observed, that, even by the suffrages of their own sex, those
ladies are accounted wisest, who do not yet disdain to be taught; and,
therefore, I shall offer a few hints for the completion of the bracelet,
without any dread of the fate of Orpheus.

To the ladies, who wear the pictures of their husbands or children, or
any other relations, I can offer nothing more decent or more proper. It
is reasonable to believe that she intends at least to perform her duty,
who carries a perpetual excitement to recollection and caution, whose
own ornaments must upbraid her with every failure, and who, by an open
violation of her engagements, must for ever forfeit her bracelet.

Yet I know not whether it is the interest of the husband to solicit very
earnestly a place on the bracelet. If his image be not in the heart, it
is of small avail to hang it on the hand. A husband encircled with
diamonds and rubies may gain some esteem, but will never excite love. He
that thinks himself most secure of his wife, should be fearful of
persecuting her continually with his presence. The joy of life is
variety; the tenderest love requires to be rekindled by intervals of
absence; and Fidelity herself will be wearied with transferring her eye
only from the same man to the same picture.

In many countries the condition of every woman is known by her dress.
Marriage is rewarded with some honourable distinction, which celibacy is
forbidden to usurp. Some such information a bracelet might afford. The
ladies might enrol themselves in distinct classes, and carry in open
view the emblems of their order. The bracelet of the authoress may
exhibit the Muses in a grove of laurel; the housewife may show Penelope
with her web; the votaress of a single life may carry Ursula with her
troop of virgins; the gamester may have Fortune with her wheel; and
those women _that have no character at all_ may display a field of white
enamel, as imploring help to fill up the vacuity.

There is a set of ladies who have outlived most animal pleasures, and,
having nothing rational to put in their place, solace with cards the
loss of what time has taken away, and the want of what wisdom, having
never been courted, has never given. For these I know not how to provide
a proper decoration. They cannot be numbered among the gamesters; for
though they are always at play, they play for nothing, and never rise to
the dignity of hazard or the reputation of skill. They neither love nor
are loved, and cannot be supposed to contemplate any human image with
delight. Yet, though they despair to please, they always wish to be
fine, and, therefore, cannot be without a bracelet. To this sisterhood I
can recommend nothing more likely to please them than the king of clubs,
a personage very comely and majestick, who will never meet their eyes
without reviving the thought of some past or future party, and who may
be displayed, in the act of dealing, with grace and propriety.

But the bracelet which might be most easily introduced into general use
is a small convex mirror, in which the lady may see herself whenever she
shall lift her hand. This will be a perpetual source of delight. Other
ornaments are of use only in publick, but this will furnish
gratifications to solitude. This will show a face that must always
please; she who is followed by admirers will carry about her a perpetual
justification of the publick voice; and she who passes without notice
may appeal from prejudice to her own eyes.

But I know not why the privilege of the bracelet should be confined to
women; it was in former ages worn by heroes in battle; and, as modern
soldiers are always distinguished by splendour of dress, I should
rejoice to see the bracelet added to the cockade.

In hope of this ornamental innovation, I have spent some thoughts upon
military bracelets. There is no passion more heroick than love; and,
therefore, I should be glad to see the sons of England marching in the
field, every man with the picture of a woman of honour bound upon his
hand. But since in the army, as every where else, there will always be
men who love nobody but themselves, or whom no woman of honour will
permit to love her, there is a necessity of some other distinctions and
devices.

I have read of a prince who, having lost a town, ordered the name of it
to be every morning shouted in his ear till it should be recovered. For
the same purpose I think the prospect of Minorca might be properly worn
on the hands of some of our generals: others might delight their
countrymen, and dignify themselves, with a view of Rochfort as it
appeared to them at sea: and those that shall return from the conquest
of America, may exhibit the warehouse of Frontenac, with an inscription
denoting, that it was taken in less than three years by less than twenty
thousand men.

I am, Sir, &c.

TOM TOY.




No. 40. SATURDAY, JANUARY 20, 1759.

The practice of appending to the narratives of publick transactions more
minute and domestick intelligence, and filling the newspapers with
advertisements, has grown up by slow degrees to its present state.

Genius is shown only by invention. The man who first took advantage of
the general curiosity that was excited by a siege or battle, to betray
the readers of news into the knowledge of the shop where the best puffs
and powder were to be sold, was undoubtedly a man of great sagacity, and
profound skill in the nature of man. But when he had once shown the way,
it was easy to follow him; and every man now knows a ready method of
informing the publick of all that he desires to buy or sell; whether his
wares be material or intellectual; whether he makes clothes, or teaches
the mathematicks; whether he be a tutor that wants a pupil, or a pupil
that wants a tutor.

Whatever is common is despised. Advertisements are now so numerous that
they are very negligently perused, and it is, therefore, become
necessary to gain attention by magnificence of promises, and by
eloquence sometimes sublime and sometimes pathetick.

Promise, large promise, is the soul of an advertisement. I remember a
_wash-ball_ that had a quality truly wonderful--it gave an _exquisite
edge to the razor_. And there are now to be sold, _for ready money
only_, some _duvets for bed-coverings, of down, beyond comparison
superior to what is called otter-down_, and indeed such, that its _many
excellencies cannot be here set forth_. With one excellence we are made
acquainted--_it is warmer than four or five blankets, and lighter than
one._

There are some, however, that know the prejudice of mankind in favour of
modest sincerity. The vender of the _beautifying fluid_ sells a lotion
that repels pimples, washes away freckles, smooths the skin, and plumps
the flesh; and yet, with a generous abhorrence of ostentation,
confesses, that it will not _restore the bloom of fifteen to a lady of
fifty_.

The true pathos of advertisements must have sunk deep into the heart of
every man that remembers the zeal shown by the seller of the _anodyne
necklace_, for the ease and safety of _poor teething infants_, and the
affection with which he warned every mother, that _she would never
forgive herself_, if her infant should perish without a necklace.

I cannot but remark to the celebrated author who gave, in his
notifications of the camel and dromedary, so many specimens of the
genuine sublime, that there is now arrived another subject yet more
worthy of his pen. _A famous Mohawk Indian warrior, who took_ Dieskaw
_the French general prisoner, dressed in the same manner with the native
Indians when they go to war, with his face and body painted, with his
scalping-knife, tom-axe, and all other implements of war! a sight worthy
the curiosity of every true Briton!_ This is a very powerful
description; but a critick of great refinement would say, that it
conveys rather _horrour_ than _terrour_. An Indian, dressed as he goes
to war, may bring company together; but if he carries the scalping-knife
and tom-axe, there are many true Britons that will never be persuaded to
see him but through a grate.

It has been remarked by the severer judges, that the salutary sorrow of
tragick scenes is too soon effaced by the merriment of the epilogue; the
same inconvenience arises from the improper disposition of
advertisements. The noblest objects may be so associated as to be made
ridiculous. The camel and dromedary themselves might have lost much of
their dignity between _the true flower of mustard_ and the _original
Daffy's elixir_; and I could not but feel some indignation when I found
this illustrious Indian warrior immediately succeeded by _a fresh parcel
of Dublin butter_.

The trade of advertising is now so near to perfection, that it is not
easy to propose any improvement. But as every art ought to be exercised
in due subordination to the publick good, I cannot but propose it as a
moral question to these masters of the publick ear, Whether they do not
sometimes play too wantonly with our passions, as when the registrar of
lottery-tickets invites us to his shop by an account of the prize which
he sold last year; and whether the advertising controvertists do not
indulge asperity of language without any adequate provocation; as in the
dispute about _straps for razors_, now happily subsided, and in the
altercation which at present subsists concerning _eau de luce_?

In an advertisement it is allowed to every man to speak well of himself,
but I know not why he should assume the privilege of censuring his
neighbour. He may proclaim his own virtue or skill, but ought not to
exclude others from the same pretensions.

Every man that advertises his own excellence should write with some
consciousness of a character which dares to call the attention of the
publick. He should remember that his name is to stand in the same paper
with those of the king of Prussia and the emperour of Germany, and
endeavour to make himself worthy of such association.

Some regard is likewise to be paid to posterity. There are men of
diligence and curiosity who treasure up the papers of the day merely
because others neglect them, and in time they will be scarce. When these
collections shall be read in another century, how will numberless
contradictions be reconciled? and how shall fame be possibly distributed
among the tailors and bodice-makers of the present age?

Surely these things deserve consideration. It is enough for me to have
hinted my desire that these abuses may be rectified; but such is the
state of nature, that what all have the right of doing, many will
attempt without sufficient care or due qualifications[1].

[1] A history of newspapers, more diffuse than the chronological series
    in Nichols' Literary Anecdotes, Vol. iv. is desirable. See Preface.




No. 41. SATURDAY, JANUARY 27, 1759.

The following letter relates to an affliction perhaps not necessary to
be imparted to the publick; but I could not persuade myself to suppress
it, because I think, I know the sentiments to be sincere, and I feel no
disposition to provide for this day any other entertainment.

  At, tu quisquis eris, miseri qui cruda poetae
    Credideris fletu funera digna tuo,
  Haec postrema tibi sit flendi causa, fluatque
    Lenis inoffenso vitaque morsque gradu.      OVID.

Mr. Idler,

Notwithstanding the warnings of philosophers, and the daily examples of
losses and misfortunes which life forces upon our observation, such is
the absorption of our thoughts in the business of the present day, such
the resignation of our reason to empty hopes of future felicity, or such
our unwillingness to foresee what we dread, that every calamity comes
suddenly upon us, and not only presses us as a burden, but crushes as a
blow.

There are evils which happen out of the common course of nature, against
which it is no reproach not to be provided. A flash of lightning
intercepts the traveller in his way. The concussion of an earthquake
heaps the ruins of cities upon their inhabitants. But other miseries
time brings, though silently yet visibly, forward by its even lapse,
which yet approach us unseen, because we turn our eyes away, and seize
us unresisted, because we could not arm ourselves against them but by
setting them before us.

That it is vain to shrink from what cannot be avoided, and to hide that
from ourselves which must some time be found, is a truth which we all
know, but which all neglect, and, perhaps, none more than the
speculative reasoner, whose thoughts are always from home, whose eye
wanders over life, whose fancy dances after meteors of happiness kindled
by itself, and who examines every thing rather than his own state.

Nothing is more evident than that the decays of age must terminate in
death; yet there is no man, says Tully, who does not believe that he may
yet live another year; and there is none who does not, upon the same
principle, hope another year for his parent or his friend: but the
fallacy will be in time detected; the last year, the last day, must
come. It has come, and is past. The life which made my own life pleasant
is at an end, and the gates of death are shut upon my prospects.

The loss of a friend upon whom the heart was fixed, to whom every wish
and endeavour tended, is a state of dreary desolation, in which the mind
looks abroad impatient of itself, and finds nothing but emptiness and
horrour. The blameless life, the artless tenderness, the pious
simplicity, the modest resignation, the patient sickness, and the quiet
death, are remembered only to add value to the loss, to aggravate regret
for what cannot be amended, to deepen sorrow for what cannot be
recalled.

These are the calamities by which Providence gradually disengages us
from the love of life. Other evils fortitude may repel, or hope may
mitigate; but irreparable privation leaves nothing to exercise
resolution or flatter expectation. The dead cannot return, and nothing
is left us here but languishment and grief.

Yet such is the course of nature, that whoever lives long must outlive
those whom he loves and honours. Such is the condition of our present
existence, that life must one time lose its associations, and every
inhabitant of the earth must walk downward to the grave alone and
unregarded, without any partner of his joy or grief, without any
interested witness of his misfortunes or success.

Misfortune, indeed, he may yet feel; for where is the bottom of the
misery of man? But what is success to him that has none to enjoy it?
Happiness is not found in self-contemplation; it is perceived only when
it is reflected from another.

We know little of the state of departed souls, because such knowledge is
not necessary to a good life. Reason deserts us at the brink of the
grave, and can give no further intelligence. Revelation is not wholly
silent. "There is joy in the angels of Heaven over one sinner that
repenteth;" and, surely, this joy is not incommunicable to souls
disentangled from the body, and made like angels.

Let hope therefore dictate, what revelation does not confute, that the
union of souls may still remain; and that we who are struggling with
sin, sorrow, and infirmities, may have our part in the attention and
kindness of those who have finished their course, and are now receiving
their reward.

These are the great occasions which force the mind to take refuge in
religion: when we have no help in ourselves, what can remain but that we
look up to a higher and a greater Power? and to what hope may we not
raise our eyes and hearts, when we consider that the greatest POWER is
the BEST?

Surely there is no man who, thus afflicted, does not seek succour in the
_gospel_, which has brought _life and immortality to light_. The
precepts of Epicurus, who teaches us to endure what the laws of the
universe make necessary, may silence, but not content us. The dictates
of Zeno, who commands us to look with indifference on external things,
may dispose us to conceal our sorrow, but cannot assuage it. Real
alleviation of the loss of friends, and rational tranquillity, in the
prospect of our own dissolution, can be received only from the promises
of Him in whose hands are life and death, and from the assurance of
another and better state, in which all tears will be wiped from the
eyes, and the whole soul shall be filled with joy. Philosophy may infuse
stubbornness, but Religion only can give patience[1].

I am, &c.

[1] See Preface.




No. 42. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 1759.

The subject of the following letter is not wholly unmentioned by the
Rambler. The Spectator has also a letter containing a case not much
different. I hope my correspondent's performance is more an effort of
genius, than an effusion of the passions; and that she hath rather
attempted to paint some possible distress, than really feels the evils
which she has described.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

There is a cause of misery, which, though certainly known both to you
and your predecessors, has been little taken notice of in your papers; I
mean the snares that the bad behaviour of parents extends over the paths
of life which their children are to tread after them; and as I make no
doubt but the Idler holds the shield for virtue, as well as the glass
for folly; that he will employ his leisure hours as much to his own
satisfaction in warning his readers against a danger, as in laughing
them out of a fashion: for this reason I am tempted to ask admittance
for my story in your paper, though it has nothing to recommend it but
truth, and the honest wish of warning others to shun the track which, I
am afraid, may lead me at last to ruin.

I am the child of a father, who, having always lived in one spot in the
country where he was born, and having had no genteel education himself,
thought no qualifications in the world desirable but as they led up to
fortune, and no learning necessary to happiness but such as might most
effectually teach me to make the best market of myself. I was
unfortunately born a beauty, to a full sense of which my father took
care to flatter me; and having, when very young, put me to a school in
the country, afterwards transplanted me to another in town, at the
instigation of his friends, where his ill-judged fondness let me remain
no longer than to learn just enough experience to convince me of the
sordidness of his views, to give me an idea of perfections which my
present situation will never suffer me to reach, and to teach me
sufficient morals to dare to despise what is bad, though it be in a
father.

Thus equipped (as he thought completely) for life, I was carried back
into the country, and lived with him and my mother in a small village,
within a few miles of the county town; where I mixed, at first with
reluctance, among company which, though I never despised, I could not
approve, as they were brought up with other inclinations, and narrower
views than my own. My father took great pains to show me every where,
both at his own house, and at such publick diversions as the country
afforded: he frequently told the people all he had was for his daughter;
took care to repeat the civilities I had received from all his friends
in London; told how much I was admired, and all his little ambition
could suggest to set me in a stronger light.

Thus have I continued tricked out for sale, as I may call it, and
doomed, by parental authority, to a state little better than that of
prostitution. I look on myself as growing cheaper every hour, and am
losing all that honest pride, that modest confidence, in which the
virgin dignity consists. Nor does my misfortune stop here: though many
would be too generous to impute the follies of a father to a child whose
heart has set her above them; yet I am afraid the most charitable of
them will hardly think it possible for me to be a daily spectatress of
his vices without tacitly allowing them, and at last consenting to them,
as the eye of the frightened infant is, by degrees, reconciled to the
darkness of which at first it was afraid.

It is a common opinion, he himself must very well know, that vices, like
diseases, are often hereditary; and that the property of the one is to
infect the manners, as the other poisons the springs of life.

Yet this, though bad, is not the worst; my father deceives himself in
the hopes of the very child he has brought into the world; he suffers
his house to be the seat of drunkenness, riot, and irreligion, who
seduces, almost in my sight, the menial servant, converses with the
prostitute, and corrupts the wife! Thus I, who from my earliest dawn of
reason was taught to think that at my approach every eye sparkled with
pleasure, or was dejected as conscious of superior charms, am excluded
from society, through fear lest I should partake, if not of my father's
crimes, at least of his reproach. Is a parent, who is so little
solicitous for the welfare of a child, better than a pirate who turns a
wretch adrift in a boat at sea, without a star to steer by, or an anchor
to hold it fast? Am I not to lay all my miseries at those doors which
ought to have been opened only for my protection? And if doomed to add
at last one more to the number of those wretches whom neither the world
nor its law befriends, may I not justly say that I have been awed by a
parent into ruin? But though a parent's power is screened from insult
and violation by the very words of Heaven, yet surely no laws, divine or
human, forbid me to remove myself from the malignant shade of a plant
that poisons all around it, blasts the bloom of youth, checks its
improvements, and makes all its flowrets fade; but to whom can the
wretched, can the dependant fly? For me to fly a father's house, is to
be a beggar: I have only one comfort amidst my anxieties, a pious
relation, who bids me appeal to Heaven for a witness to my just
intentions, fly as a deserted wretch to its protection; and, being asked
who my father is, point, like the ancient philosopher, with my finger to
the heavens.

The hope in which I write this is, that you will give it a place in your
paper; and, as your essays sometimes find their way into the country,
that my father may read my story there; and, if not for his own sake,
yet for mine, spare to perpetuate that worst of calamities to me, the
loss of character, from which all his dissimulation has not been able to
rescue himself. Tell the world, Sir, that it is possible for virtue to
keep its throne unshaken without any other guard than itself; that it is
possible to maintain that purity of thought so necessary to the
completion of human excellence, even in the midst of temptations; when
they have no friend within, nor are assisted by the voluntary indulgence
of vicious thoughts.

If the insertion of a story like this does not break in on the plan of
your paper, you have it in your power to be a better friend than her
father to

PERDITA[1].

[1]From an unknown correspondent.




No. 43. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 10, 1759.

The natural advantages which arise from the position of the earth which
we inhabit with respect to the other planets, afford much employment to
mathematical speculation; by which it has been discovered, that no other
conformation of the system could have given such commodious
distributions of light and heat, or imparted fertility and pleasure to
so great a part of a revolving sphere.

It may be, perhaps, observed by the moralist, with equal reason, that
our globe seems particularly fitted for the residence of a being, placed
here only for a short time, whose task is to advance himself to a higher
and happier state of existence, by unremitted vigilance of caution, and
activity of virtue.

The duties required of man are such as human nature does not willingly
perform, and such as those are inclined to delay who yet intend some
time to fulfil them. It was, therefore, necessary that this universal
reluctance should be counteracted, and the drowsiness of hesitation
wakened into resolve; that the danger of procrastination should he
always in view, and the fallacies of security be hourly detected.

To this end all the appearances of nature uniformly conspire. Whatever
we see on every side reminds us of the lapse of time and the flux of
life. The day and night succeed each other, the rotation of seasons
diversifies the year, the sun rises, attains the meridian, declines, and
sets; and the moon every night changes its form.

The day has been considered as an image of the year, and the year as the
representation of life. The morning answers to the spring, and the
spring to childhood and youth; the noon corresponds to the summer, and
the summer to the strength of manhood. The evening is an emblem of
autumn, and autumn of declining life. The night with its silence and
darkness shows the winter, in which all the powers of vegetation are
benumbed; and the winter points out the time when life shall cease, with
its hopes and pleasures.

He that is carried forward, however swiftly, by a motion equable and
easy, perceives not the change of place but by the variation of objects.
If the wheel of life, which rolls thus silently along, passed on through
undistinguishable uniformity, we should never mark its approaches to the
end of the course. If one hour were like another; if the passage of the
sun did not show that the day is wasting; if the change of seasons did
not impress upon us the flight of the year; quantities of duration equal
to days and years would glide unobserved. If the parts of time were not
variously coloured, we should never discern their departure or
succession, but should live thoughtless of the past, and careless of the
future, without will, and perhaps without power, to compute the periods
of life, or to compare the time which is already lost with that which
may probably remain.

But the course of time is so visibly marked, that it is observed even by
the birds of passage, and by nations who have raised their minds very
little above animal instinct: there are human beings whose language does
not supply them with words by which they can number five, but I have
read of none, that have not names for day and night, for summer and
winter.

Yet it is certain, that these admonitions of nature, however forcible,
however importunate, are too often vain; and that many who mark with
such accuracy the course of time, appear to have little sensibility of
the decline of life. Every man has something to do which he neglects;
every man has faults to conquer which he delays to combat.

So little do we accustom ourselves to consider the effects of time, that
things necessary and certain often surprise us like unexpected
contingencies. We leave the beauty in her bloom, and, after an absence
of twenty years, wonder, at our return, to find her faded. We meet those
whom we left children, and can scarcely persuade ourselves to treat them
as men. The traveller visits in age those countries through which he
rambled in his youth, and hopes for merriment at the old place. The man
of business, wearied with unsatisfactory prosperity, retires to the town
of his nativity, and expects to play away the last years with the
companions of his childhood, and recover youth in the fields, where he
once was young.

From this inattention, so general and so mischievous, let it be every
man's study to exempt himself. Let him that desires to see others happy
make haste to give, while his gift can be enjoyed, and remember that
every moment of delay takes away something from the value of his
benefaction. And let him, who purposes his own happiness, reflect, that
while he forms his purpose the day rolls on, and _the night cometh when
no man can work_.




No. 44. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 1759.

Memory is, among the faculties of the human mind, that of which we make
the most frequent use, or rather that of which the agency is incessant,
or perpetual. Memory is the primary and fundamental power, without which
there could be no other intellectual operation. Judgment and
ratiocination suppose something already known, and draw their decisions
only from experience. Imagination selects ideas from the treasures of
remembrance, and produces novelty only by varied combinations. We do not
even form conjectures of distant, or anticipations of future events, but
by concluding what is possible from what is past.

The two offices of memory are collection and distribution; by one images
are accumulated, and by the other produced for use. Collection is always
the employment of our first years; and distribution commonly that of our
advanced age.

To collect and reposite the various forms of things, is far the most
pleasing part of mental occupation. We are naturally delighted with
novelty, and there is a time when all that we see is new. When first we
enter into the world, whithersoever we turn our eyes, they meet
knowledge with pleasure at her side; every diversity of nature pours
ideas in upon the soul; neither search nor labour are necessary; we have
nothing more to do than to open our eyes, and curiosity is gratified.

Much of the pleasure which the first survey of the world affords, is
exhausted before we are conscious of our own felicity, or able to
compare our condition with some other possible state. We have,
therefore, few traces of the joy of our earliest discoveries; yet we all
remember a time, when nature had so many untasted gratifications, that
every excursion gave delight which, can now be found no longer, when the
noise of a torrent, the rustle of a wood, the song of birds, or the play
of lambs, had power to fill the attention, and suspend all perception of
the course of time.

But these easy pleasures are soon at an end; we have seen in a very
little time so much, that we call out for new objects of observation,
and endeavour to find variety in books and life. But study is laborious,
and not always satisfactory; and conversation has its pains as well
pleasures; we are willing to learn, but not willing to be taught; we are
pained by ignorance, but pained yet more by another's knowledge.

From the vexation of pupilage men commonly set themselves free about the
middle of life, by shutting up the avenues of intelligence, and
resolving to rest in their present state; and they, whose ardour of
inquiry continues longer, find themselves insensibly forsaken by their
instructors. As every man advances in life, the proportion between those
that are younger and that are older than himself is continually
changing; and he that has lived half a century finds few that do not
require from him that information which he once expected from those that
went before him.

Then it is, that the magazines of memory are opened, and the stores of
accumulated knowledge are displayed by vanity or benevolence, or in
honest commerce of mutual interest. Every man wants others, and is,
therefore, glad when he is wanted by them. And as few men will endure
the labour of intense meditation without necessity, he that has learned
enough for his profit or his honour, seldom endeavours after further
acquisitions.

The pleasure of recollecting speculative notions would not be much less
than that of gaining them, if they could be kept pure and unmingled with
the passages of life; but such is the necessary concatenation of our
thoughts, that good and evil are linked together, and no pleasure recurs
but associated with pain. Every revived idea reminds us of a time when
something was enjoyed that is now lost, when some hope was not yet
blasted, when some purpose had yet not languished into sluggishness or
indifference.

Whether it be, that life has more vexations than comforts, or, what is
in the event just the same, that evil makes deeper impression than good,
it is certain that few can review the time past without heaviness of
heart. He remembers many calamities incurred by folly, many
opportunities lost by negligence. The shades of the dead rise up before
him; and he laments the companions of his youth, the partners of his
amusements, the assistants of his labours, whom the hand of death has
snatched away.

When an offer was made to Themistocles of teaching him the art of
memory, he answered, that he would rather wish for the art of
forgetfulness. He felt his imagination haunted by phantoms of misery
which he was unable to suppress, and would gladly have calmed his
thoughts with some _oblivious antidote_. In this we all resemble one
another; the hero and the sage are, like vulgar mortals, overburdened by
the weight of life; all shrink from recollection, and all wish for an
art of forgetfulness[1].

[1] Read the sublime story of Sadak in search of the waters of oblivion
    the Tales of the Genii. Those who have seen Martin's picture on the
    subject, have failed almost to recognise the respective limits of
    poetry and of painting.




No. 45. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 24, 1759.

There is in many minds a kind of vanity exerted to the disadvantage of
themselves; a desire to be praised for superior acuteness discovered
only in the degradation of their species, or censure of their country.

Defamation is sufficiently copious. The general lampooner of mankind may
find long exercise for his zeal or wit, in the defects of nature, the
vexations of life, the follies of opinion, and the corruptions of
practice. But fiction is easier than discernment; and most of these
writers spare themselves the labour of inquiry, and exhaust their
virulence upon imaginary crimes, which, as they never existed, can never
be amended.

That the painters find no encouragement among the English for many other
works than portraits, has been imputed to national selfishness. 'Tis
vain, says the satirist, to set before, any Englishman the scenes of
landscape, or the heroes of history; nature and antiquity are nothing in
his eye; he has no value but for himself, nor desires any copy but of
his own form.

Whoever is delighted with his own picture must derive his pleasure from
the pleasure of another. Every man is always present to himself, and
has, therefore, little need of his own resemblance, nor can desire it,
but for the sake of those whom he loves, and by whom he hopes to be
remembered. This use of the art is a natural and reasonable consequence
of affection; and though, like other human actions, it is often
complicated with pride, yet even such pride is more laudable than that
by which palaces are covered with pictures, that, however excellent,
neither imply the owner's virtue, nor excite it.

Genius is chiefly exerted in historical pictures; and the art of the
painter of portraits is often lost in the obscurity of his subject. But
it is in painting as in life; what is greatest is not always best. I
should grieve to see Reynolds transfer to heroes and to goddesses, to
empty splendour and to airy fiction, that art which is now employed in
diffusing friendship, in reviving tenderness, in quickening the
affections of the absent, and continuing the presence of the dead[1].

Yet in a nation great and opulent there is room, and ought to be
patronage, for an art like that of painting through all its diversities;
and it is to be wished, that the reward now offered for an historical
picture may excite an honest emulation, and give beginning to an English
school.

It is not very easy to find an action or event that can be efficaciously
represented by a painter.

He must have an action not successive but instantaneous; for the time of
a picture is a single moment. For this reason, the death of Hercules
cannot well be painted, though, at the first view, it flatters the
imagination with very glittering ideas: the gloomy mountain, overhanging
the sea, and covered with trees, some bending to the wind, and some torn
from their roots by the raging hero; the violence with which he rends
from his shoulders the envenomed garment; the propriety with which his
muscular nakedness may be displayed; the death of Lycas whirled from the
promontory; the gigantick presence of Philoctetes; the blaze of the
fatal pile, which the deities behold with grief and terrour from the
sky.

All these images fill the mind, but will not compose a picture, because
they cannot be united in a single moment[2]. Hercules must have rent his
flesh at one time, and tossed Lycas into the air at another; he must
first tear up the trees, and then lie down upon the pile.

The action must be circumstantial and distinct. There is a passage in
the Iliad which cannot be read without strong emotions. A Trojan prince,
seized by Achilles in the battle, falls at his feet, and in moving terms
supplicates for life. "How can a wretch like thee," says the haughty
Greek, "intreat to live, when thou knowest that the time must come when
Achilles is to die?" This cannot be painted, because no peculiarity of
attitude or disposition can so supply the place of language as to
impress the sentiment.

The event painted must be such as excites passion, and different
passions in the several actors, or a tumult of contending passions in
the chief.

Perhaps the discovery of Ulysses by his nurse is of this kind. The
surprise of the nurse mingled with joy; that of Ulysses checked by
prudence, and clouded by solicitude; and the distinctness of the action
by which the scar is found; all concur to complete the subject. But the
picture, having only two figures, will want variety.

A much nobler assemblage may be furnished by the death of Epaminondas.
The mixture of gladness and grief in the face of the messenger who
brings his dying general an account of the victory; the various passions
of the attendants; the sublimity of composure in the hero, while the
dart is by his own command drawn from his side, and the faint gleam of
satisfaction that diffuses itself over the languor of death; are worthy
of that pencil which yet I do not wish to see employed upon them.

If the design were not too multifarious and extensive, I should wish
that our painters would attempt the dissolution of the parliament by
Cromwell[3]. The point of time may be chosen when Cromwell, looking
round the Pandaemonium with contempt, ordered the bauble to be taken
away; and Harrison laid hands on the Speaker to drag him from the chair.

The various appearances which rage, and terrour, and astonishment, and
guilt, might exhibit in the faces of that hateful assembly, of whom the
principal persons may be faithfully drawn from portraits or prints; the
irresolute repugnance of some, the hypocritical submissions of others,
the ferocious insolence of Cromwell, the rugged brutality of Harrison,
and the general trepidation of fear and wickedness, would, if some
proper disposition could be contrived, make a picture of unexampled
variety, and irresistible instruction.

[1] Some judicious remarks on portrait painting may be found in
    Chalmers' Preface to Idler, Brit. Ess. 33.

    The difference between the French and English schools, in this
    department of the Art, well proves that mind has scope for its
    powers in portrait, and that genius alone can so generalize the
    details "as to identify the individual man with the dignity of his
    thinking powers."

[2] Has that picture, which is considered the finest in the world, the
    transfiguration, this requisite? Could any human eye, at one and the
    same moment, have beheld the apostles baffled with the stubborn
    spirit which they had not faith to quell, and the glories on the
    Mount?

[3] This subject has now been most successfully handled by West. Hall's
    exquisite engraving has rendered the picture familiar.




No. 40. SATURDAY, MARCH 3, 1759.

  _Fugit ad salices, sed, se cupit ante videri_.   VIRGIL.

Mr. Idler,

I am encouraged, by the notice you have taken of Betty Broom, to
represent the miseries which I suffer from a species of tyranny, which,
I believe, is not very uncommon, though perhaps it may have escaped the
observation of those who converse little with fine ladies, or see them
only in their publick characters.

To this method of venting my vexation I am the more inclined, because if
I do not complain to you, I must burst in silence; for my mistress has
teased me and teased me till I can hold no longer, and yet I must not
tell her of her tricks. The girls that live in common services can
quarrel, and give warning, and find other places; but we that live with
great ladies, if we once offend them, have, nothing left but to return
into the country.

I am waiting-maid to a lady who keeps the best company, and is seen at
every place of fashionable resort. I am envied by all the maids in the
square, for few countesses leave off so many clothes as my mistress, and
nobody shares with me: so that I supply two families in the country with
finery for the assizes and horse-races, besides what I wear myself. The
steward and housekeeper have joined against me to procure my removal,
that they may advance a relation of their own; but their designs are
found out by my lady, who says I need not fear them, for she will never
have dowdies about her.

You would think, Mr. Idler, like others, that I am very happy, and may
well be contented with my lot. But I will tell you. My lady has an odd
humour. She never orders any thing in direct words, for she loves a
sharp girl that can take a hint.

I would not have you suspect that she has any thing to hint which she is
ashamed to speak at length; for none can have greater purity of
sentiment, or rectitude of intention. She has nothing to hide, yet
nothing will she tell. She always gives her directions obliquely and
allusively, by the mention of something relative or consequential,
without any other purpose than to exercise my acuteness and her own.

It is impossible to give a notion of this style otherwise than by
examples. One night, when she had sat writing letters till it was time
to be dressed, _Molly_, said she, _the Ladies are all to be at Court
to-night in white aprons_. When she means that I should send to order the
chair, she says, _I think the streets are clean, I may venture to walk_.
When she would have something put into its place, she bids me _lay it on
the floor_. If she would have me snuff the candles, she asks _whether I
think her eyes are like a cat's_? If she thinks her chocolate delayed,
she talks of _the benefit of abstinence_. If any needle-work is
forgotten, she supposes _that I have heard of the lady who died by
pricking her finger_.

She always imagines that I can recall every thing past from a single
word. If she wants her head from the milliner, she only says, _Molly,
you know Mrs. Tape_. If she would have the mantua-maker sent for, she
remarks _that Mr. Taffety, the mercer, was here last week_. She ordered,
a fortnight ago, that the first time she was abroad all day I should
choose her a new set of coffee-cups at the china-shop: of this she
reminded me yesterday, as she was going down stairs, by saying, _You
can't find your way now to Pall-mall_.

All this would never vex me, if, by increasing my trouble, she spared
her own; but, dear Mr. Idler, is it not as easy to say _coffee-cups_, as
_Pall-mall_? and to tell me in plain words what I am to do, and when it
is to be done, as to torment her own head with the labour of finding
hints, and mine with that of understanding them?

When first I came to this lady, I had nothing like the learning that I
have now; for she has many books, and I have much time to read; so that
of late I seldom have missed her meaning: but when she first took me I
was an ignorant girl; and she, who, as is very common, confounded want
of knowledge with want of understanding, began once to despair of
bringing me to any thing, because, when I came into her chamber at the
call of her bell, she asked me, _Whether we lived in Zembla_; and I did
not guess the meaning of her inquiry, but modestly answered, that _I
could not tell_. She had happened to ring once when I did not hear her,
and meant to put me in mind of that country where sounds are said to be
congealed by the frost.

Another time, as I was dressing her head, she began to talk on a sudden
of _Medusa_, and _snakes_, and _men turned into stone, and maids that,
if they were not watched, would let their mistresses be Gorgons_. I
looked round me half frightened, and quite bewildered; till at last,
finding that her literature was thrown away upon me, she bid me with
great vehemence, reach the curling-irons.

It is not without some indignation, Mr. Idler, that I discover, in these
artifices of vexation, something worse than foppery or caprice; a mean
delight in superiority, which knows itself in no danger of reproof or
opposition; a cruel pleasure in seeing the perplexity of a mind obliged
to find what is studiously concealed, and a mean indulgence of petty
malevolence, in the sharp censure of involuntary, and very often of
inevitable, failings. When, beyond her expectation, I hit upon her
meaning, I can perceive a sudden cloud of disappointment spread over her
face; and have sometimes been afraid, lest I should lose her favour by
understanding her when she means to puzzle me.

This day, however, she has conquered my sagacity. When she went out of
her dressing-room, she said nothing, but, _Molly, you know_, and
hastened to her chariot. What I am to know is yet a secret; but if I do
not know before she comes back, what I yet have no means of discovering,
she will make my dullness a pretence for a fortnight's ill humour, treat
me as a creature devoid of the faculties necessary to the common duties
of life, and perhaps give the next gown to the housekeeper.

I am, Sir,

Your humble servant,

MOLLY QUICK.




No. 47. SATURDAY, MARCH 10, 1759.

TO THE IDLER.

Mr. Idler,

I am the unfortunate wife of a city wit, and cannot but think that my
case may deserve equal compassion with any of those which have been
represented in your paper.

I married my husband within three months after the expiration of his
apprenticeship; we put our money together, and furnished a large and
splendid shop, in which he was for five years and a half diligent and
civil. The notice which curiosity or kindness commonly bestows on
beginners, was continued by confidence and esteem; one customer, pleased
with his treatment and his bargain, recommended another; and we were
busy behind the counter from morning to night.

Thus every day increased our wealth and our reputation. My husband was
often invited to dinner openly on the Exchange by hundred thousand
pounds men; and whenever I went to any of the halls, the wives of the
aldermen made me low courtesies. We always took up our notes before the
day, and made all considerable payments by draughts upon our banker.

You will easily believe that I was well enough pleased with my
condition; for what happiness can be greater than that of growing every
day richer and richer? I will not deny, that, imagining myself likely to
be in a short time the sheriff's lady, I broke off my acquaintance with
some of my neighbours; and advised my husband to keep good company, and
not to be seen with men that were worth nothing.

In time he found that ale disagreed with his constitution, and went
every night to drink his pint at a tavern, where he met with a set of
criticks, who disputed upon the merit of the different theatrical
performers. By these idle fellows he was taken to the play, which at
first he did not seem much to heed; for he owned, that he very seldom
knew what they were doing, and that, while his companions would let him
alone, he was commonly thinking on his last bargain.

Having once gone, however, he went again and again, though I often told
him that three shillings were thrown away: at last he grew uneasy if he
missed a night, and importuned me to go with him. I went to a tragedy,
which they called Macbeth; and, when I came home, told him, that I could
not bear to see men and women make themselves such fools, by pretending
to be witches and ghosts, generals and kings, and to walk in their sleep
when they were as much awake, as those that looked at them. He told me
that I must get higher notions, and that a play was the most rational of
all entertainments, and most proper to relax the mind after the business
of the day.

By degrees he gained knowledge of some of the players: and, when the
play was over, very frequently treated them with suppers; for which he
was admitted to stand behind the scenes.

He soon began to lose some of his morning hours in the same folly, and
was for one winter very diligent in his attendance on the rehearsals;
but of this species of idleness he grew weary, and said, that the play
was nothing without the company.

His ardour for the diversion of the evening increased; he bought a
sword, and paid five shillings a night to sit in the boxes; he went
sometimes into a place which he calls the green-room, where all the wits
of the age assemble and, when he had been there, could do nothing, for
two or three days, but repeat their jests, or tell their disputes.

He has now lost his regard for every thing but the playhouse; he
invites, three times a week, one or other to drink claret, and talk of
the drama. His first care in the morning is to read the play-bills; and,
if he remembers any lines of the tragedy which is to be represented,
walks about the shop, repeating them so loud, and with such strange
gestures, that the passengers gather round the door.

His greatest pleasure, when I married him, was to hear the situation of
his shop commended, and to be told how many estates have been got in it
by the same trade; but of late he grows peevish at any mention of
business, and delights in nothing so much as to be told that he speaks
like Mossop.

Among his new associates he has learned another language, and speaks in
such a strain that his neighbours cannot understand him. If a customer
talks longer than he is willing to hear, he will complain that he has
been excruciated with unmeaning verbosity; he laughs at the letters of
his friends for their tameness of expression, and often declares himself
weary of attending to the minutiæ of a shop.

It is well for me that I know how to keep a book, for of late he is
scarcely ever in the way. Since one of his friends told him that he had
a genius for tragick poetry, he has locked himself in an upper room six
or seven hours a day; and, when I carry him any paper to be read or
signed, I hear him talking vehemently to himself, sometimes of love and
beauty, sometimes of friendship and virtue, but more frequently of
liberty and his country.

I would gladly, Mr. Idler, be informed what to think of a shopkeeper,
who is incessantly talking about liberty; a word, which, since his
acquaintance with polite life, my husband has always in his mouth: he
is, on all occasions, afraid of our liberty, and declares his resolution
to hazard all for liberty. What can the man mean? I am sure he has
liberty enough; it were better for him and me if his liberty was
lessened.

He has a friend, whom he calls a critick, that comes twice a week to
read what he is writing. This critick tells him that his piece is a
little irregular, but that some detached scenes will shine prodigiously,
and that in the character of Bombulus he is wonderfully great. My
scribbler then squeezes his hand, calls him the best of friends, thanks
him for his sincerity, and tells him that he hates to be flattered. I
have reason to believe that he seldom parts with his dear friend without
lending him two guineas, and am afraid that he gave bail for him three
days ago.

By this course of life our credit as traders is lessened; and I cannot
forbear to suspect, that my husband's honour as a wit is not much
advanced, for he seems to be always the lowest of the company, and is
afraid to tell his opinion till the rest have spoken. When he was behind
his counter, he used to be brisk, active, and jocular, like a man that
knew what he was doing, and did not fear to look another in the face;
but among wits and criticks he is timorous and awkward, and hangs down
his head at his own table. Dear Mr. Idler, persuade him, if you can, to
return once more to his native element. Tell him, that wit will never
make him rich, but that there are places where riches will always make a
wit.

I am, Sir, &c.

DEBORAH GINGER.




No. 48. SATURDAY, MARCH 17, 1759.

There is no kind of idleness, by which we are so easily seduced, as that
which dignifies itself by the appearance of business; and, by making the
loiterer imagine that he has something to do which must not be
neglected, keeps him in perpetual agitation, and hurries him rapidly
from place to place.

He that sits still, or reposes himself upon a couch, no more deceives
himself than he deceives others; he knows that he is doing nothing, and
has no other solace of his insignificance than the resolution, which the
lazy hourly make, of changing his mode of life.

To do nothing every man is ashamed; and to do much almost every man is
unwilling or afraid. Innumerable expedients have, therefore, been
invented to produce motion without labour, and employment without
solicitude. The greater part of those, whom the kindness of fortune has
left to their own direction, and whom want does not keep chained to the
counter or the plough, play throughout life with the shadows of
business, and know not at last what they have been doing.

These imitators of action are of all denominations. Some are seen at
every auction without intention to purchase; others appear punctually at
the Exchange, though they are known there only by their faces: some are
always making parties to visit collections for which they have no taste;
and some neglect every pleasure and every duty to hear questions, in
which they have no interest, debated in parliament.

These men never appear more ridiculous than in the distress which they
imagine themselves to feel from some accidental interruption of those
empty pursuits. A tiger newly imprisoned is indeed more formidable, but
not more angry, than Jack Tulip, withheld from a florist's feast, or Tom
Distich, hindered from seeing the first representation of a play.

As political affairs are the highest and most extensive of temporal
concerns, the mimick of a politician is more busy and important than any
other trifler. Monsieur le Noir, a man who, without property or
importance in any corner of the earth, has, in the present confusion of
the world, declared himself a steady adherent to the French, is made
miserable by a wind that keeps back the packet-boat, and still more
miserable by every account of a Malouin privateer caught in his cruise;
he knows well that nothing can be done or said by him which can produce
any effect but that of laughter, that he can neither hasten nor retard
good or evil, that his joys and sorrows have scarcely any partakers; yet
such is his zeal, and such his curiosity, that he would run barefooted
to Gravesend, for the sake of knowing first that the English had lost a
tender, and would ride out to meet every mail from the continent, if he
might be permitted to open it.

Learning is generally confessed to be desirable, and there are some who
fancy themselves always busy in acquiring it. Of these ambulatory
students, one of the most busy is my friend Tom Restless.

Tom has long had a mind to be a man of knowledge, but he does not care
to spend much time among authors; for he is of opinion that few books
deserve the labour of perusal, that they give the mind an unfashionable
cast, and destroy that freedom of thought, and easiness of manners,
indispensably requisite to acceptance in the world. Tom has, therefore,
found another way to wisdom. When he rises he goes into a coffee-house,
where he creeps so near to men whom he takes to be reasoners, as to hear
their discourse, and endeavours to remember something which, when it has
been strained through Tom's head, is so near to nothing, that what it
once was cannot be discovered. This he carries round from friend to
friend through a circle of visits, till, hearing what each says upon the
question, he becomes able at dinner to say a little himself; and, as
every great genius relaxes himself among his inferiors, meets with some
who wonder how so young a man can talk so wisely.

At night he has a new feast prepared for his intellects; he always runs
to a disputing society, or a speaking club, where he half hears what, if
he had heard the whole, be would but half understand; goes home pleased
with the consciousness of a day well spent, lies down full of ideas, and
rises in the morning empty as before.




No. 49. SATURDAY, MARCH 24, 1759.

I supped three nights ago with my friend Will Marvel. His affairs
obliged him lately to take a journey into Devonshire, from which he has
just returned. He knows me to be a very patient hearer, and was glad of
my company, as it gave him an opportunity of disburdening himself, by a
minute relation of the casualties of his expedition.

Will is not one of those who go out and return with nothing to tell. He
has a story of his travels, which will strike a home-bred citizen with
horrour, and has in ten days suffered so often the extremes of terrour
and joy, that he is in doubt whether he shall ever again expose either
his body or mind to such danger and fatigue.

When he left London the morning was bright, and a fair day was promised.
But Will is born to struggle with difficulties. That happened to him,
which has sometimes, perhaps, happened to others. Before he had gone
more than ten miles, it began to rain. What course was to be taken? His
soul disdained to turn back. He did what the King of Prussia might have
done; he flapped his hat, buttoned up his cape, and went forwards,
fortifying his mind by the stoical consolation, that whatever is violent
will be short.

His constancy was not long tried; at the distance of about half a mile
he saw an inn, which he entered wet and weary, and found civil treatment
and proper refreshment. After a respite of about two hours, he looked
abroad, and seeing the sky clear, called for his horse, and passed the
first stage without any other memorable accident.

Will considered, that labour must be relieved by pleasure, and that the
strength which great undertakings require must be maintained by copious
nutriment; he, therefore, ordered himself an elegant supper, drank two
bottles of claret, and passed the beginning of the night in sound sleep;
but, waking before light, was forewarned of the troubles of the next
day, by a shower beating against his windows with such violence, as to
threaten the dissolution of nature. When he arose, he found what he
expected, that the country was under water. He joined himself, however,
to a company that was travelling the same way, and came safely to the
place of dinner, though every step of his horse dashed the mud into the
air.

In the afternoon, having parted from his company, he set forward alone,
and passed many collections of water, of which it was impossible to
guess the depth, and which he now cannot review without some censure of
his own rashness; but what a man undertakes he must perform, and Marvel
hates a coward at his heart.

Few that lie warm in their beds think what others undergo, who have,
perhaps, been as tenderly educated, and have as acute sensations as
themselves. My friend was now to lodge the second night almost fifty
miles from home, in a house which he never had seen before, among people
to whom he was totally a stranger, not knowing whether the next man he
should meet would prove good or bad; but seeing an inn of a good
appearance, he rode resolutely into the yard; and knowing that respect
is often paid in proportion as it is claimed, delivered his injunctions
to the ostler with spirit, and entering the house, called vigorously
about him.

On the third day up rose the sun and Mr. Marvel. His troubles and his
dangers were now such as he wishes no other man ever to encounter. The
ways were less frequented, and the country more thinly inhabited. He
rode many a lonely hour through mire and water, and met not a single
soul for two miles together, with whom he could exchange a word. He
cannot deny that, looking round upon the dreary region, and seeing
nothing but bleak fields and naked trees, hills obscured by fogs, and
flats covered with inundations, he did, for some time, suffer melancholy
to prevail upon him, and wished himself again safe at home. One comfort
he had, which was, to consider that none of his friends were in the same
distress, for whom, if they had been with him, he should have suffered
more than for himself; he could not forbear sometimes to consider how
happily the Idler is settled in an easier condition, who, surrounded
like him with terrours, could have done nothing but lie down and die.

Amidst these reflections he came to a town, and found a dinner which
disposed him to more cheerful sentiments: but the joys of life are
short, and its miseries are long; he mounted and travelled fifteen miles
more through dirt and desolation.

At last the sun set, and all the horrours of darkness came upon him. He
then repented the weak indulgence in which he had gratified himself at
noon with too long an interval of rest: yet he went forward along a path
which he could no longer see, sometimes rushing suddenly into water, and
sometimes incumbered with stiff clay, ignorant whither he was going, and
uncertain whether his next step might not be the last.

In this dismal gloom of nocturnal peregrination his horse unexpectedly
stood still. Marvel had heard many relations of the instinct of horses,
and was in doubt what danger might be at hand. Sometimes he fancied that
he was on the bank of a river still and deep, and sometimes that a dead
body lay across the track. He sat still awhile to recollect his
thoughts; and as he was about to alight and explore the darkness, out
stepped a man with a lantern, and opened the turnpike. He hired a guide
to the town, arrived in safety, and slept in quiet.

The rest of his journey was nothing but danger. He climbed and descended
precipices on which vulgar mortals tremble to look; he passed marshes
like the _Serbonian bog, where armies whole have sunk_; he forded rivers
where the current roared like the Egre or the Severn; or ventured
himself on bridges that trembled under him, from which he looked down on
foaming whirlpools, or dreadful abysses; he wandered over houseless
heaths, amidst all the rage of the elements, with the snow driving in
his face, and the tempest howling in his ears.

Such are the colours in which Marvel paints his adventures. He has
accustomed himself to sounding words and hyperbolical images, till he
has lost the power of true description. In a road, through which the
heaviest carriages pass without difficulty, and the post-boy every day
and night goes and returns, he meets with hardships like those which are
endured in Siberian deserts, and misses nothing of romantick danger but
a giant and a dragon. When his dreadful story is told in proper terms,
it is only that the way was dirty in winter, and that he experienced the
common vicissitudes of rain and sunshine.




No. 50. SATURDAY, MARCH 31, 1759.

The character of Mr. Marvel has raised the merriment of some and the
contempt of others, who do not sufficiently consider how often they hear
and practise the same arts of exaggerated narration.

There is not, perhaps, among the multitudes of all conditions that swarm
upon the earth, a single man who does not believe that he has something
extraordinary to relate of himself; and who does not, at one time or
other, summon the attention of his friends to the casualties of his
adventures and the vicissitudes of his fortune; casualties and
vicissitudes that happen alike in lives uniform and diversified; to the
commander of armies and the writer at a desk; to the sailor who resigns
himself to the wind and water, and the farmer whose longest journey is
to the market.

In the present state of the world man may pass through Shakespeare's
seven stages of life, and meet nothing singular or wonderful. But such
is every man's attention to himself, that what is common and unheeded,
when it is only seen, becomes remarkable and peculiar when we happen to
feel it.

It is well enough known to be according to the usual process of nature,
that men should sicken and recover, that some designs should succeed and
others miscarry, that friends should be separated and meet again, that
some should be made angry by endeavours to please them, and some be
pleased when no care has been used to gain their approbation; that men
and women should at first come together by chance, like each other so
well as to commence acquaintance, improve acquaintance into fondness,
increase or extinguish fondness by marriage, and have children of
different degrees of intellects and virtue, some of whom die before
their parents, and others survive them.

Yet let any man tell his own story, and nothing of all this has ever
befallen him according to the common order of things; something has
always discriminated his case; some unusual concurrence of events has
appeared, which made him more happy or more miserable than other
mortals; for in pleasures or calamities, however common, every one has
comforts and afflictions of his own.

It is certain that without some artificial augmentations, many of the
pleasures of life, and almost all its embellishments, would fall to the
ground. If no man was to express more delight than he felt, those who
felt most would raise little envy. If travellers were to describe the
most laboured performances of art with the same coldness as they survey
them, all expectations of happiness from change of place would cease.
The pictures of Raphaël would hang without spectators, and the gardens
of Versailles might be inhabited by hermits. All the pleasure that is
received ends in an opportunity of splendid falsehood, in the power of
gaining notice by the display of beauties which the eye was weary of
beholding, and a history of happy moments, of which, in reality, the
most happy was the last.

The ambition of superior sensibility and superior eloquence disposes the
lovers of arts to receive rapture at one time, and communicate it at
another; and each labours first to impose upon himself, and then to
propagate the imposture.

Pain is less subject than pleasure to caprices of expression. The
torments of disease, and the grief for irremediable misfortunes,
sometimes are such as no words can declare, and can only be signified by
groans, or sobs, or inarticulate ejaculations. Man has from nature a
mode of utterance peculiar to pain, but he has none peculiar to
pleasure, because he never has pleasure but in such degrees as the
ordinary use of language may equal or surpass.

It is nevertheless certain, that many pains, as well as pleasures, are
heightened by rhetorical affectation, and that the picture is, for the
most part, bigger than the life.

When we describe our sensations of another's sorrows, either in friendly
or ceremonious condolence, the customs of the world scarcely admit of
rigid veracity. Perhaps, the fondest friendship would enrage oftener
than comfort, were the tongue on such occasions faithfully to represent
the sentiments of the heart; and I think the strictest moralists allow
forms of address to be used without much regard to their literal
acceptation, when either respect or tenderness requires them, because
they are universally known to denote not the degree but the species of
our sentiments.

But the same indulgence cannot be allowed to him who aggravates dangers
incurred, or sorrow endured, by himself, because he darkens the prospect
of futurity, and multiplies the pains of our condition by useless
terrour. Those who magnify their delights are less criminal deceivers,
yet they raise hopes which are sure to be disappointed. It would be
undoubtedly best, if we could see and hear every thing as it is, that
nothing might be too anxiously dreaded, or too ardently pursued.




No. 51. SATURDAY, APRIL 7, 1759.

It has been commonly remarked, that eminent men are least eminent at
home, that bright characters lose much of their splendour at a nearer
view, and many, who fill the world with their fame, excite very little
reverence among those that surround them in their domestick privacies.

To blame or suspect is easy and natural. When the fact is evident, and
the cause doubtful, some accusation is always engendered between
idleness and malignity. This disparity of general and familiar esteem
is, therefore, imputed to hidden vices, and to practices indulged in
secret, but carefully covered from the publick eye.

Vice will indeed always produce contempt. The dignity of Alexander,
though nations fell prostrate before him, was certainly held in little
veneration by the partakers of his midnight revels, who had seen him, in
the madness of wine, murder his friend, or set fire to the Persian
palace at the instigation of a harlot; and it is well remembered among
us, that the avarice of Marlborough kept him in subjection to his wife,
while he was dreaded by France as her conqueror, and honoured by the
emperour as his deliverer.

But though, where there is vice there must be want of reverence, it is
not reciprocally true, that where there is want of reverence there is
always vice. That awe which great actions or abilities impress will be
inevitably diminished by acquaintance, though nothing either mean or
criminal should be found.

Of men, as of every thing else, we must judge according to our
knowledge. When we see of a hero only his battles, or of a writer only
his books, we have nothing to allay our ideas of their greatness. We
consider the one only as the guardian of his country, and the other only
as the instructor of mankind. We have neither opportunity nor motive to
examine the minuter parts of their lives, or the less apparent
peculiarities of their characters; we name them with habitual respect,
and forget, what we still continue to know, that they are men like other
mortals.

But such is the constitution of the world, that much of life must be
spent in the same manner by the wise and the ignorant, the exalted and
the low. Men, however distinguished by external accidents or intrinsick
qualities, have all the same wants, the same pains, and, as far as the
senses are consulted, the same pleasures. The petty cares and petty
duties are the same in every station to every understanding, and every
hour brings some occasion on which we all sink to the common level. We
are all naked till we are dressed, and hungry till we are fed; and the
general's triumph, and sage's disputation, end, like the humble labours
of the smith or ploughman, in a dinner or in sleep.

Those notions which are to be collected by reason, in opposition to the
senses, will seldom stand forward in the mind, but lie treasured in the
remoter repositories of memory, to be found only when they are sought.
Whatever any man may have written or done, his precepts or his valour
will scarcely overbalance the unimportant uniformity which runs through
his time. We do not easily consider him as great, whom our own eyes show
us to be little; nor labour to keep present to our thoughts the latent
excellencies of him, who shares with us all our weaknesses and many of
our follies; who, like us, is delighted with slight amusements, busied
with trifling employments, and disturbed by little vexations.

Great powers cannot be exerted, but when great exigencies make them
necessary. Great exigencies can happen but seldom, and, therefore, those
qualities which have a claim to the veneration of mankind, lie hid, for
the most part, like subterranean treasures, over which the foot passes
as on common ground, till necessity breaks open the golden cavern.

In the ancient celebration of victory, a slave was placed on the
triumphal car, by the side of the general, who reminded him by a short
sentence, that he was a man[1]. Whatever danger there might be lest a
leader, in his passage to the capitol, should forget the frailties of
his nature, there was surely no need of such an admonition; the
intoxication could not have continued long; he would have been at home
but a few hours, before some of his dependants would have forgot his
greatness, and shown him, that, notwithstanding his laurels, he was yet
a man.

There are some who try to escape this domestick degradation, by
labouring to appear always wise or always great; but he that strives
against nature, will for ever strive in vain. To be grave of mien and
slow of utterrance; to look with solicitude and speak with hesitation,
is attainable at will; but the show of wisdom is ridiculous when there
is nothing to cause doubt, as that of valour where there is nothing to
be feared.

A man who has duly considered the condition of his being, will
contentedly yield to the course of things; he will not pant for
distinction where distinction would imply no merit; but though on great
occasions he may wish to be greater than others, he will be satisfied in
common occurrences not to be less.

[1]
 --Sibi Consul
  Ne placeat, curru servus portatur eodem.   JUV. Sat. x. 41.



No 52. SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 1759.

  _Responsare cupidinibus_.--HOR. Lib. ii. Sat. vii. 85.

The practice of self-denial, or the forbearance of lawful pleasure, has
been considered by almost every nation, from the remotest ages, as the
highest exaltation of human virtue; and all have agreed to pay respect
and veneration to those who abstained from the delights of life, even
when they did not censure those who enjoy them.

The general voice of mankind, civil and barbarous, confesses that the
mind and body are at variance, and that neither can be made happy by its
proper gratifications, but at the expense of the other; that a pampered
body will darken the mind, and an enlightened mind will macerate the
body. And none have failed to confer their esteem on those who prefer
intellect to sense, who control their lower by their higher faculties,
and forget the wants and desires of animal life for rational
disquisitions or pious contemplations.

The earth has scarcely a country, so far advanced towards political
regularity as to divide the inhabitants into classes, where some orders
of men or women are not distinguished by voluntary severities, and where
the reputation of their sanctity is not increased in proportion to the
rigour of their rules, and the exactness of their performance.

When an opinion to which there is no temptation of interest spreads
wide, and continues long, it may be reasonably presumed to have been
infused by nature or dictated by reason. It has been often observed that
the fictions of impostures and illusions of fancy, soon give way to time
and experience; and that nothing keeps its ground but truth, which gains
every day new influence by new confirmation.

But truth, when it is reduced to practice, easily becomes subject to
caprice and imagination; and many particular acts will be wrong, though
their general principle be right. It cannot be denied that a just
conviction of the restraint necessary to be laid upon the appetites has
produced extravagant and unnatural modes of mortification, and
institutions, which, however favourably considered, will be found to
violate nature without promoting piety[1].

But the doctrine of self-denial is not weakened in itself by the errours
of those who misinterpret or misapply it; the encroachment of the
appetites upon the understanding is hourly perceived; and the state of
those, whom sensuality has enslaved, is known to be in the highest
degree despicable and wretched.

The dread of such shameful captivity may justly raise alarms, and wisdom
will endeavour to keep danger at a distance. By timely caution and
suspicious vigilance those desires may be repressed, to which indulgence
would soon give absolute dominion; those enemies may be overcome, which,
when they have been a while accustomed to victory, can no longer be
resisted.

Nothing is more fatal to happiness or virtue, than that confidence which
flatters us with an opinion of our own strength, and, by assuring us of
the power of retreat, precipitates us into hazard. Some may safely
venture farther than others into the regions of delight, lay themselves
more open to the golden shafts of pleasure, and advance nearer to the
residence of the Syrens; but he that is best armed with constancy and
reason is yet vulnerable in one part or other, and to every man there is
a point fixed, beyond which, if he passes, he will not easily return. It
is certainly most wise, as it is most safe, to stop before he touches
the utmost limit, since every step of advance will more and more entice
him to go forward, till he shall at last enter into the recesses of
voluptuousness, and sloth and despondency close the passage behind him.

To deny early and inflexibly, is the only art of checking the
importunity of desire, and of preserving quiet and innocence. Innocent
gratifications must be sometimes withheld; he that complies with all
lawful desires will certainly lose his empire over himself, and, in
time, either submit his reason to his wishes, and think all his desires
lawful, or dismiss his reason as troublesome and intrusive, and resolve
to snatch what he may happen to wish, without inquiring about right and
wrong.

No man, whose appetites are his masters, can perform the duties of his
nature with strictness and regularity; he that would be superior to
external influences must first become superior to his own passions.

When the Roman general, sitting at supper with a plate of turnips before
him, was solicited by large presents to betray his trust, he asked the
messengers whether he that could sup on turnips was a man likely to sell
his own country. Upon him who has reduced his senses to obedience,
temptation has lost its power; he is able to attend impartially to
virtue, and execute her commands without hesitation.

To set the mind above the appetites is the end of abstinence, which one
of the Fathers observes to be not a virtue, but the ground-work of
virtue. By forbearing to do what may innocently be done, we may add
hourly new vigour to resolution, and secure the power of resistance when
pleasure or interest shall lend their charms to guilt.

[1] See Rambler 110 and Note. Read also the splendid passage on monastic
    seclusion in Adventurer 127. The recluses of the Certosa and
    Chartreuse forsook the world for abodes lordly as those of princes.




No. 53. SATURDAY, APRIL 21, 1759.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

I have a wife that keeps good company. You know that the word _good_
varies its meaning according to the value set upon different qualities
in different places. To be a good man in a college, is to be learned; in
a camp, to be brave; and in the city, to be rich. By good company in the
place which I have the misfortune to inhabit, we understand not only
those from whom any good can be learned, whether wisdom or virtue; or by
whom any good can be conferred, whether profit or reputation:--good
company is the company of those whose birth is high, and whose riches
are great; or of those whom the rich and noble admit to familiarity.

I am a gentleman of a fortune by no means exuberant, but more than equal
to the wants of my family, and for some years equal to our desires. My
wife, who had never been accustomed to splendour, joined her endeavours
to mine in the superintendence of our economy; we lived in decent
plenty, and were not excluded from moderate pleasures.

But slight causes produce great effects. All my happiness has been
destroyed by change of place: virtue is too often merely local; in some
situations the air diseases the body, and in others poisons the mind.
Being obliged to remove my habitation, I was led by my evil genius to a
convenient house in a street where many of the nobility reside. We had
scarcely ranged our furniture, and aired our rooms, when my wife began
to grow discontented, and to wonder what the neighbours would think,
when they saw so few chairs and chariots at her door.

Her acquaintance, who came to see her from the quarter that we had left,
mortified her without design, by continual inquiries about the ladies
whose houses they viewed from our windows. She was ashamed to confess
that she had no intercourse with them, and sheltered her distress under
general answers, which always tended to raise suspicion that she knew
more than she would tell; but she was often reduced to difficulties,
when the course of talk introduced questions about the furniture or
ornaments of their houses, which, when she could get no intelligence,
she was forced to pass slightly over, as things which she saw so often
that she never minded them.

To all these vexations she was resolved to put an end, and redoubled her
visits to those few of her friends who visited those who kept good
company; and, if ever she met a lady of quality, forced herself into
notice by respect and assiduity. Her advances were generally rejected;
and she heard them, as they went down stairs, talk how some creatures
put themselves forward.

She was not discouraged, but crept forward from one to another; and, as
perseverance will do great things, sapped her way unperceived, till,
unexpectedly, she appeared at the card-table of lady Biddy Porpoise, a
lethargick virgin of seventy-six, whom all the families in the next
square visited very punctually when she was not at home.

This was the first step of that elevation to which my wife has since
ascended. For five months she had no name in her mouth but that of lady
Biddy, who, let the world say what it would, had a fine understanding,
and such a command of her temper, that, whether she won or lost, she
slept over her cards.

At lady Biddy's she met with lady Tawdry, whose favour she gained by
estimating her ear-rings, which were counterfeit, at twice the value of
real diamonds. When she had once entered two houses of distinction, she
was easily admitted into more, and in ten weeks had all her time
anticipated by parties and engagements. Every morning she is bespoke, in
the summer, for the gardens, in the winter, for a sale; every afternoon
she has visits to pay, and every night brings an inviolable appointment,
or an assembly in which the best company in the town are to appear.

You will easily imagine that much of my domestick comfort is withdrawn.
I never see my wife but in the hurry of preparation, or the languor of
weariness. To dress and to undress is almost her whole business in
private, and the servants take advantage of her negligence to increase
expense. But I can supply her omissions by my own diligence, and should
not much regret this new course of life, if it did nothing more than
transfer to me the care of our accounts. The changes which it has made
are more vexatious. My wife has no longer the use of her understanding.
She has no rule of action but the fashion. She has no opinion but that
of the people of quality. She has no language but the dialect of her own
set of company. She hates and admires in humble imitation; and echoes
the words _charming_ and _detestable_ without consulting her own
perceptions.

If for a few minutes we sit down together, she entertains me with the
repartees of lady Cackle, or the conversation of lord Whiffler and Miss
Quick, and wonders to find me receiving with indifference sayings which
put all the company into laughter.

By her old friends she is no longer very willing to be seen, but she
must not rid herself of them all at once; and is sometimes surprised by
her best visitants in company which she would not show, and cannot hide;
but from the moment that a countess enters, she takes care neither to
hear nor see them: they soon find themselves neglected, and retire; and
she tells her ladyship that they are somehow related at a great
distance, and that, as they are a good sort of people, she cannot be
rude to them.

As by this ambitious union with those that are above her, she is always
forced upon disadvantageous comparisons of her condition with theirs,
she has a constant source of misery within; and never returns from
glittering assemblies and magnificent apartments but she growls out her
discontent, and wonders why she was doomed to so indigent a state. When
she attends the duchess to a sale, she always sees something that she
cannot buy; and, that she may not seem wholly insignificant, she will
sometimes venture to bid, and often make acquisitions which she did not
want at prices which she cannot afford.

What adds to all this uneasiness is, that this expense is without use,
and this vanity without honour; she forsakes houses where she might be
courted, for those where she is only suffered; her equals are daily made
her enemies, and her superiors will never be her friends.

I am, Sir, yours, &c.




No. 54. SATURDAY, APRIL 28, 1759.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

You have lately entertained your admirers with the case of an
unfortunate husband, and, thereby, given a demonstrative proof you are
not averse even to hear appeals and terminate differences between man
and wife; I, therefore, take the liberty to present you with the case of
an injured lady, which, as it chiefly relates to what I think the
lawyers call a point of law, I shall do in as juridical a manner as I am
capable, and submit it to the consideration of the learned gentlemen of
that profession.

_Imprimis_. In the style of my marriage articles, a marriage was _had
and solemnized_ about six months ago, between me and Mr. Savecharges, a
gentleman possessed of a plentiful fortune of his own, and one who, I
was persuaded, would improve, and not spend, mine.

Before our marriage, Mr. Savecharges had all along preferred the
salutary exercise of walking on foot to the distempered ease, as he
terms it, of lolling in a chariot; but, notwithstanding his fine
panegyricks on walking, the great advantages the infantry were in the
sole possession of, and the many dreadful dangers they escaped, he found
I had very different notions of an equipage, and was not easily to be
converted, or gained over to his party.

An equipage I was determined to have, whenever I married. I too well
knew the disposition of my intended consort to leave the providing one
entirely to his honour, and flatter myself Mr. Savecharges has, in the
articles made previous to our marriage, _agreed to keep me a coach_; but
lest I should be mistaken, or the attorneys should not have done me
justice in methodizing or legalizing these half dozen words, I will set
about and transcribe that part of the agreement, which will explain the
matter to you much better than can be done by one who is so deeply
interested in the event; and show on what foundation I build my hopes of
being soon under the transporting, delightful denomination of a
fashionable lady, who enjoys the exalted and much-envied felicity of
bowling about in her own coach.

"And further the said Solomon Savecharges, for divers good causes and
considerations him hereunto moving, hath agreed, and doth hereby agree,
that the said Solomon Savecharges shall and will, so soon as
conveniently may be after the solemnization of the said intended
marriage, at his own proper cost and charges, find and provide a
_certain vehicle, or four-wheel-carriage, commonly called or known by
the name of a coach_; which said vehicle, or wheel-carriage, so called
or known by the name of a coach, shall be _used and enjoyed_ by the said
Sukey Modish, his intended wife," [pray mind that, Mr. Idler,] "at such
times and in such manner as she, the said Sukey Modish, shall think fit
and convenient."

Such, Mr. Idler, is the agreement my passionate admirer entered into;
and what the dear, frugal husband calls a performance of it, remains to
be described. Soon after the ceremony of signing and sealing was over,
our wedding-clothes being sent home, and, in short, every thing in
readiness except the coach, my own shadow was scarcely more constant
than my passionate lover in his attendance on me: wearied by his
perpetual importunities for what he called a completion of his bliss, I
consented to make him happy; in a few days I gave him my hand, and,
attended by Hymen in his saffron robes, retired to a country-seat of my
husband's, where the honey-moon flew over our heads ere we had time to
recollect ourselves, or think of our engagements in town. Well, to town
we came, and you may be sure, Sir, I expected to step into my coach on
my arrival here; but, what was my surprise and disappointment, when,
instead of this, he began to sound in my ears? "that the interest of
money was low, very low; and what a terrible thing it was to be
encumbered with a little regiment of servants in these hard times!" I
could easily perceive what all this tended to, but would not seem to
understand him; which made it highly necessary for Mr. Savecharges to
explain himself more intelligibly; to harp upon and protest he dreaded
the expense of keeping a coach. And truly, for his part, he could not
conceive how the pleasure resulting from such a convenience could be any
way adequate to the heavy expense attending it. I now thought it high
time to speak with equal plainness, and told him, as the fortune I
brought fairly entitled me to ride in my own coach, and as I was
sensible his circumstances would very well afford it, he must pardon me
if I insisted on a performance of his agreement.

I appeal to you, Mr. Idler, whether any thing could be more civil, more
complaisant, than this? And, would you believe it, the creature in
return, a few days after, accosted me, in an offended tone, with,
"Madam, I can now tell you, your coach is ready; and since you are so
passionately fond of one, I intend you the honour of keeping a pair of
horses.--You insisted upon having an article of pin-money, and horses
are no part of my agreement." Base, designing wretch!--I beg your
pardon, Mr. Idler, the very recital of such mean, ungentleman-like
behaviour fires my blood, and lights up a flame within me. But hence,
thou worst of monsters, ill-timed Rage! and let me not spoil my cause
for want of temper.

Now, though I am convinced I might make a worse use of part of the
pin-money, than by extending my bounty towards the support of so useful a
part of the brute creation; yet, like a true-born Englishwoman, I am so
tenacious of my rights and privileges, and moreover so good a friend to
the gentlemen of the law, that I protest, Mr. Idler, sooner than tamely
give up the point, and be quibbled out of my right, I will receive my
pin-money, as it were, with one hand, and pay it to them with the other;
provided they will give me, or, which is the same thing, my trustees,
encouragement to commence a suit against this dear, frugal husband of
mine.

And of this I can't have the least shadow of doubt, inasmuch as I have
been told by very good authority, it is somewhere or other laid down as
a rule "_That whenever_ the law doth give any thing to one, it giveth
impliedly whatever is necessary for taking and enjoying the same[1]."
Now, I would gladly know what enjoyment I, or any lady in the kingdom,
can have of a coach without horses? The answer is obvious--None at all!
For, as Serjeant Catlyne very wisely observes, "though a coach has
wheels, to the end it may thereby and by virtue thereof be enabled to
move; yet in point of utility it may as well have none, if they are not
put in motion by means of its vital parts, that is, the horses."

And, therefore, Sir, I humbly hope you and the learned in the law will
be of opinion, that two certain animals, or quadruped creatures,
commonly called or known by the name of horses, ought to be annexed to,
and go along with, the coach. SUKEY SAVECHARGES[2]

[1] Quando lex aliquid alicui concedit, concedere videtur et id, sine
    quo res ipsa esse non potest. Coke on Littleton, 56. a.--ED.

[2] An unknown correspondent.




No. 55. SATURDAY, MAY 5, 1759.

TO THE IDLER.

Mr. Idler,

I have taken the liberty of laying before you my complaint, and of
desiring advice or consolation with the greater confidence, because I
believe many other writers have suffered the same indignities with
myself, and hope my quarrel will be regarded by you and your readers as
the common cause of literature.

Having been long a student, I thought myself qualified in time to become
an author. My inquiries have been much diversified and far extended, and
not finding my genius directing me by irresistible impulse to any
particular subject, I deliberated three years which part of knowledge to
illustrate by my labours. Choice is more often determined by accident
than by reason: I walked abroad one morning with a curious lady, and, by
her inquiries and observations, was incited to write the natural history
of the country in which I reside.

Natural history is no work for one that loves his chair or his bed.
Speculation may be pursued on a soft couch, but nature must be observed
in the open air. I have collected materials with indefatigable
pertinacity. I have gathered glow-worms in the evening, and snails in
the morning; I have seen the daisy close and open, I have heard the owl
shriek at midnight, and hunted insects in the heat of noon.

Seven years I was employed in collecting animals and vegetables, and
then found that my design was yet imperfect. The subterranean treasures
of the place had been passed unobserved, and another year was to be
spent in mines and coal-pits. What I had already done supplied a
sufficient motive to do more. I acquainted myself with the black
inhabitants of metallick caverns, and, in defiance of damps and floods,
wandered through the gloomy labyrinths, and gathered fossils from every
fissure,

At last I began to write, and as I finished any section of my book, read
it to such of my friends, as were most skilful in the matter which it
treated. None of them were satisfied; one disliked the disposition of
the parts, another the colours of the style; one advised me to enlarge,
another to abridge. I resolved to read no more, but to take my own way
and write on, for by consultation I only perplexed my thoughts and
retarded my work.

The book was at last finished, and I did not doubt but my labour would
be repaid by profit, and my ambition satisfied with honours. I
considered that natural history is neither temporary nor local, and that
though I limited my inquiries to my own country, yet every part of the
earth has productions common to all the rest. Civil history may be
partially studied, the revolutions of one nation may be neglected by
another; but after that in which all have an interest, all must be
inquisitive. No man can have sunk so far into stupidity as not to
consider the properties of the ground on which he walks, of the plants
on which he feeds, or the animals that delight his ear, or amuse his
eye; and, therefore, I computed that universal curiosity would call for
many editions of my book, and that in five years I should gain fifteen
thousand pounds by the sale of thirty thousand copies.

When I began to write, I insured the house; and suffered the utmost
solicitude when I entrusted my book to the carrier, though I had secured
it against mischances by lodging two transcripts in different places. At
my arrival, I expected that the patrons of learning would contend for
the honour of a dedication, and resolved to maintain the dignity of
letters, by a haughty contempt of pecuniary solicitations.

I took my lodgings near the house of the Royal Society, and expected
every morning a visit from the president. I walked in the Park, and
wondered that I overheard no mention of the great naturalist. At last I
visited a noble earl, and told him of my work: he answered, that he was
under an engagement never to subscribe. I was angry to have that refused
which I did not mean to ask, and concealed my design of making him
immortal. I went next day to another, and, in resentment of my late
affront, offered to prefix his name to my new book. He said, coldly,
that _he did not understand those things_; another thought, _there were
too many books_; and another would _talk with me when the races were
over_.

Being amazed to find a man of learning so indecently slighted, I
resolved to indulge the philosophical pride of retirement and
independence. I then sent to some of the principal booksellers the plan
of my book, and bespoke a large room in the next tavern, that I might
more commodiously see them together, and enjoy the contest, while they
were outbidding one another. I drank my coffee, and yet nobody was come;
at last I received a note from one, to tell me that he was going out of
town; and from another, that natural history was out of his way. At last
there came a grave man, who desired to see the work, and, without
opening it, told me, that a book of that size _would never do_.

I then condescended to step into shops, and mentioned my work to the
masters. Some never dealt with authors; others had their hands full;
some never had known such a dead time; others had lost by all that they
had published for the last twelvemonth. One offered to print my work, if
I could procure subscriptions for five hundred, and would allow me two
hundred copies for my property. I lost my patience, and gave him a kick;
for which he has indicted me.

I can easily perceive, that there is a combination among them to defeat
my expectations; and I find it so general, that I am sure it must have
been long concerted. I suppose some of my friends, to whom I read the
first part, gave notice of my design, and, perhaps, sold the treacherous
intelligence at a higher price than the fraudulence of trade will now
allow me for my book.

Inform me, Mr. Idler, what I must do; where must knowledge and industry
find their recompense, thus neglected by the high, and cheated by the
low? I sometimes resolve to print my book at my own expense, and, like
the Sibyl, double the price; and sometimes am tempted, in emulation of
Raleigh, to throw it into the fire, and leave this sordid generation to
the curses of posterity. Tell me, dear Idler, what I shall do.

I am, Sir, &c.




No. 56. SATURDAY, MAY 12, 1759.

There is such difference between the pursuits of men, that one part of
the inhabitants of a great city lives to little other purpose than to
wonder at the rest. Some have hopes and fears, wishes and aversions,
which never enter into the thoughts of others, and inquiry is
laboriously exerted to gain that which those who possess it are ready to
throw away.

To those who are accustomed to value every thing by its use, and have no
such superfluity of time or money, as may prompt them to unnatural wants
or capricious emulations, nothing appears more improbable or extravagant
than the love of curiosities, or that desire of accumulating trifles,
which distinguishes many by whom no other distinction could have ever
been obtained.

He that has lived without knowing to what height desire may be raised by
vanity, with what rapture baubles are snatched out of the hands of rival
collectors, how the eagerness of one raises eagerness in another, and
one worthless purchase makes a second necessary, may, by passing a few
hours at an auction, learn more than can be shown by many volumes of
maxims or essays.

The advertisement of a sale is a signal which, at once, puts a thousand
hearts in motion, and brings contenders from every part to the scene of
distribution. He that had resolved to buy no more, feels his constancy
subdued; there is now something in the catalogue which completes his
cabinet, and which he was never before able to find. He whose sober
reflections inform him, that of adding collection to collection there is
no end, and that it is wise to leave early that which must be left
imperfect at last, yet cannot withhold himself from coming to see what
it is that brings so many together, and when he comes is soon
overpowered by his habitual passion; he is attracted by rarity, seduced
by example, and inflamed by competition.

While the stores of pride and happiness are surveyed, one looks with
longing eyes and gloomy countenance on that which he despairs to gain
from a richer bidder; another keeps his eye with care from settling too
long on that which he most earnestly desires; and another, with more art
than virtue, depreciates that which he values most, in hope to have it
at an easy rate.

The novice is often surprised to see what minute and unimportant
discriminations increase or diminish value. An irregular contortion of a
turbinated shell, which common eyes pass unregarded, will ten times
treble its price in the imagination of philosophers. Beauty is far from
operating upon collectors as upon low and vulgar minds, even where
beauty might be thought the only quality that could deserve notice.
Among the shells that please by their variety of colours, if one can be
found accidentally deformed by a cloudy spot, it is boasted as the pride
of the collection. China is sometimes purchased for little less than its
weight in gold, only because it is old, though neither less brittle, nor
better painted, than the modern; and brown china is caught up with
ecstasy, though no reason can be imagined for which it should be
preferred to common vessels of common clay.

The fate of prints and coins is equally inexplicable. Some prints are
treasured up as inestimably valuable, because the impression was made
before the plate was finished. Of coins the price rises not from the
purity of the metal, the excellence of the workmanship, the elegance of
the legend, or the chronological use. A piece, of which neither the
inscription can be read, nor the face distinguished, if there remain of
it but enough to show that it is rare, will be sought by contending
nations, and dignify the treasury in which it shall be shown.

Whether this curiosity, so barren of immediate advantage, and so liable
to depravation, does more harm or good, is not easily decided. Its harm
is apparent at first view. It fills the mind with trifling ambition;
fixes the attention upon things which have seldom any tendency towards
virtue or wisdom; employs in idle inquiries the time that is given for
better purposes; and often ends in mean and dishonest practices, when
desire increases by indulgence beyond the power of honest gratification.

These are the effects of curiosity in excess; but what passion in excess
will not become vicious? All indifferent qualities and practices are
bad, if they are compared with those which are good, and good, if they
are opposed to those that are bad. The pride or the pleasure of making
collections, if it be restrained by prudence and morality, produces a
pleasing remission after more laborious studies; furnishes an amusement
not wholly unprofitable for that part of life, the greater part of many
lives, which would otherwise be lost in idleness or vice; it produces an
useful traffick between the industry of indigence and the curiosity of
wealth; it brings many things to notice that would be neglected, and, by
fixing the thoughts upon intellectual pleasures, resists the natural
encroachments of sensuality, and maintains the mind in her lawful
superiority.




No. 57. SATURDAY, MAY 19, 1759.

Prudence is of more frequent use than any other intellectual quality; it
is exerted on slight occasions, and called into act by the cursory
business of common life.

Whatever is universally necessary, has been granted to mankind on easy
terms. Prudence, as it is always wanted, is without great difficulty
obtained. It requires neither extensive view nor profound search, but
forces itself, by spontaneous impulse, upon a mind neither great nor
busy, neither engrossed by vast designs, nor distracted by multiplicity
of attention.

Prudence operates on life in the same manner as rules on composition: it
produces vigilance rather than elevation, rather prevents loss than
procures advantage; and often escapes miscarriages, but seldom reaches
either power or honour. It quenches that ardour of enterprise, by which
every thing is done that can claim praise or admiration; and represses
that generous temerity which often fails, and often succeeds. Rules may
obviate faults, but can never confer beauties; and prudence keeps life
safe, but does not often make it happy. The world is not amazed with
prodigies of excellence, but when wit tramples upon rules, and
magnanimity breaks the chains of prudence.

One of the most prudent of all that have fallen within my observation,
is my old companion Sophron, who has passed through the world in quiet,
by perpetual adherence to a few plain maxims, and wonders how contention
and distress can so often happen.

The first principle of Sophron is, _to run no hazards_. Though he loves
money, he is of opinion that frugality is a more certain source of
riches than industry. It is to no purpose that any prospect of large
profit is set before him; he believes little about futurity, and does
not love to trust his money out of his sight, for _nobody knows what may
happen_. He has a small estate, which he lets at the old rent, because
_it is better to have a little than nothing_; but he rigorously demands
payment on the stated day, for _he that cannot pay one quarter cannot
pay two_. If he is told of any improvements in agriculture, he likes the
old way, has observed that changes very seldom answer expectation, is of
opinion that our forefathers knew how to till the ground as well as we;
and concludes with an argument that nothing can overpower, that the
expense of planting and fencing is immediate, and the advantage distant,
and that _he is no wise man who will quit a certainty for an
uncertainty_.

Another of Sophron's rules is, _to mind no business but his own_. In the
state, he is of no party; but hears and speaks of publick affairs with
the same coldness as of the administration of some ancient republick. If
any flagrant act of fraud or oppression is mentioned, he hopes that _all
is not true that is told_: if misconduct or corruption puts the nation
in a flame, he hopes _every man means well_. At elections he leaves his
dependants to their own choice, and declines to vote himself, for every
candidate is a good man, whom he is unwilling to oppose or offend.

If disputes happen among his neighbours, he observes an invariable and
cold neutrality. His punctuality has gained him the reputation of
honesty, and his caution that of wisdom; and few would refuse to refer
their claims to his award. He might have prevented many expensive
law-suits, and quenched many a feud in its first smoke; but always refuses
the office of arbitration, because he must decide against one or the
other.

With the affairs of other families he is always unacquainted. He sees
estates bought and sold, squandered and increased, without praising the
economist, or censuring the spendthrift. He never courts the rising,
lest they should fall; nor insults the fallen, lest they should rise
again. His caution has the appearance of virtue, and all who do not want
his help praise his benevolence; but, if any man solicits his
assistance, he has just sent away all his money; and, when the
petitioner is gone, declares to his family that he is sorry for his
misfortunes, has always looked upon him with particular kindness, and,
therefore, could not lend him money, lest he should destroy their
friendship by the necessity of enforcing payment.

Of domestick misfortunes he has never heard. When he is told the
hundredth time of a gentleman's daughter who has married the coachman,
he lifts up his hands with astonishment, for he always thought her a
sober girl.

When nuptial quarrels, after having filled the country with talk and
laughter, at last end in separation, he never can conceive how it
happened, for he looked upon them as a happy couple.

If his advice is asked, he never gives any particular direction, because
events are uncertain, and he will bring no blame upon himself; but he
takes the consulter tenderly by the hand, tells him he makes his case
his own, and advises him not to act rashly, but to weigh the reasons on
both sides; observes, that a man may be as easily too hasty as too slow;
and that as many fail by doing too much as too little; that _a wise man
has two ears and one tongue_; and that _little said is soon mended_;
that he could tell him this and that, but that after all every man is
the best judge of his own affairs.

With this some are satisfied, and go home with great reverence of
Sophron's wisdom; and none are offended, because every one is left in
full possession of his own opinion.

Sophron gives no characters. It is equally vain to tell him of vice and
virtue; for he has remarked, that no man likes to be censured, and that
very few are delighted with the praises of another. He has a few terms
which he uses to all alike. With respect to fortune, he believes every
one to be in good circumstances; he never exalts any understanding by
lavish praise, yet he meets with none but very sensible people. Every
man is honest and hearty; and every woman is a good creature.

Thus Sophron creeps along, neither loved nor hated, neither favoured nor
opposed: he has never attempted to grow rich, for fear of growing poor;
and has raised no friends, for fear of making enemies.




No. 58. SATURDAY, MAY 26, 1759.

Pleasure is very seldom found where it is sought. Our brightest blazes
of gladness are commonly kindled by unexpected sparks. The flowers which
scatter their odours, from time to time, in the paths of life, grow up
without culture from seeds scattered by chance.

Nothing is more hopeless than a scheme of merriment. Wits and humourists
are brought together from distant quarters by preconcerted invitations;
they come, attended by their admirers, prepared to laugh and to applaud;
they gaze awhile on each other, ashamed to be silent, and afraid to
speak; every man is discontented with himself, grows angry with those
that give him pain, and resolves that he will contribute nothing to the
merriment of such worthless company. Wine inflames the general
malignity, and changes sullenness to petulance, till at last none can
bear any longer the presence of the rest. They retire to vent their
indignation in safer places, where they are heard with attention; their
importance is restored, they recover their good humour, and gladden the
night with wit and jocularity.

Merriment is always the effect of a sudden impression. The jest which is
expected is already destroyed. The most active imagination will be
sometimes torpid, under the frigid influence of melancholy, and
sometimes occasions will be wanting to tempt the mind, however volatile,
to sallies and excursions. Nothing was ever said with uncommon felicity,
but by the co-operation of chance; and, therefore, wit, as well as
valour, must be content to share its honours with fortune.

All other pleasures are equally uncertain; the general remedy of
uneasiness is change of place; almost every one has some journey of
pleasure in his mind, with which he flatters his expectation. He that
travels in theory has no inconvenience; he has shade and sunshine at his
disposal, and wherever he alights finds tables of plenty and looks of
gaiety. These ideas are indulged till the day of departure arrives, the
chaise is called, and the progress of happiness begins.

A few miles teach him the fallacies of imagination. The road is dusty,
the air is sultry, the horses are sluggish, and the postillion brutal.
He longs for the time of dinner, that he may eat and rest. The inn is
crowded, his orders are neglected, and nothing remains but that he
devour in haste what the cook has spoiled, and drive on in quest of
better entertainment. He finds at night a more commodious house, but the
best is always worse than he expected.

He at last enters his native province, and resolves to feast his mind
with the conversation of his old friends, and the recollection of
juvenile frolicks. He stops at the house of his friend, whom he designs
to overpower with pleasure by the unexpected interview. He is not known
till he tells his name, and revives the memory of himself by a gradual
explanation. He is then coldly received, and ceremoniously feasted. He
hastes away to another, whom his affairs have called to a distant place,
and, having seen the empty house, goes away disgusted by a
disappointment which could not be intended, because it could not be
foreseen. At the next house he finds every face clouded with misfortune,
and is regarded with malevolence as an unreasonable intruder, who comes
not to visit but to insult them. It is seldom that we find either men
or places such as we expect them. He that has pictured a prospect upon
his fancy, will receive little pleasure from his eyes; he that has
anticipated the conversation of a wit, will wonder to what prejudice he
owes his reputation. Yet it is necessary to hope, though hope should
always be deluded; for hope itself is happiness, and its frustrations,
however frequent, are less dreadful than its extinction.




No. 59. SATURDAY, JUNE 2, 1759.

In the common enjoyments of life, we cannot very liberally indulge the
present hour, but by anticipating part of the pleasure which might have
relieved the tediousness of another day; and any uncommon exertion of
strength, or perseverance in labour, is succeeded by a long interval of
languor and weariness. Whatever advantage we snatch beyond the certain
portion allotted us by nature, is like money spent before it is due,
which, at the time of regular payment, will be missed and regretted.

Fame, like all other things which are supposed to give or to increase
happiness, is dispensed with the same equality of distribution. He that
is loudly praised will be clamorously censured; he that rises hastily
into fame will be in danger of sinking suddenly into oblivion.

Of many writers who filled their age with wonder, and whose names we
find celebrated in the books of their contemporaries, the works are now
no longer to be seen, or are seen only amidst the lumber of libraries
which are seldom visited, where they lie only to show the deceitfulness
of hope, and the uncertainty of honour.

Of the decline of reputation many causes may be assigned. It is commonly
lost because it never was deserved; and was conferred at first, not by
the suffrage of criticism, but by the fondness of friendship, or
servility of flattery. The great and popular are very freely applauded;
but all soon grow weary of echoing to each other a name which has no
other claim to notice, but that many mouths are pronouncing it at once.

But many have lost the final reward of their labours, because they were
too hasty to enjoy it. They have laid hold on recent occurrences, and
eminent names, and delighted their readers with allusions and remarks,
in which all were interested, and to which all, therefore, were
attentive. But the effect ceased with its cause; the time quickly came
when new events drove the former from memory, when the vicissitudes of
the world brought new hopes and fears, transferred the love and hatred
of the publick to other agents; and the writer, whose works were no
longer assisted by gratitude or resentment, was left to the cold regard
of idle curiosity.

He that writes upon general principles, or delivers universal truths,
may hope to be often read, because his work will be equally useful at
all times and in every country; but he cannot expect it to be received
with eagerness, or to spread with rapidity, because desire can have no
particular stimulation: that which is to be loved long, must be loved
with reason rather than with passion. He that lays his labours out upon
temporary subjects, easily finds readers, and quickly loses them; for
what should make the book valued when the subject is no more?

These observations will show the reason why the poem of Hudibras is
almost forgotten, however embellished with sentiments and diversified
with allusions, however bright with wit, and however solid with truth.
The hypocrisy which it detected, and the folly which it ridiculed, have
long vanished from publick notice. Those who had felt the mischief of
discord, and the tyranny of usurpation, read it with rapture; for every
line brought back to memory something known, and gratified resentment by
the just censure of something hated. But the book, which was once quoted
by princes, and which supplied conversation to all the assemblies of the
gay and witty, is now seldom mentioned, and even by those that affect to
mention it, is seldom read. So vainly is wit lavished upon fugitive
topicks; so little can architecture secure duration when the ground is
false.




No. 60. SATURDAY, JUNE 9, 1759.

Criticism is a study by which men grow important and formidable at a
very small expense. The power of invention has been conferred by nature
upon few, and the labour of learning those sciences, which may by mere
labour be obtained, is too great to be willingly endured; but every man
can exert such judgment as he has upon the works of others; and he whom
nature has made weak, and idleness keeps ignorant, may yet support his
vanity by the name of a Critick.

I hope it will give comfort to great numbers who are passing through the
world in obscurity, when I inform them how easily distinction may be
obtained. All the other powers of literature are coy and haughty, they
must be long courted, and at last are not always gained; but Criticism
is a goddess easy of access and forward of advance, who will meet the
slow, and encourage the timorous; the want of meaning she supplies with
words, and the want of spirit she recompenses with malignity.

This profession has one recommendation peculiar to itself, that it gives
vent to malignity without real mischief. No genius was ever blasted by
the breath of criticks. The poison which, if confined, would have burst
the heart, fumes away in empty hisses, and malice is set at ease with
very little danger to merit. The critick is the only man whose triumph
is without another's pain, and whose greatness does not rise upon
another's ruin.

To a study at once so easy and so reputable, so malicious and so
harmless, it cannot be necessary to invite my readers by a long or
laboured exhortation; it is sufficient, since all would be criticks if
they could, to show, by one eminent example, that all can be criticks if
they will.

Dick Minim, after the common course of puerile studies, in which he was
no great proficient, was put an apprentice to a brewer, with whom he had
lived two years, when his uncle died in the city, and left him a large
fortune in the stocks. Dick had for six months before used the company
of the lower players, of whom he had learned to scorn a trade, and,
being now at liberty to follow his genius, he resolved to be a man of
wit and humour. That he might be properly initiated in his new
character, he frequented the coffee-houses near the theatres, where he
listened very diligently, day after day, to those who talked of language
and sentiments, and unities and catastrophes, till, by slow degrees, he
began to think that be understood something of the stage, and hoped in
time to talk himself.

But he did not trust so much to natural sagacity as wholly to neglect
the help of books. When the theatres were shut, he retired to Richmond
with a few select writers, whose opinions he impressed upon his memory
by unwearied diligence; and, when he returned with other wits to the
town, was able to tell, in very proper phrases, that the chief business
of art is to copy nature; that a perfect writer is not to be expected,
because genius decays as judgment increases; that the great art is the
art of blotting; and that, according to the rule of Horace, every piece
should be kept nine years.

Of the great authors he now began to display the characters, laying down
as an universal position, that all had beauties and defects. His opinion
was, that Shakespeare, committing himself wholly to the impulse of
nature, wanted that correctness which learning would have given him; and
that Jonson, trusting to learning, did not sufficiently cast his eyes on
nature. He blamed the stanzas of Spenser, and could not bear the
hexameters of Sidney. Denham and Waller he held the first reformers of
English numbers; and thought that if Waller could have obtained the
strength of Denham, or Denham the sweetness of Waller, there had been
nothing wanting to complete a poet. He often expressed his commiseration
of Dryden's poverty, and his indignation at the age which suffered him
to write for bread; he repeated with rapture the first lines of All for
Love, but wondered at the corruption of taste which could bear any thing
so unnatural as rhyming tragedies.

In Otway he found uncommon powers of moving the passions, but was
disgusted by his general negligence, and blamed him for making a
conspirator his hero; and never concluded his disquisition, without
remarking how happily the sound of the clock is made to alarm the
audience. Southern would have been his favourite, but that he mixes
comick with tragick scenes, intercepts the natural course of the
passions, and fills the mind with a wild confusion of mirth and
melancholy. The versification of Rowe he thought too melodious for the
stage, and too little varied in different passions. He made it the great
fault of Congreve, that all his persons were wits, and that he always
wrote with more art than nature. He considered Cato rather as a poem
than a play, and allowed Addison to be the complete master of allegory
and grave humour, but paid no great deference to him as a critick. He
thought the chief merit of Prior was in his easy tales and lighter
poems, though he allowed that his Solomon had many noble sentiments
elegantly expressed. In Swift he discovered an inimitable vein of irony,
and an easiness which all would hope and few would attain. Pope he was
inclined to degrade from a poet to a versifier, and thought his numbers
rather luscious than sweet. He often lamented the neglect of Phaedra and
Hippolytus, and wished to see the stage under better regulations.

These assertions passed commonly uncontradicted; and if now and then an
opponent started up, he was quickly repressed by the suffrages of the
company, and Minim went away from every dispute with elation of heart
and increase of confidence.

He now grew conscious of his abilities, and began to talk of the present
state of dramatick poetry; wondered what had become of the comick genius
which supplied our ancestors with wit and pleasantry, and why no writer
could be found that durst now venture beyond a farce. He saw no reason
for thinking that the vein of humour was exhausted, since we live in a
country, where liberty suffers every character to spread itself to its
utmost bulk, and which, therefore, produces more originals than all the
rest of the world together. Of tragedy he concluded business to be the
soul, and yet often hinted that love predominates too much upon the
modern stage.

He was now an acknowledged critick, and had his own seat in a
coffee-house, and headed a party in the pit. Minim has more vanity than
ill-nature, and seldom desires to do much mischief; he will, perhaps,
murmur a little in the ear of him that sits next him, but endeavours to
influence the audience to favour, by clapping when an actor exclaims,
_Ye gods!_ or laments the misery of his country.

By degrees he was admitted to rehearsals; and many of his friends are of
opinion, that our present poets are indebted to him for their happiest
thoughts; by his contrivance the bell was rung twice in Barbarossa, and
by his persuasion the author of Cleone concluded his play without a
couplet; for what can be more absurd, said Minim, than that part of a
play should be rhymed, and part written in blank verse? and by what
acquisition of faculties is the speaker, who never could find rhymes
before, enabled to rhyme at the conclusion of an act?

He is the great investigator of hidden beauties, and is particularly
delighted when he finds "the sound an echo to the sense." He has read
all our poets, with particular attention to this delicacy of
versification, and wonders at the supineness with which their works have
been hitherto perused, so that no man has found the sound of a drum in
this distich:

  "When pulpit, drum ecclesiastic,
  Was beat with fist instead of a stick;"

and that the wonderful lines upon honour and a bubble have hitherto
passed without notice:

  "Honour is like the glassy bubble,
  Which costs philosophers such trouble;
  Where, one part crack'd, the whole does fly,
  And wits are crack'd to find out why."

In these verses, says Minim, we have two striking accommodations of the
sound to the sense. It is impossible to utter the first two lines
emphatically without an act like that which they describe; _bubble_ and
_trouble_ causing a momentary inflation of the cheeks by the retention
of the breath, which is afterwards forcibly emitted, as in the practice
of _blowing bubbles_. But the greatest excellence is in the third line,
which is _crack'd_ in the middle to express a crack, and then shivers
into monosyllables. Yet has this diamond lain neglected with common
stones, and among the innumerable admirers of Hudibras the observation
of this superlative passage has been reserved for the sagacity of Minim.




No. 61. SATURDAY, JUNE 15, 1759.

Mr. Minim had now advanced himself to the zenith of critical reputation;
when he was in the pit, every eye in the boxes was fixed upon him; when
he entered his coffee-house, he was surrounded by circles of candidates,
who passed their noviciate of literature under his tuition: his opinion
was asked by all who had no opinion of their own, and yet loved to
debate and decide; and no composition was supposed to pass in safety to
posterity, till it had been secured by Minim's approbation.

Minim professes great admiration of the wisdom and munificence by which
the academies of the continent were raised; and often wishes for some
standard of taste, for some tribunal, to which merit may appeal from
caprice, prejudice and malignity. He has formed a plan for an academy of
criticism, where every work of imagination may be read before it is
printed, and which shall authoritatively direct the theatres what pieces
to receive or reject, to exclude or to revive.

Such an institution would, in Dick's opinion, spread the fame of English
literature over Europe, and make London the metropolis of elegance and
politeness, the place to which the learned and ingenious of all
countries would repair for instruction and improvement, and where
nothing would any longer be applauded or endured that was not conformed
to the nicest rules, and finished with the highest elegance.

Till some happy conjunction of the planets shall dispose our princes or
ministers to make themselves immortal by such an academy, Minim contents
himself to preside four nights in a week in a critical society selected
by himself, where he is heard without contradiction, and whence his
judgment is disseminated through the great vulgar and the small.

When he is placed in the chair of criticism, he declares loudly for the
noble simplicity of our ancestors, in opposition to the petty
refinements, and ornamental luxuriance. Sometimes he is sunk in despair,
and perceives false delicacy daily gaining ground, and sometimes
brightens his countenance with a gleam of hope, and predicts the revival
of the true sublime. He then fulminates his loudest censures against the
monkish barbarity of rhyme; wonders how beings that pretend to reason
can be pleased with one line always ending like another; tells how
unjustly and unnaturally sense is sacrificed to sound; how often the
best thoughts are mangled by the necessity of confining or extending
them to the dimensions of a couplet; and rejoices that genius has, in
our days, shaken off the shackles which had encumbered it so long. Yet
he allows that rhyme may sometimes be borne, if the lines be often
broken, and the pauses judiciously diversified.

From blank verse he makes an easy transition to Milton, whom he produces
as an example of the slow advance of lasting reputation. Milton is the
only writer in whose books Minim can read for ever without weariness.
What cause it is that exempts this pleasure from satiety he has long and
diligently inquired, and believes it to consist in the perpetual
variation of the numbers, by which the ear is gratified and the
attention awakened. The lines that are commonly thought rugged and
unmusical, he conceives to have been written to temper the melodious
luxury of the rest, or to express things by a proper cadence: for he
scarcely finds a verse that has not this favourite beauty; he declares
that he could shiver in a hot-house when he reads that

  "the ground
  Burns frore, and cold performs th' effect of fire;"

and that, when Milton bewails his blindness, the verse,

  "So thick a drop serene has quench'd these orbs,"

has, he knows not how, something that strikes him with an obscure
sensation like that which he fancies would be felt from the sound of
darkness.

Minim is not so confident of his rules of judgment as not very eagerly
to catch new light from the name of the author. He is commonly so
prudent as to spare those whom he cannot resist, unless, as will
sometimes happen, he finds the publick combined against them. But a
fresh pretender to fame he is strongly inclined to censure, till his own
honour requires that he commend him. Till he knows the success of a
composition, he intrenches himself in general terms; there are some new
thoughts and beautiful passages, but there is likewise much which he
would have advised the author to expunge. He has several favourite
epithets, of which he has never settled the meaning, but which are very
commodiously applied to books which he has not read, or cannot
understand. One is _manly_, another is _dry_, another _stiff_, and
another _flimsy_; sometimes he discovers delicacy of style, and
sometimes meets with _strange expressions_.

He is never so great, or so happy, as when a youth of promising parts is
brought to receive his directions for the prosecution of his studies. He
then puts on a very serious air; he advises the pupil to read none but
the best authors; and when he finds one congenial to his own mind, to
study his beauties, but avoid his faults; and, when he sits down to
write, to consider how his favourite author would think at the present
time on the present occasion. He exhorts him to catch those moments when
he finds his thoughts expanded and his genius exalted, but to take care
lest imagination hurry him beyond the bounds of nature. He holds
diligence the mother of success; yet enjoins him, with great
earnestness, not to read more than he can digest, and not to confuse his
mind by pursuing studies of contrary tendencies. He tells him, that
every man has his genius, and that Cicero could never be a poet. The boy
retires illuminated, resolves to follow his genius, and to think how
Milton would have thought: and Minim feasts upon his own beneficence
till another day brings another pupil.




No. 62. SATURDAY, JUNE 23, 1759.

  _Quid faciam, proescribe. Quiescas_.--HOR. Lib. ii. Sat. i. 5.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

An opinion prevails almost universally in the world, that he who has
money has every thing. This is not a modern paradox, or the tenet of a
small and obscure sect, but a persuasion which appears to have operated
upon most minds in all ages, and which is supported by authorities so
numerous and so cogent, that nothing but long experience could have
given me confidence to question its truth.

But experience is the test by which all the philosophers of the present
age agree, that speculation must be tried; and I may be, therefore,
allowed to doubt the power of money, since I have been a long time rich,
and have not yet found that riches can make me happy.

My father was a farmer neither wealthy nor indigent, who gave me a
better education than was suitable to my birth, because my uncle in the
city designed me for his heir, and desired that I might be bred a
gentleman. My uncle's wealth was the perpetual subject of conversation
in the house; and when any little misfortune befell us, or any
mortification dejected us, my father always exhorted me to hold up my
head, for my uncle would never marry.

My uncle, indeed, kept his promise. Having his mind completely busied
between his warehouse and the 'Change, he felt no tediousness of life,
nor any want of domestick amusements. When my father died, he received
me kindly; but, after a few months, finding no great pleasure in the
conversation of each other, we parted; and he remitted me a small
annuity, on which I lived a quiet and studious life, without any wish to
grow great by the death of my benefactor.

But though I never suffered any malignant impatience to take hold on my
mind, I could not forbear sometimes to imagine to myself the pleasure of
being rich; and, when I read of diversions and magnificence, resolved to
try, when time should put the trial in my power, what pleasure they
could afford.

My uncle, in the latter spring of his life, when his ruddy cheek and his
firm nerves promised him a long and healthy age, died of an apoplexy.
His death gave me neither joy nor sorrow. He did me good, and I regarded
him with gratitude; but I could not please him, and, therefore, could
not love him.

He had the policy of little minds, who love to surprise; and, having
always represented his fortune as less than it was, had, I suppose,
often gratified himself with thinking, how I should be delighted to find
myself twice as rich as I expected. My wealth was such as exceeded all
the schemes of expense which I had formed; and I soon began to expand my
thoughts, and look round for some purchase of felicity.

The most striking effect of riches is the splendour of dress, which
every man has observed to enforce respect, and facilitate reception; and
my first desire was to be fine. I sent for a tailor who was employed by
the nobility, and ordered such a suit of clothes as I had often looked
on with involuntary submission, and am ashamed to remember with what
flutters of expectation I waited for the hour, when I should issue forth
in all the splendour of embroidery. The clothes were brought, and for
three days I observed many eyes turned towards me as I passed: but I
felt myself obstructed in the common intercourse of civility by an
uneasy consciousness of my new appearance; as I thought myself more
observed, I was more anxious about my mien and behaviour; and the mien
which is formed by care is commonly ridiculous. A short time accustomed
me to myself, and my dress was without pain, and without pleasure.

For a little while I tried to be a rake, but I began too late; and
having by nature no turn for a frolick, was in great danger of ending in
a drunkard. A fever, in which not one of my companions paid me a visit,
gave me time for reflection. I found that there was no great pleasure in
breaking windows and lying in the round-house; and resolved to associate
no longer with those whom, though I had treated and bailed them, I could
not make friends.

I then changed my measures, kept running horses, and had the comfort of
seeing my name very often in the news. I had a chesnut horse, the
grandson of Childers, who won four plates, and ten by-matches; and a bay
filly, who carried off the five years' old plate, and was expected to
perform much greater exploits, when my groom broke her wind, because I
happened to catch him selling oats for beer. This happiness was soon at
an end; there was no pleasure when I lost, and, when I won, I could not
much exalt myself by the virtues of my horse. I grew ashamed of the
company of jockey-lords, and resolved to spend no more of my time in the
stable.

It was now known that I had money, and would spend it, and I passed four
months in the company of architects, whose whole business was to
persuade me to build a house. I told them that I had more room than I
wanted, but could not get rid of their importunities. A new plan was
brought me every morning; till at last my constancy was overpowered, and
I began to build. The happiness of building lasted but a little while,
for though I love to spend, I hate to be cheated; and I soon found, that
to build is to be robbed.

How I proceed in the pursuit of happiness, you shall hear when I find
myself disposed to write.

I am, Sir, &c.

TIM. RANGER.




No. 63. SATURDAY, JUNE 30, 1759.

The natural progress of the works of men is from rudeness to
convenience, from convenience to elegance, and from elegance to nicety.

The first labour is enforced by necessity. The savage finds himself
incommoded by heat and cold, by rain and wind; he shelters himself in
the hollow of a rock, and learns to dig a cave where there was none
before. He finds the sun and the wind excluded by the thicket; and when
the accidents of the chase, or the convenience of pasturage, leads him
into more open places, he forms a thicket for himself, by planting
stakes at proper distances, and laying branches from one to another.

The next gradation of skill and industry produces a house closed with
doors, and divided by partitions; and apartments are multiplied and
disposed according to the various degrees of power or invention;
improvement succeeds improvement, as he that is freed from a greater
evil grows impatient of a less, till ease in time is advanced to
pleasure.

The mind, set free from the importunities of natural want, gains leisure
to go in search of superfluous gratifications, and adds to the uses of
habitation the delights of prospect. Then begins the reign of symmetry;
orders of architecture are invented, and one part of the edifice is
conformed to another, without any other reason, than that the eye may
not be offended.

The passage is very short from elegance to luxury, Ionick and Corinthian
columns are soon succeeded by gilt cornices, inlaid floors and petty
ornaments, which show rather the wealth than the taste of the
possessour.

Language proceeds, like every thing else, through improvement to
degeneracy. The rovers who first took possession of a country, having
not many ideas, and those not nicely modified or discriminated, were
contented, if by general terms and abrupt sentences they could make
their thoughts known to one another: as life begins to be more
regulated, and property to become limited, disputes must be decided, and
claims adjusted; the differences of things are noted, and distinctness
and propriety of expression become necessary. In time, happiness and
plenty give rise to curiosity, and the sciences are cultivated for ease
and pleasure; to the arts, which are now to be taught, emulation soon
adds the art of teaching; and the studious and ambitious contend not
only who shall think best, but who shall tell their thoughts in the most
pleasing manner.

Then begin the arts of rhetorick and poetry, the regulation of figures,
the selection of words, the modulation of periods, the graces of
transition, the complication of clauses, and all the delicacies of style
and subtilties of composition, useful while they advance perspicuity,
and laudable while they increase pleasure, but easy to be refined by
needless scrupulosity till they shall more embarrass the writer than
assist the reader or delight him.

The first state is commonly antecedent to the practice of writing; the
ignorant essays of imperfect diction pass away with the savage
generation that uttered them. No nation can trace their language beyond
the second period, and even of that it does not often happen that many
monuments remain.

The fate of the English tongue is like that of others. We know nothing
of the scanty jargon of our barbarous ancestors; but we have specimens
of our language when it began to be adapted to civil and religious
purposes, and find it such as might naturally be expected, artless and
simple, unconnected and concise. The writers seem to have desired little
more than to be understood, and, perhaps, seldom aspired to the praise
of pleasing. Their verses were considered chiefly as memorial, and,
therefore, did not differ from prose but by the measure or the rhyme.

In this state, varied a little according to the different purposes or
abilities of writers, our language may be said to have continued to the
time of Gower, whom Chaucer calls his master, and who, however obscured
by his scholar's popularity, seems justly to claim the honour which has
been hitherto denied him, of showing his countrymen that something more
was to be desired, and that English verse might be exalted into poetry.

From the time of Gower and Chaucer, the English writers have studied
elegance, and advanced their language, by successive improvements, to as
much harmony as it can easily receive, and as much copiousness as human
knowledge has hitherto required. These advances have not been made at
all times with the same diligence or the same success. Negligence has
suspended the course of improvement, or affectation turned it aside;
time has elapsed with little change, or change has been made without
amendment. But elegance has been long kept in view with attention as
near to constancy as life permits, till every man now endeavours to
excel others in accuracy, or outshine them in splendour of style, and
the danger is, lest care should too soon pass to affectation.




No. 64. SATURDAY, JULY 1, 1759.

  _Quid faciam, praescribe. Quiescas_.--HOR. Lib. ii. Sat. i. 5.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

As nature has made every man desirous of happiness, I flatter myself,
that you and your readers cannot but feel some curiosity to know the
sequel of my story; for though, by trying the different schemes of
pleasure, I have yet found nothing in which I could finally acquiesce;
yet the narrative of my attempts will not be wholly without use, since
we always approach nearer to truth as we detect more and more varieties
of errour.

When I had sold my racers, and put the orders of architecture out of my
head, my next resolution was to be a _fine gentleman_. I frequented the
polite coffee-houses, grew acquainted with all the men of humour, and
gained the right of bowing familiarly to half the nobility. In this new
scene of life my great labour was to learn to laugh. I had been used to
consider laughter as the effect of merriment; but I soon learned that it
is one of the arts of adulation, and, from laughing only to show that I
was pleased, I now began to laugh when I wished to please. This was at
first very difficult. I sometimes heard the story with dull
indifference, and, not exalting myself to merriment by due gradations,
burst out suddenly into an awkward noise, which was not always
favourably interpreted. Sometimes I was behind the rest of the company,
and lost the grace of laughing by delay, and sometimes, when I began at
the right time, was deficient in loudness or in length. But, by diligent
imitation of the best models, I attained at last such flexibility of
muscles, that I was always a welcome auditor of a story, and got the
reputation of a good-natured fellow.

This was something; but much more was to be done, that I might be
universally allowed to be a fine gentleman. I appeared at court on all
publick days; betted at gaming-tables; and played at all the routs of
eminence. I went every night to the opera, took a fiddler of disputed
merit under my protection, became the head of a musical faction, and had
sometimes concerts at my own house. I once thought to have attained the
highest rank of elegance, by taking a foreign singer into keeping. But
my favourite fiddler contrived to be arrested, on the night of a
concert, for a finer suit of clothes than I had ever presumed to wear,
and I lost all the fame of patronage by refusing to bail him.

My next ambition was to sit for my picture. I spent a whole winter in
going from painter to painter, to bespeak a whole length of one, and a
half length of another; I talked of nothing but attitudes, draperies and
proper lights; took my friends to see the pictures after every sitting;
heard every day of a wonderful performer in crayons and miniature, and
sent my pictures to be copied; was told by the judges that they were not
like, and was recommended to other artists. At length, being not able to
please my friends, I grew less pleased myself, and at last resolved to
think no more about it.

It was impossible to live in total idleness: and wandering about in
search of something to do, I was invited to a weekly meeting of
virtuosos, and felt myself instantaneously seized with an
unextinguishable ardour for all natural curiosities. I ran from auction
to auction, became a critick in shells and fossils, bought a _Hortus
siccus_ of inestimable value, and purchased a secret art of preserving
insects, which made my collection the envy of the other philosophers. I
found this pleasure mingled with much vexation. All the faults of my
life were for nine months circulated through the town with the most
active malignity, because I happened to catch a moth of peculiar
variegation; and because I once out-bid all the lovers of shells, and
carried off a nautilus, it was hinted that the validity of my uncle's
will ought to be disputed. I will not deny that I was very proud both of
the moth and of the shell, and gratified myself with the envy of my
companions, perhaps, more than became a benevolent being. But in time I
grew weary of being hated for that which produced no advantage, gave my
shells to children that wanted play-things, and suppressed the art of
drying butterflies, because I would not tempt idleness and cruelty to
kill them.

I now began to feel life tedious, and wished to store myself with
friends, with whom I might grow old in the interchange of benevolence. I
had observed that popularity was most easily gained by an open table,
and, therefore, hired a French cook, furnished my sideboard with great
magnificence, filled my cellar with wines of pompous appellations,
bought every thing that was dear before it was good, and invited all
those who were most famous for judging of a dinner. In three weeks my
cook gave me warning, and, upon inquiry, told me that Lord Queasy, who
dined with me the day before, had sent him an offer of double wages. My
pride prevailed; I raised his wages, and invited his lordship to another
feast. I love plain meat, and was, therefore, soon weary of spreading a
table of which I could not partake. I found that my guests, when they
went away, criticised their entertainment, and censured my profusion; my
cook thought himself necessary, and took upon him the direction of the
house; and I could not rid myself of flatterers, or break from slavery,
but by shutting up my house, and declaring my resolution to live in
lodgings.

After all this, tell me, dear Idler, what I must do next; I have health,
I have money, and I hope that I have understanding; yet, with all these,
I have never been able to pass a single day which I did not wish at an
end before sun-set. Tell me, dear Idler, what I shall do.

I am

Your humble servant,

TIM. RANGER.




No. 65. SATURDAY, JULY 14, 1759.

This sequel of Clarendon's history, at last happily published, is an
accession to English literature equally agreeable to the admirers of
elegance and the lovers of truth; many doubtful facts may now be
ascertained, and many questions, after long debate, may be determined by
decisive authority. He that records transactions in which himself was
engaged, has not only an opportunity of knowing innumerable particulars
which escape spectators, but has his natural powers exalted by that
ardour which always rises at the remembrance of our own importance, and
by which every man is enabled to relate his own actions better than
another's.

The difficulties through which this work has struggled into light, and
the delays with which our hopes have been long mocked, naturally lead
the mind to the consideration of the common fate of posthumous
compositions.

He who sees himself surrounded by admirers, and whose vanity is hourly
feasted with all the luxuries of studied praise, is easily persuaded
that his influence will be extended beyond his life; that they who
cringe in his presence will reverence his memory, and that those who are
proud to be numbered among his friends, will endeavour to vindicate his
choice by zeal for his reputation.

With hopes like these, to the executors of Swift was committed the
history of the last years of queen Anne, and to those of Pope, the works
which remained unprinted in his closet. The performances of Pope were
burnt by those whom he had, perhaps, selected from all mankind as most
likely to publish them; and the history had likewise perished, had not a
straggling transcript fallen into busy hands.

The papers left in the closet of Pieresc supplied his heirs with a whole
winter's fuel; and many of the labours of the learned Bishop Lloyd were
consumed in the kitchen of his descendants.

Some works, indeed, have escaped total destruction, but yet have had
reason to lament the fate of orphans exposed to the frauds of unfaithful
guardians. How Hale would have borne the mutilations which his Pleas of
the Crown have suffered from the editor, they who know his character
will easily conceive[1].

The original copy of Burnet's history, though promised to some publick
library[2], has been never given; and who then can prove the fidelity of
the publication, when the authenticity of Clarendon's history, though
printed with the sanction of one of the first universities of the world,
had not an unexpected manuscript been happily discovered, would, with
the help of factious credulity, have been brought into question by the
two lowest of all human beings, a scribbler for a party, and a
commissioner of excise[3]?

Vanity is often no less mischievous than negligence or dishonesty. He
that possesses a valuable manuscript, hopes to raise its esteem by
concealment, and delights in the distinction which he imagines himself
to obtain by keeping the key of a treasure which he neither uses nor
imparts. From him it falls to some other owner, less vain but more
negligent, who considers it as useless lumber, and rids himself of the
encumbrance.

Yet there are some works which the authors must consign unpublished to
posterity, however uncertain be the event, however hopeless be the
trust. He that writes the history of his own times, if he adheres
steadily to truth, will write that which his own times will not easily
endure. He must be content to reposite his book, till all private
passions shall cease, and love and hatred give way to curiosity.

But many leave the labours of half their life to their executors and to
chance, because they will not send them abroad unfinished, and are
unable to finish them, having prescribed to themselves such a degree of
exactness as human diligence can scarcely attain. "Lloyd", says Burnet,
"did not lay out his learning with the same diligence as he laid it in."
He was always hesitating and inquiring, raising objections and removing
them, and waiting for clearer light and fuller discovery. Baker, after
many years passed in biography, left his manuscripts to be buried in a
library, because that was imperfect which could never be perfected.

Of these learned men, let those who aspire to the same praise imitate
the diligence, and avoid the scrupulosity. Let it be always remembered
that life is short, that knowledge is endless, and that many doubts
deserve not to be cleared. Let those whom nature and study have
qualified to teach mankind, tell us what they have learned while they
are yet able to tell it, and trust their reputation only to themselves.

[1] See Preface.

[2] It would be proper to reposite, in some public place, the manuscript
    of Clarendon, which has not escaped all suspicion of unfaithful
    publication.

    The manuscript of Clarendon is now in the Bodleian library at
    Oxford, and the editor of the present edition has it before him
    while writing this note. He may likewise add, that a new and emended
    edition is now printing from the original MS. at the Clarendon
    press. December, 1824.

[3] See Preface.
    Dr. Johnson's hatred of the excise reminds us of John Wesley's
    wailing philippic against turnpike gates, which he denounced as the
    most cruel of impositions on the way-faring man.




No. 66. SATURDAY, JULY 21, 1759.

No complaint is more frequently repeated among the learned, than that
of the waste made by time among the labours of antiquity. Of those who
once filled the civilized world with their renown, nothing is now left
but their names, which are left only to raise desires that never can be
satisfied, and sorrow which never can be comforted.

Had all the writings of the ancients been faithfully delivered down from
age to age, had the Alexandrian library been spared, and the Palatine
repositories remained unimpaired, how much might we have known of which
we are now doomed to be ignorant! how many laborious inquiries, and dark
conjectures; how many collations of broken hints and mutilated passages
might have been spared! We should have known the successions of princes,
the revolutions of empires, the actions of the great, and opinions of
the wise, the laws and constitutions of every state, and the arts by
which publick grandeur and happiness are acquired and preserved; we
should have traced the progress of life, seen colonies from distant
regions take possession of European deserts, and troops of savages
settled into communities by the desire of keeping what they had
acquired; we should have traced the gradations of civility, and
travelled upward to the original of things by the light of history, till
in remoter times it had glimmered in fable, and at last sunk into
darkness.

If the works of imagination had been less diminished, it is likely that
all future times might have been supplied with inexhaustible amusement
by the fictions of antiquity. The tragedies of Sophocles and Euripides
would all have shown the stronger passions in all their diversities; and
the comedies of Menander would have furnished all the maxims of
domestick life. Nothing would have been necessary to moral wisdom but to
have studied these great masters, whose knowledge would have guided
doubt, and whose authority would have silenced cavils.

Such are the thoughts that rise in every student, when his curiosity is
eluded, and his searches are frustrated; yet it may, perhaps, be
doubted, whether our complaints are not sometimes inconsiderate, and
whether we do not imagine more evil than we feel. Of the ancients,
enough remains to excite our emulation and direct our endeavours. Many
of the works which time has left us, we know to have been these that
were most esteemed, and which antiquity itself considered as models; so
that, having the originals, we may without much regret lose the
imitations. The obscurity which the want of contemporary writers often
produces, only darkens single passages, and those commonly of slight
importance. The general tendency of every piece may be known; and though
that diligence deserves praise which leaves nothing unexamined, yet its
miscarriages are not much to be lamented; for the most useful truths are
always universal, and unconnected with accidents and customs.

Such is the general conspiracy of human nature against contemporary
merit, that, if we had inherited from antiquity enough to afford
employment for the laborious, and amusement for the idle, I know not
what room would have been left for modern genius or modern industry;
almost every subject would have been pre-occupied, and every style would
have been fixed by a precedent from which few would have ventured to
depart. Every writer would have had a rival, whose superiority was
already acknowledged, and to whose fame his work would, even before it
was seen, be marked out for a sacrifice.

We see how little the united experience of mankind hath been able to add
to the heroick characters displayed by Homer, and how few incidents the
fertile imagination of modern Italy has yet produced, which may not be
found in the Iliad and Odyssey. It is likely, that if all the works of
the Athenian philosophers had been extant, Malbranche and Locke would
have been condemned to be silent readers of the ancient metaphysicians;
and it is apparent, that, if the old writers had all remained, the Idler
could not have written a disquisition on the loss[1].

[1] There was a weighty meaning in that fiction of the Stoics, of a
grand periodic year, in which all events should be re-acted in the same
mode and order as before. There is nothing new under the sun. Whatever
is, or shall be, is only an imitation, or, at best, a re-production of
something that has been. The moralist who speculates on the
contingencies of human conduct can only divine the future from what has
already been acted on the earth. The philosopher, leaning on principles
which Science styles immutable, is confined within the narrow bounds of
created matter. Why then should Reason make us undervalue that
Revelation which carries us upwards to Creation's birth, and bears us
downward to a period when time shall be no longer? ED.




No. 67. SATURDAY, JULY 28, 1759.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

In the observations which you have made on the various opinions and
pursuits of mankind, you must often, in literary conversations, have met
with men who consider dissipation as the great enemy of the intellect;
and maintain, that, in proportion as the student keeps himself within
the bounds of a settled plan, he will more certainly advance in science.

This opinion is, perhaps, generally true; yet, when we contemplate the
inquisitive nature of the human mind, and its perpetual impatience of
all restraint, it may be doubted whether the faculties may not be
contracted by confining the attention; and whether it may not sometimes
be proper to risk the certainty of little for the chance of much.
Acquisitions of knowledge, like blazes of genius, are often fortuitous.
Those who had proposed to themselves a methodical course of reading,
light by accident on a new book, which seizes their thoughts and kindles
their curiosity, and opens an unexpected prospect, to which the way
which they had prescribed to themselves would never have conducted them.

To enforce and illustrate my meaning, I have sent you a journal of three
days' employment, found among the papers of a late intimate
acquaintance; who, as will plainly appear, was a man of vast designs,
and of vast performances, though he sometimes designed one thing, and
performed another. I allow that the Spectator's inimitable productions
of this kind may well discourage all subsequent journalists; but, as the
subject of this is different from that of any which the Spectator has
given us, I leave it to you to publish or suppress it.

Mem. The following three days I purpose to give up to reading; and
intend, after all the delays which have obtruded themselves upon me, to
finish my Essay on the Extent of the Mental powers; to revise my
Treatise on Logick; to begin the Epick which I have long projected; to
proceed in my perusal of the Scriptures with Grotius's Comment; and at
my leisure to regale myself with the works of classicks, ancient and
modern, and to finish my Ode to Astronomy.

Monday.] Designed to rise at six, but, by my servant's laziness, my fire
was not lighted before eight, when I dropped into a slumber that lasted
till nine; at which time I arose, and, after breakfast, at ten, sat down
to study, purposing to begin upon my Essay; but, finding occasion to
consult a passage in Plato, was absorbed in the perusal of the Republick
till twelve. I had neglected to forbid company, and now enters Tom
Careless, who, after half an hour's chat, insisted upon my going with
him to enjoy an absurd character, that he had appointed, by an
advertisement, to meet him at a particular coffee-house. After we had
for some time entertained ourselves with him, we sallied out, designing
each to repair to his home; but, as it fell out, coming up in the street
to a man whose steel by his side declared him a butcher, we overheard
him opening an address to a genteelish sort of young lady, whom he
walked with: "Miss, though your father is master of a coal-lighter, and
you will be a great fortune, 'tis true; yet I wish I may be cut into
quarters if it is not only love, and not lucre of gain, that is my
motive for offering terms of marriage." As this lover proceeded in his
speech, he misled us the length of three streets, in admiration at the
unlimited power of the tender passion, that could soften even the heart
of a butcher. We then adjourned to a tavern, and from thence to one of
the publick gardens, where I was regaled with a most amusing variety of
men possessing great talents, so discoloured by affectation, that they
only made them eminently ridiculous; shallow things, who, by continual
dissipation, had annihilated the few ideas nature had given them, and
yet were celebrated for wonderful pretty gentlemen; young ladies
extolled for their wit, because they were handsome; illiterate empty
women as well as men, in high life, admired for their knowledge, from
their being resolutely positive; and women of real understanding so far
from pleasing the polite million, that they frightened them away, and
were left solitary. When we quitted this entertaining scene, Tom pressed
me, irresistibly, to sup with him. I reached home at twelve, and then
reflected, that, though indeed I had, by remarking various characters,
improved my insight into human nature, yet still I had neglected the
studies proposed, and accordingly took up my Treatise on Logick, to give
it the intended revisal, but found my spirits too much agitated, and
could not forbear a few satirical lines, under the title of The
Evening's Walk.

Tuesday.] At breakfast, seeing my Ode to Astronomy lying on my desk, I
was struck with a train of ideas, that I thought might contribute to its
improvement. I immediately rang my bell to forbid all visitants, when my
servant opened the door, with, "Sir, Mr. Jeffery Gape." My cup dropped
out of one hand, and my poem out of the other. I could scarcely ask him
to sit; he told me he was going to walk, but, as there was a likelihood
of rain, he would sit with me; he said, he intended at first to have
called at Mr. Vacant's, but as he had not seen me a great while, he did
not mind coming out of his way to wait on me; I made him a bow, but
thanks for the favour stuck in my throat. I asked him if he had been to
the coffee-house; he replied, Two hours.

Under the oppression of this dull interruption, I sat looking wishfully
at the clock; for which, to increase my satisfaction, I had chosen the
inscription, "Art is long, and life is short;" exchanging questions and
answers at long intervals, and not without some hints that the
weather-glass promised fair weather. At half an hour after three he told
me he would trespass on me for a dinner, and desired me to send to his
house for a bundle of papers, about inclosing a common upon his estate,
which he would read to me in the evening. I declared myself busy, and Mr.
Gape went away.

Having dined, to compose my chagrin I took up Virgil, and several other
classicks, but could not calm my mind, or proceed in my scheme. At about
five I laid my hand on a Bible that lay on my table, at first with
coldness and insensibility; but was imperceptibly engaged in a close
attention to its sublime morality, and felt my heart expanded by warm
philanthropy, and exalted to dignity of sentiment. I then censured my
too great solicitude, and my disgust conceived at my acquaintance, who
had been so far from designing to offend, that he only meant to show
kindness and respect. In this strain of mind I wrote An Essay on
Benevolence, and An Elegy on Sublunary Disappointments. When I had
finished these, at eleven, I supped, and recollected how little I had
adhered to my plan, and almost questioned the possibility of pursuing
any settled and uniform design; however, I was not so far persuaded of
the truth of these suggestions, but that I resolved to try once more at
my scheme. As I observed the moon shining through my window, from a calm
and bright sky spangled with innumerable stars, I indulged a pleasing
meditation on the splendid scene, and finished my Ode to Astronomy.

Wednesday.] Rose at seven, and employed three hours in perusal of the
Scriptures with Grotius's Comment; and after breakfast fell into
meditation concerning my projected Epick; and being in some doubt as to
the particular lives of some heroes, whom I proposed to celebrate, I
consulted Bayle and Moreri, and was engaged two hours in examining
various lives and characters, but then resolved to go to my employment.
When I was seated at my desk, and began to feel the glowing succession
of poetical ideas, my servant brought me a letter from a lawyer,
requiring my instant attendance at Gray's Inn for half an hour. I went
full of vexation, and was involved in business till eight at night; and
then, being too much fatigued to study, supped, and went to bed.

Here my friend's Journal concludes, which, perhaps, is pretty much a
picture of the manner in which many prosecute their studies. I therefore
resolved to send it you, imagining, that, if you think it worthy of
appearing in your paper, some of your readers may receive entertainment
by recognising a resemblance between my friend's conduct and their own.
It must be left to the Idler accurately to ascertain the proper methods
of advancing in literature; but this one position, deducible from what
has been said above, may, I think, be reasonably asserted, that he who
finds himself strongly attracted to any particular study, though it may
happen to be out of his proposed scheme, if it is not trifling or
vicious, had better continue his application to it, since it is likely
that he will, with much more ease and expedition, attain that which a
warm inclination stimulates him to pursue, than that at which a
prescribed law compels him to toil.[1]

I am, &c.

[1] This paper, which is evidently throughout allusive to the Idler's
    own broken resolutions, was the composition of Bennet Langton, for
    whom Johnson cherished the fondest regard. In his admiration he
    ventured even to exclaim, "Sit anima mea cum Langtono." Boswell,
    iv.--ED.




No. 68. SATURDAY, AUGUST 4, 1759.

Among the studies which have exercised the ingenious and the learned for
more than three centuries, none has been more diligently or more
successfully cultivated than the art of translation; by which the
impediments which bar the way to science are, in some measure, removed,
and the multiplicity of languages become less incommodious.

Of every other kind of writing the ancients have left us models which
all succeeding ages have laboured to imitate; but translation may justly
be claimed by the moderns as their own. In the first ages of the world
instruction was commonly oral, and learning traditional, and what was
not written could not be translated. When alphabetical writing made the
conveyance of opinions and the transmission of events more easy and
certain, literature did not flourish in more than one country at once,
or distant nations had little commerce with each other; and those few
whom curiosity sent abroad in quest of improvement, delivered their
acquisitions in their own manner, desirous, perhaps, to be considered as
the inventors of that which they had learned from others.

The Greeks for a time travelled into Egypt, but they translated no books
from the Egyptian language; and when the Macedonians had overthrown the
empire of Persia, the countries that became subject to Grecian dominion
studied only the Grecian literature. The books of the conquered nations,
if they had any among them, sunk into oblivion; Greece considered
herself as the mistress, if not as the parent of arts, her language
contained all that was supposed to be known, and, except the sacred
writings of the Old Testament, I know not that the library of Alexandria
adopted any thing from a foreign tongue.

The Romans confessed themselves the scholars of the Greeks, and do not
appear to have expected, what has since happened, that the ignorance of
succeeding ages would prefer them to their teachers. Every man, who in
Rome aspired to the praise of literature, thought it necessary to learn
Greek, and had no need of versions when they could study the originals.
Translation, however, was not wholly neglected. Dramatick poems could be
understood by the people in no language but their own, and the Romans
were sometimes entertained with the tragedies of Euripides and the
comedies of Menander. Other works were sometimes attempted; in an old
scholiast there is mention of a Latin Iliad; and we have not wholly lost
Tully's version of the poem of Aratus; but it does not appear that any
man grew eminent by interpreting another, and perhaps it was more
frequent to translate for exercise or amusement, than for fame.

The Arabs were the first nation who felt the ardour of translation: when
they had subdued the eastern provinces of the Greek empire, they found
their captives wiser than themselves, and made haste to relieve their
wants by imparted knowledge. They discovered that many might grow wise
by the labour of a few, and that improvements might be made with speed,
when they had the knowledge of former ages in their own language. They,
therefore, made haste to lay hold on medicine end philosophy, and turned
their chief authors into Arabick[1]. Whether they attempted the poets is
not known; their literary zeal was vehement, but it was short, and
probably expired before they had time to add the arts of elegance to
those of necessity.

The study of ancient literature was interrupted in Europe by the
irruption of the Northern nations, who subverted the Roman empire, and
erected new kingdoms with new languages. It is not strange that such
confusion should suspend literary attention; those who lost, and those
who gained dominion, had immediate difficulties to encounter, and
immediate miseries to redress, and had little leisure, amidst the
violence of war, the trepidation of flight, the distresses of forced
migration, or the tumults of unsettled conquest, to inquire after
speculative truth, to enjoy the amusement of imaginary adventures, to
know the history of former ages, or study the events of any other lives.
But no sooner had this chaos of dominion sunk into order, than learning
began again to flourish in the calm of peace. When life and possessions
were secure, convenience and enjoyment were soon sought, learning was
found the highest gratification of the mind, and translation became one
of the means by which it was imparted.

At last, by a concurrence of many causes, the European world was roused
from its lethargy; those arts which had been long obscurely studied in
the gloom of monasteries became the general favourites of mankind; every
nation vied with its neighbour for the prize of learning; the epidemical
emulation spread from south to north, and curiosity and translation
found their way to Britain.

[1] Some popular information on the interesting subject of Arabian
Literature, is collected in the third part of Harris's Philological
Inquiries. Mr. Hallam's History of the Middle Ages is a rich storehouse
for these points.--ED.




No. 69. SATURDAY, AUGUST 11, 1759.

He that reviews the progress of English literature, will find that
translation was very early cultivated among us, but that some
principles, either wholly erroneous or too far extended, hindered our
success from being always equal to our diligence.

Chaucer, who is generally considered as the father of our poetry, has
left a version of Boethius on the Comforts of Philosophy, the book which
seems to have been the favourite of the middle ages, which had been
translated into Saxon by King Alfred, and illustrated with a copious
comment ascribed to Aquinas. It may be supposed that Chaucer would apply
more than common attention to an author of so much celebrity, yet he has
attempted nothing higher than a version strictly literal, and has
degraded the poetical parts to prose, that the constraint of
versification might not obstruct his zeal for fidelity.

Caxton taught us typography about the year 1474. The first book printed
in English was a translation. Caxton was both the translator and printer
of the Destruction of Troye; a book which, in that infancy of learning,
was considered as the best account of the fabulous ages, and which,
though now driven out of notice by authors of no greater use or value,
still continued to be read in Caxton's English to the beginning of the
present century.

Caxton proceeded as he began, and, except the poems of Gower and
Chaucer, printed nothing but translations from the French, in which the
original is so scrupulously followed, that they afford us little
knowledge of our own language: though the words are English, the phrase
is foreign.

As learning advanced, new works were adopted into our language, but I
think with little improvement of the art of translation, though foreign
nations and other languages offered us models of a better method; till
in the age of Elizabeth we began to find that greater liberty was
necessary to elegance, and that elegance was necessary to general
reception; some essays were then made upon the Italian poets, which
deserve the praise and gratitude of posterity.

But the old practice was not suddenly forsaken: Holland filled the
nation with literal translation; and, what is yet more strange, the same
exactness was obstinately practised in the versions of the poets. This
absurd labour of construing into rhyme was countenanced by Jonson in his
version of Horace; and whether it be that more men have learning than
genius, or that the endeavours of that time were more directed towards
knowledge than delight, the accuracy of Jonson found more imitators than
the elegance of Fairfax; and May, Sandys and Holiday, confined
themselves to the toil of rendering line for line, not indeed with equal
felicity, for May and Sandys were poets, and Holiday only a scholar and
a critick.

Feltham appears to consider it as the established law of poetical
translation, that the lines should be neither more nor fewer than those
of the original; and so long had this prejudice prevailed, that Denham
praises Fanshaw's version of Guarini as the example of a _new and noble
way_, as the first attempt to break the boundaries of custom, and assert
the natural freedom of the Muse.

In the general emulation of wit and genius which the festivity of the
Restoration produced, the poets shook off their constraint, and
considered translation as no longer confined to servile closeness. But
reformation is seldom the work of pure virtue or unassisted reason.
Translation was improved more by accident than conviction. The writers
of the foregoing age had at least learning equal to their genius; and,
being often more able to explain the sentiments or illustrate the
allusions of the ancients, than to exhibit their graces and transfuse
their spirit, were, perhaps, willing sometimes to conceal their want of
poetry by profusion of literature, and, therefore, translated literally,
that their fidelity might shelter their insipidity or harshness. The
wits of Charles's time had seldom more than slight and superficial
views; and their care was to hide their want of learning behind the
colours of a gay imagination; they, therefore, translated always with
freedom, sometimes with licentiousness, and, perhaps, expected that
their readers should accept sprightliness for knowledge, and consider
ignorance and mistake as the impatience and negligence of a mind too
rapid to stop at difficulties, and too elevated to descend to
minuteness.

Thus was translation made more easy to the writer, and more delightful
to the reader; and there is no wonder if ease and pleasure have found
their advocates. The paraphrastick liberties have been almost
universally admitted; and Sherbourn, whose learning was eminent, and who
had no need of any excuse to pass slightly over obscurities, is the only
writer who, in later times, has attempted to justify or revive the
ancient severity.

There is undoubtedly a mean to be observed. Dryden saw very early that
closeness best preserved an author's sense, and that freedom best
exhibited his spirit; he, therefore, will deserve the highest praise,
who can give a representation at once faithful and pleasing, who can
convey the same thoughts with the same graces, and who, when he
translates, changes nothing but the language[1].

[1] Much research on this branch of literature is exhibited in Lord
    Woodhouselee's Principles of Translation.




No. 70. SATURDAY, AUGUST 18, 1759.

Few faults of style, whether real or imaginary, excite the malignity of
a more numerous class of readers, than the use of hard words.

If an author be supposed to involve his thoughts in voluntary obscurity,
and to obstruct, by unnecessary difficulties, a mind eager in pursuit of
truth; if he writes not to make others learned, but to boast the
learning which he possesses himself, and wishes to be admired rather
than understood, he counteracts the first end of writing, and justly
suffers the utmost severity of censure, or the more afflictive severity
of neglect.

But words are hard only to those who do not understand them; and the
critick ought always to inquire, whether he is incommoded by the fault
of the writer or by his own.

Every author does not write for every reader; many questions are such as
the illiterate part of mankind can have neither interest nor pleasure in
discussing, and which, therefore, it would be an useless endeavour to
level with common minds, by tiresome circumlocutions or laborious
explanations; and many subjects of general use may be treated in a
different manner, as the book is intended for the learned or the
ignorant. Diffusion and explication are necessary to the instruction of
those who, being neither able nor accustomed to think for themselves,
can learn only what is expressly taught; but they who can form
parallels, discover consequences, and multiply conclusions, are best
pleased with involution of argument and compression of thought; they
desire only to receive the seeds of knowledge which they may branch out
by their own power, to have the way to truth pointed out, which they can
then follow without a guide.

The Guardian directs one of his pupils, "to think with the wise, but
speak with the vulgar." This is a precept specious enough, but not
always practicable. Difference of thoughts will produce difference of
language. He that thinks with more extent than another will want words
of larger meaning; he that thinks with more subtilty will seek for terms
of more nice discrimination; and where is the wonder, since words are
but the images of things, that he who never knew the original should not
know the copies?

Yet vanity inclines us to find faults any where rather than in
ourselves. He that reads and grows no wiser, seldom suspects his own
deficiency; but complains of hard words and obscure sentences, and asks
why books are written which cannot be understood?

Among the hard words which are no longer to be used, it has been long
the custom to number terms of art. "Every man," says Swift, "is more
able to explain the subject of an art than its professors; a farmer will
tell you, in two words, that he has broken his leg; but a surgeon, after
a long discourse, shall leave you as ignorant as you were before." This
could only have been said, by such an exact observer of life, in
gratification of malignity, or in ostentation of acuteness. Every hour
produces instances of the necessity of terms of art. Mankind could never
conspire in uniform affectation; it is not but by necessity that every
science and every trade has its peculiar language. They that content
themselves with general ideas may rest in general terms; but those,
whose studies or employments force them upon closer inspection, must
have names for particular parts, and words by which they may express
various modes of combination, such as none but themselves have occasion
to consider.

Artists are indeed sometimes ready to suppose that none can be strangers
to words to which themselves are familiar, talk to an incidental
inquirer as they talk to one another, and make their knowledge
ridiculous by injudicious obtrusion. An art cannot be taught but by its
proper terms, but it is not always necessary to teach the art.

That the vulgar express their thoughts clearly, is far from true; and
what perspicuity can be found among them proceeds not from the easiness
of their language, but the shallowness of their thoughts. He that sees a
building as a common spectator, contents himself with relating that it
is great or little, mean or splendid, lofty or low; all these words are
intelligible and common, but they convey no distinct or limited ideas;
if he attempts, without the terms of architecture, to delineate the
parts, or enumerate the ornaments, his narration at once becomes
unintelligible. The terms, indeed, generally displease, because they are
understood by few; but they are little understood, only because few that
look upon an edifice examine its parts, or analyze its columns into
their members.

The state of every other art is the same; as it is cursorily surveyed or
accurately examined, different forms of expression become proper. In
morality it is one thing to discuss the niceties of the casuist, and
another to direct the practice of common life. In agriculture, he that
instructs the farmer to plough and sow, may convey his notions without
the words which he would find necessary in explaining to philosophers
the process of vegetation; and if he, who has nothing to do but to be
honest by the shortest way, will perplex his mind with subtile
speculations; or if he, whose task is to reap and thrash, will not be
contented without examining the evolution of the seed and circulation of
the sap; the writers whom either shall consult are very little to be
blamed, though it should sometimes happen that they are read in vain.




No. 71. SATURDAY, AUGUST 25, 1759.

  Celan le selve angui, leoni, ed orsi
  Dentro il lor verde.                 TASSO, L'AMINTA.

Dick Shifter was born in Cheapside, and, having passed reputably through
all the classes of St. Paul's school, has been for some years a student
in the Temple. He is of opinion, that intense application dulls the
faculties, and thinks it necessary to temper the severity of the law by
books that engage the mind, but do not fatigue it. He has, therefore,
made a copious collection of plays, poems, and romances, to which he has
recourse when he fancies himself tired with statutes and reports; and he
seldom inquires very nicely whether he is weary or idle.

Dick has received from his favourite authors very strong impressions of
a country life; and though his furthest excursions have been to
Greenwich on one side, and Chelsea on the other, he has talked for
several years, with great pomp of language and elevation of sentiments,
about a state too high for contempt and too low for envy, about homely
quiet and blameless simplicity, pastoral delights and rural innocence.

His friends, who, had estates in the country, often invited him to pass
the summer among them, but something or other had always hindered him;
and he considered, that to reside in the house of another man was to
incur a kind of dependence inconsistent with that laxity of life which
he had imaged as the chief good.

This summer he resolved to be happy, and procured a lodging to be taken
for him at a solitary house, situated about thirty miles from London, on
the banks of a small river, with corn-fields before it and a hill on
each side covered with wood. He concealed the place of his retirement,
that none might violate his obscurity, and promised himself many a happy
day when he should hide himself among the trees, and contemplate the
tumults and vexations of the town.

He stepped into the post-chaise with his heart beating and his eyes
sparkling, was conveyed through many varieties of delightful prospects,
saw hills and meadows, cornfields and pasture, succeed each other, and
for four hours charged none of his poets with fiction or exaggeration.
He was now within six miles of happiness, when, having never felt so
much agitation before, he began to wish his journey at an end, and the
last hour was passed in changing his posture and quarrelling with his
driver.

An hour may be tedious, but cannot be long. He at length alighted at his
new dwelling, and was received as he expected; he looked round upon the
hills and rivulets, but his joints were stiff and his muscles sore, and
his first request was to see his bed-chamber.

He rested well, and ascribed the soundness of his sleep to the stillness
of the country. He expected from that time nothing but nights of quiet
and days of rapture, and, as soon as he had risen, wrote an account of
his new state to one of his friends in the Temple.

"Dear Frank,

"I never pitied thee before. I am now, as I could wish every man of
wisdom and virtue to be, in the regions of calm content and placid
meditation; with all the beauties of nature soliciting my notice, and
all the diversities of pleasure courting my acceptance; the birds are
chirping in the hedges, and the flowers blooming in the mead; the breeze
is whistling in the wood, and the sun dancing on the water. I can now
say, with truth, that a man, capable of enjoying the purity of
happiness, is never more busy than in his hours of leisure, nor ever
less solitary than in a place of solitude.

I am, dear Frank, &c."

When he had sent away his letter, he walked into the wood, with some
inconvenience, from the furze that pricked his legs, and the briars that
scratched his face. He at last sat down under a tree, and heard with
great delight a shower, by which he was not wet, rattling among the
branches: This, said he, is the true image of obscurity; we hear of
troubles and commotions, but never feel them.

His amusement did not overpower the calls of nature, and he, therefore,
went back to order his dinner. He knew that the country produces
whatever is eaten or drunk, and, imagining that he was now at the source
of luxury, resolved to indulge himself with dainties which he supposed
might be procured at a price next to nothing, if any price at all was
expected; and intended to amaze the rusticks with his generosity, by
paying more than they would ask. Of twenty dishes which he named, he was
amazed to find that scarcely one was to be had; and heard, with
astonishment and indignation, that all the fruits of the earth were sold
at a higher price than in the streets of London.

His meal was short and sullen; and he retired again to his tree, to
inquire how dearness could be consistent with abundance, or how fraud
should be practised by simplicity. He was not satisfied with his own
speculations, and, returning home early in the evening, went a while
from window to window, and found that he wanted something to do.

He inquired for a newspaper, and was told that farmers never minded
news, but that they could send for it from the alehouse. A messenger was
despatched, who ran away at full speed, but loitered an hour behind the
hedges, and at last coming back with his feet purposely bemired, instead
of expressing the gratitude which Mr. Shifter expected for the bounty of
a shilling, said, that the night was wet, and the way dirty, and he
hoped that his worship would not think it much to give him half-a-crown.

Dick now went to bed with some abatement of his expectations; but sleep,
I know not how, revives our hopes, and rekindles our desires. He rose
early in the morning, surveyed the landscape, and was pleased. He walked
out, and passed from field to field, without observing any beaten path,
and wondered that he had not seen the shepherdesses dancing, nor heard
the swains piping to their flocks.

At last he saw some reapers and harvest-women at dinner. Here, said he,
are the true Arcadians; and advanced courteously towards them, as afraid
of confusing them by the dignity of his presence. They acknowledged his
superiority by no other token than that of asking him for something to
drink. He imagined that he had now purchased the privilege of discourse,
and began to descend to familiar questions, endeavouring to accommodate
his discourse to the grossness of rustick understandings. The clowns
soon found, that he did not know wheat from rye, and began to despise
him; one of the boys, by pretending to show him a bird's nest, decoyed
him into a ditch; and one of the wenches sold him a bargain.

This walk had given him no great pleasure; but he hoped to find other
rusticks less coarse of manners, and less mischievous of disposition.
Next morning he was accosted by an attorney, who told him that, unless
he made farmer Dobson satisfaction for trampling his grass, he had
orders to indict him. Shifter was offended, but not terrified; and,
telling the attorney that he was himself a lawyer, talked so volubly of
pettyfoggers and barrators, that he drove him away.

Finding his walks thus interrupted, he was inclined to ride, and, being
pleased with the appearance of a horse that was grazing in a
neighbouring meadow, inquired the owner, who warranted him sound, and
would not sell him, but that he was too fine for a plain man. Dick paid
down the price, and, riding out to enjoy the evening, fell with his new
horse into a ditch; they got out with difficulty, and, as he was going
to mount again, a countryman looked at the horse, and perceived him to
be blind. Dick went to the seller, and demanded back his money; but was
told, that a man who rented his ground must do the best for himself;
that his landlord had his rent though the year was barren; and that,
whether horses had eyes or no, he should sell them to the highest
bidder.

Shifter now began to be tired with rustick simplicity, and on the fifth
day took possession again of his chambers, and bade farewell to the
regions of calm content and placid meditation.




No. 72. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 1759.

Men complain of nothing more frequently than of deficient memory; and,
indeed, every one finds that many of the ideas which he desired to
retain have slipped irretrievably away; that the acquisitions of the
mind are sometimes equally fugitive with the gifts of fortune; and that
a short intermission of attention more certainly lessens knowledge than
impairs an estate.

To assist this weakness of our nature, many methods have been proposed,
all of which may be justly suspected of being ineffectual; for no art of
memory, however its effects have been boasted or admired, has been ever
adopted into general use, nor have those who possessed it appeared to
excel others in readiness of recollection or multiplicity of
attainments.

There is another art of which all have felt the want, though
Themistocles only confessed it. We suffer equal pain from the
pertinacious adhesion of unwelcome images, as from the evanescence of
those which are pleasing and useful; and it may be doubted whether we
should be more benefited by the art of memory or the art of
forgetfulness.

Forgetfulness is necessary to remembrance. Ideas are retained by
renovation of that impression which time is always wearing away, and
which new images are striving to obliterate. If useless thoughts could
be expelled from the mind, all the valuable parts of our knowledge would
more frequently recur, and every recurrence would reinstate them in
their former place.

It is impossible to consider, without some regret, how much might have
been learned, or how much might have been invented, by a rational and
vigorous application of time, uselessly or painfully passed in the
revocation of events, which have left neither good nor evil behind them,
in grief for misfortunes either repaired or irreparable, in resentment
of injuries known only to ourselves, of which death has put the authors
beyond our power.

Philosophy has accumulated precept upon precept, to warn us against the
anticipation of future calamities. All useless misery is certainly
folly, and he that feels evils before they come may be deservedly
censured; yet surely to dread the future is more reasonable than to
lament the past. The business of life is to go forwards: he who sees
evil in prospect meets it in his way; but he who catches it by
retrospection turns back to find it. That which is feared may sometimes
be avoided, but that which is regretted to-day may be regretted again
to-morrow.

Regret is indeed useful and virtuous, and not only allowable but
necessary, when it tends to the amendment of life, or to admonition of
errour which we may be again in danger of committing. But a very small
part of the moments spent in meditation on the past, produce any
reasonable caution or salutary sorrow. Most of the mortifications that
we have suffered, arose from the concurrence of local and temporary
circumstances, which can never meet again; and most of our
disappointments have succeeded those expectations, which life allows not
to be formed a second time.

It would add much to human happiness, if an art could be taught of
forgetting all of which the remembrance is at once useless and
afflictive; if that pain which never can end in pleasure could be driven
totally away, that the mind might perform its functions without
incumbrance, and the past might no longer encroach upon the present.

Little can be done well to which the whole mind is not applied; the
business of every day calls for the day to which it is assigned; and he
will have no leisure to regret yesterday's vexations who resolves not to
have a new subject of regret to-morrow.

But to forget or to remember at pleasure, are equally beyond the power
of man. Yet as memory may be assisted by method, and the decays of
knowledge repaired by stated times of recollection, so the power of
forgetting is capable of improvement. Reason will, by a resolute
contest, prevail over imagination, and the power may be obtained of
transferring the attention as judgment shall direct.

The incursions of troublesome thoughts are often violent and
importunate; and it is not easy to a mind accustomed to their inroads to
expel them immediately by putting better images into motion; but this
enemy of quiet is above all others weakened by every defeat; the
reflection which has been once overpowered and ejected, seldom returns
with any formidable vehemence.

Employment is the great instrument of intellectual dominion. The mind
cannot retire from its enemy into total vacancy, or turn aside from one
object but by passing to another. The gloomy and the resentful are
always found among those who have nothing to do, or who do nothing. We
must be busy about good or evil, and he to whom the present offers
nothing will often be looking backward on the past.




No. 73. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1759.

 That every man would be rich if a wish could obtain riches, is a
position which I believe few will contest, at least in a nation like
ours, in which commerce has kindled an universal emulation of wealth,
and in which money receives all the honours which are the proper right
of knowledge and of virtue.

Yet, though we are all labouring for gold as for the chief good, and, by
the natural effort of unwearied diligence, have found many expeditious
methods of obtaining it, we have not been able to improve the art of
using it, or to make it produce more happiness than it afforded in
former times, when every declaimer expatiated on its mischiefs, and
every philosopher taught his followers to despise it.

Many of the dangers imputed of old to exorbitant wealth, are now at an
end. The rich are neither waylaid by robbers, nor watched by informers;
there is nothing to be dreaded from proscriptions, or seizures. The
necessity of concealing treasure has long ceased; no man now needs
counterfeit mediocrity, and condemn his plate and jewels to caverns and
darkness, or feast his mind with the consciousness of clouded splendour,
of finery which is useless till it is shown, and which he dares not
show.

In our time, the poor are strongly tempted to assume the appearance of
wealth, but the wealthy very rarely desire to be thought poor; for we
are all at full liberty to display riches by every mode of ostentation.
We fill our houses with useless ornaments, only to show that we can buy
them; we cover our coaches with gold, and employ artists in the
discovery of new fashions of expense; and yet it cannot be found that
riches produce happiness.

Of riches, as of every thing else, the hope is more than the enjoyment:
while we consider them as the means to be used, at some future time, for
the attainment of felicity, we press on our pursuit ardently and
vigorously, and that ardour secures us from weariness of ourselves; but
no sooner do we sit down to enjoy our acquisitions, than we find them
insufficient to fill up the vacuities of life.

One cause which is not always observed of the insufficiency of riches
is, that they very seldom make their owner rich. To be rich, is to have
more than is desired, and more than is wanted, to have something which
may be spent without reluctance, and scattered without care, with which
the sudden demands of desire may be gratified, the casual freaks of
fancy indulged, or the unexpected opportunities of benevolence improved.

Avarice is always poor, but poor by her own fault. There is another
poverty to which the rich are exposed with less guilt by the
officiousness of others. Every man, eminent for exuberance of fortune,
is surrounded from morning to evening, and from evening to midnight, by
flatterers, whose art of adulation consists in exciting artificial
wants, and in forming new schemes of profusion.

Tom Tranquil, when he came to age, found himself in possession of a
fortune, of which the twentieth part might perhaps have made him rich.
His temper is easy, and his affections soft; he receives every man with
kindness, and hears him with credulity. His friends took care to settle
him by giving him a wife, whom, having no particular inclination, he
rather accepted than chose, because he was told that she was proper for
him.

He was now to live with dignity proportionate to his fortune. What his
fortune requires or admits Tom does not know, for he has little skill in
computation, and none of his friends think it their interest to improve
it. If he was suffered to live by his own choice, he would leave every
thing as he finds it, and pass through the world distinguished only by
inoffensive gentleness. But the ministers of luxury have marked him out
as one at whose expense they may exercise their arts. A companion, who
had just learned the names of the Italian masters, runs from sale to
sale, and buys pictures, for which Mr. Tranquil pays, without inquiring
where they shall be hung. Another fills his garden with statues, which
Tranquil wishes away, but dares not remove. One of his friends is
learning architecture by building him a house, which he passed by, and
inquired to whom it belonged; another has been for three years digging
canals and raising mounts, cutting trees down in one place, and planting
them in another, on which Tranquil looks with a serene indifference,
without asking what will be the cost. Another projector tells him that a
waterwork, like that of Versailles, will complete the beauties of his
seat, and lays his draughts before him: Tranquil turns his eyes upon
them, and the artist begins his explanations; Tranquil raises no
objections, but orders him to begin the work, that he may escape from
talk which he does not understand.

Thus a thousand hands are busy at his expense, without adding to his
pleasures. He pays and receives visits, and has loitered in publick or
in solitude, talking in summer of the town, and in winter of the
country, without knowing that his fortune is impaired, till his steward
told him this morning, that he could pay the workmen no longer but by
mortgaging a manor.




No. 74. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1759.

In the mythological pedigree of learning, memory is made the mother of
the muses, by which the masters of ancient wisdom, perhaps, meant to
show the necessity of storing the mind copiously with true notions,
before the imagination should be suffered to form fictions or collect
embellishments; for the works of an ignorant poet can afford nothing
higher than pleasing sound, and fiction is of no other use than to
display the treasures of memory.

The necessity of memory to the acquisition of knowledge is inevitably
felt and universally allowed, so that scarcely any other of the mental
faculties are commonly considered as necessary to a student: he that
admires the proficiency of another, always attributes it to the
happiness of his memory; and he that laments his own defects, concludes
with a wish that his memory was better.

It is evident, that when the power of retention is weak, all the
attempts at eminence of knowledge must be vain; and as few are willing
to be doomed to perpetual ignorance, I may, perhaps, afford consolation
to some that have fallen too easily into despondence, by observing that
such weakness is, in my opinion, very rare, and that few have reason to
complain of nature as unkindly sparing of the gifts of memory.

In the common business of life, we find the memory of one like that of
another, and honestly impute omissions not to involuntary forgetfulness,
but culpable inattention; but in literary inquiries, failure is imputed
rather to want of memory than of diligence.

We consider ourselves as defective in memory, either because we remember
less than we desire, or less than we suppose others to remember.

Memory is like all other human powers, with which no man can be
satisfied who measures them by what he can conceive, or by what he can
desire. He whose mind is most capacious, finds it much too narrow for
his wishes; he that remembers most, remembers little compared with what
he forgets. He, therefore, that, after the perusal of a book, finds few
ideas remaining in his mind, is not to consider the disappointment as
peculiar to himself, or to resign all hopes of improvement, because he
does not retain what even the author has, perhaps, forgotten.

He who compares his memory with that of others, is often too hasty to
lament the inequality. Nature has sometimes, indeed, afforded examples
of enormous, wonderful and gigantick memory. Scaliger reports of
himself, that, in his youth, he could repeat above a hundred verses,
having once read them; and Barthicus declares, that he wrote his comment
upon Claudian without consulting the text. But not to have such degrees
of memory is no more to be lamented, than not to have the strength of
Hercules, or the swiftness of Achilles. He that, in the distribution of
good, has an equal share with common men, may justly be contented. Where
there is no striking disparity, it is difficult to know of two which
remembers most, and still more difficult to discover which reads with
greater attention, which has renewed the first impression by more
frequent repetitions, or by what accidental combination of ideas either
mind might have united any particular narrative or argument to its
former stock.

But memory, however impartially distributed, so often deceives our
trust, that almost every man attempts, by some artifice or other, to
secure its fidelity.

It is the practice of many readers to note, in the margin of their
books, the most important passages, the strongest arguments, or the
brightest sentiments. Thus they load their minds with superfluous
attention, repress the vehemence of curiosity by useless deliberation,
and by frequent interruption break the current of narration or the chain
of reason, and at last close the volume, and forget the passages and
marks together.

Others I have found unalterably persuaded, that nothing is certainly
remembered but what is transcribed; and they have, therefore, passed
weeks and months in transferring large quotations to a commonplace-book.
Yet, why any part of a book, which can be consulted at pleasure, should
be copied, I was never able to discover. The hand has no closer
correspondence with the memory than the eye. The act of writing itself
distracts the thoughts, and what is read twice is commonly better
remembered than what is transcribed. This method, therefore, consumes
time without assisting memory.

The true art of memory is the art of attention. No man will read with
much advantage, who is not able, at pleasure, to evacuate his mind, or
who brings not to his author an intellect defecated and pure, neither
turbid with care, nor agitated by pleasure. If the repositories of
thought are already full, what can they receive? If the mind is employed
on the past or future, the book will be held before the eyes in vain.
What is read with delight is commonly retained, because pleasure always
secures attention; but the books which are consulted by occasional
necessity, and perused with impatience, seldom leave any traces on the
mind.




No. 75. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 1759.

In the time when Bassora was considered as the school of Asia, and
flourished by the reputation of its professors and the confluence of its
students, among the pupils that listened round the chair of Albumazar
was Gelaleddin, a native of Tauris, in Persia, a young man amiable in
his manners and beautiful in his form, of boundless curiosity, incessant
diligence, and irresistible genius, of quick apprehension and tenacious
memory, accurate without narrowness, and eager for novelty without
inconstancy.

No sooner did Gelaleddin appear at Bassora, than his virtues and
abilities raised him to distinction. He passed from class to class
rather admired than envied by those whom the rapidity of his progress
left behind; he was consulted by his fellow-students as an oraculous
guide, and admitted as a competent auditor to the conferences of the
sages.

After a few years, having passed through all the exercises of probation,
Gelaleddin was invited to a professor's seat, and entreated to increase
the splendour of Bassora. Gelaleddin affected to deliberate on the
proposal, with which, before he considered it, he resolved to comply;
and next morning retired to a garden planted for the recreation of the
students, and, entering a solitary walk, began to meditate upon his
future life.

"If I am thus eminent," said he, "in the regions of literature, I shall
be yet more conspicuous in any other place; if I should now devote
myself to study and retirement, I must pass my life in silence,
unacquainted with the delights of wealth, the influence of power, the
pomp of greatness, and the charms of elegance, with all that man envies
and desires, with all that keeps the world in motion, by the hope of
gaining or the fear of losing it. I will, therefore, depart to Tauris,
where the Persian monarch resides in all the splendour of absolute
dominion: my reputation will fly before me, my arrival will be
congratulated by my kinsmen and my friends; I shall see the eyes of
those who predict my greatness sparkling with exultation, and the faces
of those that once despised me clouded with envy, or counterfeiting
kindness by artificial smiles. I will show my wisdom by my discourse,
and my moderation by my silence; I will instruct the modest with easy
gentleness, and repress the ostentatious by seasonable superciliousness.
My apartments will be crowded by the inquisitive and the vain, by those
that honour and those that rival me; my name will soon reach the court;
I shall stand before the throne of the emperour: the judges of the law
will confess my wisdom, and the nobles will contend to heap gifts upon
me. If I shall find that my merit, like that of others, excites
malignity, or feel myself tottering on the seat of elevation, I may at
last retire to academical obscurity, and become, in my lowest state, a
professor of Bassora."

Having thus settled his determination, he declared to his friends his
design of visiting Tauris, and saw with more pleasure than he ventured
to express, the regret with which he was dismissed. He could not bear to
delay the honours to which he was destined, and, therefore, hastened
away, and in a short time entered the capital of Persia. He was
immediately immersed in the crowd, and passed unobserved to his father's
house. He entered, and was received, though not unkindly, yet without
any excess of fondness or exclamations of rapture. His father had, in
his absence, suffered many losses, and Gelaleddin was considered as an
additional burden to a falling family.

When he recovered from his surprise, he began to display his
acquisitions, and practised all the arts of narration and disquisition:
but the poor have no leisure to be pleased with eloquence; they heard
his arguments without reflection, and his pleasantries without a smile.
He then applied himself singly to his brothers and sisters, but found
them all chained down by invariable attention to their own fortunes, and
insensible of any other excellence than that which could bring some
remedy for indigence.

It was now known in the neighbourhood that Gelaleddin was returned, and
he sat for some days in expectation that the learned would visit him for
consultation, or the great for entertainment. But who will be pleased or
instructed in the mansions of poverty? He then frequented places of
publick resort, and endeavoured to attract notice by the copiousness of
his talk. The sprightly were silenced, and went away to censure, in some
other place, his arrogance and his pedantry; and the dull listened
quietly for a while, and then wondered why any man should take pains to
obtain so much knowledge which would never do him good.

He next solicited the visiers for employment, not doubting but his
service would be eagerly accepted. He was told by one that there was no
vacancy in his office; by another, that his merit was above any
patronage but that of the emperour; by a third, that he would not forget
him; and by the chief visier, that he did not think literature of any
great use in publick business. He was sometimes admitted to their
tables, where he exerted his wit and diffused his knowledge; but he
observed, that where, by endeavour or accident, he had remarkably
excelled, he was seldom invited a second time.

He now returned to Bassora, wearied and disgusted, but confident of
resuming his former rank, and revelling again in satiety of praise. But
he who had been neglected at Tauris, was not much regarded at Bassora;
he was considered as a fugitive, who returned only because he could live
in no other place; his companions found that they had formerly overrated
his abilities, and he lived long without notice or esteem.




No. 76. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1759.

TO THE IDLER,

Sir,

I was much pleased with your ridicule of those shallow criticks, whose
judgment, though often right as far as it goes, yet reaches only to
inferior beauties, and who, unable to comprehend the whole, judge only
by parts, and from thence determine the merit of extensive works. But
there is another kind of critick still worse, who judges by narrow
rules, and those too often false, and which, though they should be true,
and founded on nature, will lead him but a very little way toward the
just estimation of the sublime beauties in works of genius; for whatever
part of an art can be executed or criticised by rules, that part is no
longer the work of genius, which implies excellence out of the reach of
rules. For my own part, I profess myself an Idler, and love to give my
judgment, such as it is, from my immediate perceptions, without much
fatigue of thinking; and I am of opinion that, if a man has not those
perceptions right, it will be vain for him to endeavour to supply their
place by rules, which may enable him to talk more learnedly, but not to
distinguish more acutely. Another reason which has lessened my affection
for the study of criticism is, that criticks, so far as I have observed,
debar themselves from receiving any pleasure from the polite arts, at
the same time, that they profess to love and admire them: for these
rules, being always uppermost, give them such a propensity to criticise,
that, instead of giving up the reins of their imagination into their
author's hands, their frigid minds are employed in examining whether the
performance be according to the rules of art.

To those who are resolved to be criticks in spite of nature, and, at the
same time, have no great disposition to much reading and study, I would
recommend to them to assume the character of connoisseur, which may be
purchased at a much cheaper rate than that of a critick in poetry. The
remembrance of a few names of painters, with their general characters,
with a few rules of the academy, which they may pick up among the
painters, will go a great way towards making a very notable connoisseur.

With a gentleman of this cast, I visited last week the Cartoons at
Hampton-court; he was just returned from Italy, a connoisseur of course,
and of course his mouth full of nothing but the grace of Raffaelle, the
purity of Domenichino, the learning of Poussin, the air of Guido, the
greatness of taste of the Carraccis, and the sublimity and grand
contorno of Michael Angelo; with all the rest of the cant of criticism,
which he emitted with that volubility which generally those orators have
who annex no ideas to their words.

As we were passing through the rooms, in our way to the gallery, I made
him observe a whole length of Charles the First by Vandyke, as a perfect
representation of the character as well as the figure of the man. He
agreed it was very fine, but it wanted spirit and contrast, and had not
the flowing line, without which a figure could not possibly be graceful.
When we entered the gallery, I thought I could perceive him recollecting
his rules by which he was to criticise Raffaelle. I shall pass over his
observation of the boats being too little, and other criticisms of that
kind, till we arrive at St. Paul preaching.

"This," says he, "is esteemed the most excellent of all the cartoons;
what nobleness, what dignity, there is in that figure of St. Paul! and
yet what an addition to that nobleness could Raffaelle have given, had
the art of contrast been known in his time! but, above all, the flowing
line which constitutes grace and beauty! You would not have then seen an
upright figure standing equally on both legs, and both hands stretched
forward in the same direction, and his drapery, to all appearance,
without the least art of disposition." The following picture is the
Charge to Peter. "Here," says he, "are twelve upright figures; what a
pity it is that Raffaelle was not acquainted with the pyramidal
principle! He would then have contrived the figures in the middle to
have been on higher ground, or the figures at the extremities stooping
or lying, which would not only have formed the group into the shape of a
pyramid, but likewise contrasted the standing figures. Indeed," added
he, "I have often lamented that so great a genius as Raffaelle had not
lived in this enlightened age, since the art has been reduced to
principles, and had had his education in one of the modern academies;
what glorious works might we have then expected from his divine pencil!"

I shall trouble you no longer with my friend's observations, which, I
suppose, you are now able to continue by yourself. It is curious to
observe, that, at the same time that great admiration is pretended for a
name of fixed reputation, objections are raised against those very
qualities by which that great name was acquired.

Those criticks are continually lamenting that Raffaelle had not the
colouring and harmony of Rubens, or the light and shadow of Rembrant,
without considering how much the gay harmony of the former, and
affectation of the latter, would take from the dignity of Raffaelle; and
yet Rubens had great harmony, and Rembrant understood light and shadow:
but what may be an excellence in a lower class of painting, becomes a
blemish in a higher; as the quick, sprightly turn, which is the life and
beauty of epigrammatick compositions, would but ill suit with the
majesty of heroick poetry.

To conclude; I would not be thought to infer, from any thing that has
been said, that rules are absolutely unnecessary; but to censure
scrupulosity, a servile attention to minute exactness, which is
sometimes inconsistent with higher excellency, and is lost in the blaze
of expanded genius.

I do not know whether you will think painting a general subject. By
inserting this letter, perhaps, you will incur the censure a man would
deserve, whose business being to entertain a whole room, should turn his
back to the company, and talk to a particular person[1].

I am, Sir, &c.

[1] By Sir Joshua Reynolds.




No. 77. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 6, 1759.

Easy poetry is universally admired; but I know not whether any rule has
yet been fixed, by which it may be decided when poetry can be properly
called easy. Horace has told us, that it is such as "every reader hopes
to equal, but after long labour finds unattainable." This is a very
loose description, in which only the effect is noted; the qualities
which produce this effect remain to be investigated.

Easy poetry is that in which natural thoughts are expressed without
violence to the language. The discriminating character of ease consists
principally in the diction; for all true poetry requires that the
sentiments be natural. Language suffers violence by harsh or by daring
figures, by transposition, by unusual acceptations of words, and by any
licence, which would be avoided by a writer of prose. Where any artifice
appears in the construction of the verse, that verse is no longer easy.
Any epithet which can be ejected without diminution of the sense, any
curious iteration of the same word, and all unusual, though not
ungrammatical structure of speech, destroy the grace of easy poetry.

The first lines of Pope's Iliad afford examples of many licences which
an easy writer must decline:

  Achilles' _wrath_, to Greece the _direful spring_
  Of woes unnumber'd, _heav'nly_ Goddess sing;
  The wrath which _hurl'd_ to Pluto's _gloomy reign_
  The souls of _mighty_ chiefs untimely slain.

In the first couplet the language is distorted by inversions, clogged
with superfluities, and clouded by a harsh metaphor; and in the second
there are two words used in an uncommon sense, and two epithets inserted
only to lengthen the line; all these practices may in a long work easily
be pardoned, but they always produce some degree of obscurity and
ruggedness.

Easy poetry has been so long excluded by ambition of ornament, and
luxuriance of imagery, that its nature seems now to be forgotten.
Affectation, however opposite to ease, is sometimes mistaken for it; and
those who aspire to gentle elegance, collect female phrases and
fashionable barbarisms, and imagine that style to be easy which custom
has made familiar. Such was the idea of the poet who wrote the following
verses to a _countess cutting paper_:

  Pallas grew _vap'rish once and odd_,
    She would not _do the least right thing_
  Either for Goddess or for God,
    Nor work, nor play, nor paint, nor sing.

  Jove frown'd, and "Use (he cried) those eyes
    So skilful, and those hands so taper;
  Do something exquisite and wise"--
    She bow'd, obey'd him, and cut paper.

  This vexing him who gave her birth,
    Thought by all Heaven a _burning shame_,
  _What does she next_, but bids on earth
    Her Burlington do just the same?

  Pallas, you give yourself _strange airs_;
    But sure you'll find it hard to spoil
  The sense and taste of one that bears
    The name of Savile and of Boyle.

  Alas! one bad example shown,
    How quickly all the sex pursue!
  See, madam! see the arts o'erthrown
    Between John Overton and _you_.

It is the prerogative of easy poetry to be understood as long as the
language lasts; but modes of speech, which owe their prevalence only to
modish folly, or to the eminence of those that use them, die away with
their inventors, and their meaning, in a few years, is no longer known.

Easy poetry is commonly sought in petty compositions upon minute
subjects; but ease, though it excludes pomp, will admit greatness. Many
lines in Cato's soliloquy are at once easy and sublime:

  'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us;
  'Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter,
  And intimates eternity to man.
 --If there's a Power above us,
  And that there is all Nature cries aloud
  Through all her works, he must delight in virtue,
  And that which he delights in must be happy.

Nor is ease more contrary to wit than to sublimity; the celebrated
stanza of Cowley, on a lady elaborately dressed, loses nothing of its
freedom by the spirit of the sentiment:

  Th' adorning thee with so much art
    Is but a barb'rous skill;
  'Tis like the pois'ning of a dart,
    Too apt before to kill.

Cowley seems to have possessed the power of writing easily beyond any
other of our poets; yet his pursuit of remote thought led him often into
harshness of expression.

Waller often attempted, but seldom attained it; for he is too frequently
driven into transpositions. The poets, from the time of Dryden, have
gradually advanced in embellishment, and consequently departed from
simplicity and ease.

To require from any author many pieces of easy poetry, would be indeed
to oppress him with too hard a task. It is less difficult to write a
volume of lines swelled with epithets, brightened by figures, and
stiffened by transpositions, than to produce a few couplets graced only
by naked elegance and simple purity, which require so much care and
skill, that I doubt whether any of our authors have yet been able, for
twenty lines together, nicely to observe the true definition of easy
poetry.




No. 78. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1759.

 I have passed the summer in one of those places to which a mineral
spring gives the idle and luxurious an annual reason for resorting,
whenever they fancy themselves offended by the heat of London. What is
the true motive of this periodical assembly, I have never yet been able
to discover. The greater part of the visitants neither feel diseases nor
fear them. What pleasure can be expected more than the variety of the
journey, I know not, for the numbers are too great for privacy, and too
small for diversion. As each is known to be a spy upon the rest, they
all live in continual restraint; and having but a narrow range for
censure, they gratify its cravings by preying on one another.

But every condition has some advantages. In this confinement, a smaller
circle affords opportunities for more exact observation. The glass that
magnifies its object contracts the sight to a point; and the mind must
be fixed upon a single character to remark its minute peculiarities. The
quality or habit which passes unobserved in the tumult of successive
multitudes, becomes conspicuous when it is offered to the notice day
after day; and, perhaps, I have, without any distinct notice, seen
thousands like my late companions; for when the scene can be varied at
pleasure, a slight disgust turns us aside before a deep impression can
be made upon the mind.

There was a select set, supposed to be distinguished by superiority of
intellects, who always passed the evening together. To be admitted to
their conversation was the highest honour of the place; many youths
aspired to distinction, by pretending to occasional invitations; and the
ladies were often wishing to be men, that they might partake the
pleasures of learned society.

I know not whether by merit or destiny, I was, soon after my arrival,
admitted to this envied party, which I frequented till I had learned the
art by which each endeavoured to support his character.

Tom Steady was a vehement assertor of uncontroverted truth; and by
keeping himself out of the reach of contradiction had acquired all the
confidence which the consciousness of irresistible abilities could have
given. I was once mentioning a man of eminence, and, after having
recounted his virtues, endeavoured to represent him fully, by mentioning
his faults. "Sir," said Mr. Steady, "that he has faults I can easily
believe, for who is without them? No man, Sir, is now alive, among the
innumerable multitudes that swarm upon the earth, however wise, or
however good, who has not, in some degree, his failings and his faults.
If there be any man faultless, bring him forth into publick view, show
him openly, and let him be known; but I will venture to affirm, and,
till the contrary be plainly shown, shall always maintain, that no such
man is to be found. Tell not me, Sir, of impeccability and perfection;
such talk is for those that are strangers in the world: I have seen
several nations, and conversed with all ranks of people; I have known
the great and the mean, the learned and the ignorant, the old and the
young, the clerical and the lay; but I have never found a man without a
fault; and I suppose shall die in the opinion, that to be human is to be
frail."

To all this nothing could be opposed. I listened with a hanging head;
Mr. Steady looked round on the hearers with triumph, and saw every eye
congratulating his victory; he departed, and spent the next morning in
following those who retired from the company, and telling them, with
injunctions of secrecy, how poor Spritely began to take liberties with
men wiser than himself; but that he suppressed him by a decisive
argument, which put him totally to silence.

Dick Snug is a man of sly remark and pithy sententiousness: he never
immerges himself in the stream of conversation, but lies to catch his
companions in the eddy: he is often very successful in breaking
narratives and confounding eloquence. A gentleman, giving the history of
one of his acquaintance, made mention of a lady that had many lovers:
"Then," said Dick, "she was either handsome or rich." This observation
being well received, Dick watched the progress of the tale; and, hearing
of a man lost in a shipwreck, remarked, that "no man was ever drowned
upon dry land."

Will Startle is a man of exquisite sensibility, whose delicacy of frame
and quickness of discernment subject him to impressions from the
slightest causes; and who, therefore, passes his life between rapture
and horrour, in quiverings of delight, or convulsions of disgust. His
emotions are too violent for many words; his thoughts are always
discovered by exclamations. _Vile, odious, horrid, detestable_, and
_sweet, charming, delightful, astonishing_, compose almost his whole
vocabulary, which he utters with various contortions and gesticulations,
not easily related or described.

Jack Solid is a man of much reading, who utters nothing but quotations;
but having been, I suppose, too confident of his memory, he has for some
time neglected his books, and his stock grows every day more scanty.

Mr. Solid has found an opportunity every night to repeat, from Hudibras,

  Doubtless the pleasure is as great
  Of being cheated, as to cheat;

and from Waller,

  Poets lose half the praise they would have got,
  Were it but known what they discreetly blot.

Dick Misty is a man of deep research, and forcible penetration. Others
are content with superficial appearances; but Dick holds, that there is
no effect without a cause, and values himself upon his power of
explaining the difficult and displaying the abstruse. Upon a dispute
among us, which of two young strangers was more beautiful, "You," says
Mr. Misty, turning to me, "like Amaranthia better than Chloris. I do not
wonder at the preference, for the cause is evident: there is in man a
perception of harmony, and a sensibility of perfection, which touches
the finer fibres of the mental texture; and before reason can descend
from her throne, to pass her sentence upon the things compared, drives
us towards the object proportioned to our faculties, by an impulse
gentle, yet irresistible; for the harmonick system of the Universe, and
the reciprocal magnetism of similar natures, are always operating
towards conformity and union; nor can the powers of the soul cease from
agitation, till they find something on which they can repose." To this
nothing was opposed; and Amaranthia was acknowledged to excel Chloris.

Of the rest you may expect an account from,

Sir, yours,

ROBIN SPRITELY.




No. 79. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1759.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

Your acceptance of a former letter on painting gives me encouragement to
offer a few more sketches on the same subject.

Amongst the painters, and the writers on painting, there is one maxim
universally admitted and continually inculcated. _Imitate nature_ is the
invariable rule; but I know none who have explained in what manner this
rule is to be understood; the consequence of which is, that every one
takes it in the most obvious sense, that objects are represented
naturally when they have such relief that they seem real. It may appear
strange, perhaps, to hear this sense of the rule disputed; but it must
be considered, that, if the excellency of a painter consisted only in
this kind of imitation, painting must lose its rank, and be no longer
considered as a liberal art, and sister to poetry, this imitation being
merely mechanical, in which the slowest intellect is always sure to
succeed best: for the painter of genius cannot stoop to drudgery, in
which the understanding has no part; and what pretence has the art to
claim kindred with poetry, but by its powers over the imagination? To
this power the painter of genius directs his aim; in this sense he
studies nature, and often arrives at his end, even by being unnatural in
the confined sense of the word.

The grand style of painting requires this minute attention to be
carefully avoided, and must be kept as separate from it as the style of
poetry from that of history. Poetical ornaments destroy that air of
truth and plainness which ought to characterize history; but the very
being of poetry consists in departing from this plain narration, and
adopting every ornament that will warm the imagination. To desire to see
the excellencies of each style united, to mingle the Dutch with the
Italian school, is to join contrarieties which cannot subsist together,
and which destroy the efficacy of each other. The Italian attends only
to the invariable, the great and general ideas which are fixed and
inherent in universal nature; the Dutch, on the contrary, to literal
truth and a minute exactness in the detail, as I may say, of nature
modified by accident. The attention to these petty peculiarities is the
very cause of this naturalness so much admired in the Dutch pictures,
which, if we suppose it to be a beauty, is certainly of a lower order,
which ought to give place to a beauty of a superior kind, since one
cannot be obtained but by departing from the other.

If my opinion was asked concerning the works of Michael Angelo, whether
they would receive any advantage from possessing this mechanical merit,
I should not scruple to say, they would not only receive no advantage,
but would lose, in a great measure, the effect which they now have on
every mind susceptible of great and noble ideas. His works may be said
to be all genius and soul; and why should they be loaded with heavy
matter, which can only counteract his purpose by retarding the progress
of the imagination?

If this opinion should be thought one of the wild extravagancies of
enthusiasm, I shall only say, that those who censure it are not
conversant in the works of the great masters. It is very difficult to
determine the exact degree of enthusiasm that the arts of painting and
poetry may admit. There may, perhaps, be too great an indulgence, as
well as too great a restraint of imagination; and if the one produces
incoherent monsters, the other produces what is full as bad, lifeless
insipidity. An intimate knowledge of the passions, and good sense, but
not common sense, must at last determine its limits. It has been
thought, and I believe with reason, that Michael Angelo sometimes
trangressed those limits; and I think I have seen figures of him of
which it was very difficult to determine whether they were in the
highest degree sublime or extremely ridiculous. Such faults may be said
to be the ebullitions of genius; but at least he had this merit, that he
never was insipid, and whatever passion his works may excite, they will
always escape contempt.

What I have had under consideration is the sublimest style, particularly
that of Michael Angelo, the Homer of painting. Other kinds may admit of
this naturalness, which of the lowest kind is the chief merit; but in
painting, as in poetry, the highest style has the least of common
nature.

One may very safely recommend a little more enthusiasm to the modern
painters; too much is certainly not the vice of the present age. The
Italians seem to have been continually declining, in this respect, from
the time of Michael Angelo to that of Carlo Maratti, and from thence to
the very bathos of insipidity to which they are now sunk; so that there
is no need of remarking, that, where I mentioned the Italian painters in
opposition to the Dutch, I mean not the moderns, but the heads of the
old Roman and Bolognian schools; nor did I mean to include in my idea of
an Italian painter, the Venetian school, which may be said to be the
Dutch part of the Italian genius. I have only to add a word of advice to
the painters, that, however excellent they may be in painting naturally,
they would not flatter themselves very much upon it, and to the
connoisseurs, that when they see a cat or fiddle painted so finely,
that, as the phrase is, "it looks as if you could take it up," they
would not for that reason immediately compare the painter to Raffaelle
and Michael Angelo.[1]

[1] By Sir Joshua Reynolds.




No. 80. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1759.

That every day has its pains and sorrows is universally experienced, and
almost universally confessed; but let us not attend only to mournful
truths; if we look impartially about us, we shall find that every day
has likewise its pleasures and its joys.

The time is now come when the town is again beginning to be full, and
the rusticated beauty sees an end of her banishment. Those whom the
tyranny of fashion had condemned to pass the summer among shades and
brooks, are now preparing to return to plays, balls and assemblies, with
health restored by retirement, and spirits kindled by expectation.

Many a mind, which has languished some months without emotion or desire,
now feels a sudden renovation of its faculties. It was long ago observed
by Pythagoras, that ability and necessity dwell near each other. She
that wandered in the garden without sense of its fragrance, and lay day
after day stretched upon a couch behind a green curtain, unwilling to
wake, and unable to sleep, now summons her thoughts to consider which of
her last year's clothes shall be seen again, and to anticipate the
raptures of a new suit; the day and the night are now filled with
occupation; the laces, which were too fine to be worn among rusticks,
are taken from the boxes and reviewed; and the eye is no sooner closed
after its labours, than whole shops of silk busy the fancy.

But happiness is nothing, if it is not known, and very little, if it is
not envied. Before the day of departure a week is always appropriated to
the payment and reception of ceremonial visits, at which nothing can be
mentioned but the delights of London. The lady who is hastening to the
scene of action flutters her wings, displays her prospects of felicity,
tells how she grudges every moment of delay, and, in the presence of
those whom she knows condemned to stay at home, is sure to wonder by
what arts life can be made supportable through a winter in the country,
and to tell how often, amidst the ecstasies of an opera, she shall pity
those friends whom she has left behind. Her hope of giving pain is
seldom disappointed; the affected indifference of one, the faint
congratulations of another, the wishes of some openly confessed, and the
silent dejection of the rest, all exalt her opinion of her own
superiority.

But, however we may labour for our own deception, truth, though
unwelcome, will sometimes intrude upon the mind. They who have already
enjoyed the crowds and noise of the great city, know that their desire
to return is little more than the restlessness of a vacant mind, that
they are not so much led by hope as driven by disgust, and wish rather
to leave the country than to see the town. There is commonly in every
coach a passenger enwrapped in silent expectation, whose joy is more
sincere, and whose hopes are more exalted. The virgin whom the last
summer released from her governess, and who is now going between her
mother and her aunt to try the fortune of her wit and beauty, suspects
no fallacy in the gay representation. She believes herself passing into
another world, and images London as an elysian region, where every hour
has its proper pleasure, where nothing is seen but the blaze of wealth,
and nothing heard but merriment and flattery; where the morning always
rises on a show, and the evening closes on a ball; where the eyes are
used only to sparkle, and the feet only to dance.

Her aunt and her mother amuse themselves on the road, with telling her
of dangers to be dreaded, and cautions to be observed. She hears them as
they heard their predecessors, with incredulity or contempt. She sees
that they have ventured and escaped; and one of the pleasures which she
promises herself is to detect their falsehoods, and be freed from their
admonitions.

We are inclined to believe those whom we do not know, because they have
never deceived us. The fair adventurer may, perhaps, listen to the
Idler, whom she cannot suspect of rivalry or malice; yet he scarcely
expects to be credited when he tells her, that her expectations will
likewise end in disappointment.

The uniform necessities of human nature produce, in a great measure,
uniformity of life, and for part of the day make one place like another;
to dress and to undress, to eat and to sleep, are the same in London as
in the country. The supernumerary hours have, indeed, a great variety
both of pleasure and of pain. The stranger, gazed on by multitudes at
her first appearance in the Park, is, perhaps, on the highest summit of
female happiness; but how great is the anguish when the novelty of
another face draws her worshippers away! The heart may leap for a time
under a fine gown; but the sight of a gown yet finer puts an end to
rapture. In the first row at an opera, two hours may be happily passed
in listening to the musick on the stage, and watching the glances of the
company; but how will the night end in despondency when she, that
imagined herself the sovereign of the place, sees lords contending to
lead Iris to her chair! There is little pleasure in conversation, to her
whose wit is regarded but in the second place; and who can dance with
ease or spirit that sees Amaryllis led out before her? She that fancied
nothing but a succession of pleasures, will find herself engaged without
design in numberless competitions, and mortified, without provocation,
with numberless afflictions.

But I do not mean to extinguish that ardour which I wish to moderate, or
to discourage those whom I am endeavouring to restrain. To know the
world is necessary, since we were born for the help of one another; and
to know it early is convenient, if it be only that we may learn early to
despise it. She that brings to London a mind well prepared for
improvement, though she misses her hope of uninterrupted happiness, will
gain in return an opportunity of adding knowledge to vivacity, and
enlarging innocence to virtue.




No. 81. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1759.

As the English army was passing towards Quebec along a soft savanna
between a mountain and a lake, one of the petty chiefs of the inland
regions stood upon a rock surrounded by his clan, and from behind the
shelter of the bushes contemplated the art and regularity of European
war. It was evening, the tents were pitched: he observed the security
with which the troops rested in the night, and the order with which the
march was renewed in the morning. He continued to pursue them with his
eye till they could be seen no longer, and then stood for some time
silent and pensive.

Then turning to his followers, "My children," said he, "I have often
heard from men hoary with long life, that there was a time when our
ancestors were absolute lords of the woods, the meadows and the lakes,
wherever the eye can reach or the foot can pass. They fished and hunted,
feasted and danced, and when they were weary lay down under the first
thicket, without danger and without fear. They changed their
habitations, as the seasons required, convenience prompted, or curiosity
allured them; and sometimes gathered the fruits of the mountain, and
sometimes sported in canoes along the coast.

"Many years and ages are supposed to have been thus passed in plenty and
security; when, at last, a new race of men entered our country from the
great ocean. They inclosed themselves in habitations of stone, which our
ancestors could neither enter by violence, nor destroy by fire. They
issued from those fastnesses, sometimes covered, like the armadillo,
with shells, from which the lance rebounded on the striker, and
sometimes carried by mighty beasts which had never been seen in our
vales or forests, of such strength and swiftness, that flight and
opposition were vain alike. Those invaders ranged over the continent
slaughtering, in their rage, those that resisted, and those that
submitted, in their mirth. Of those that remained, some were buried in
caverns, and condemned to dig metals for their masters; some were
employed in tilling the ground, of which foreign tyrants devour the
produce; and, when the sword and the mines have destroyed the natives,
they supply their place by human beings of another colour, brought from
some distant country to perish here under toil and torture.

"Some there are who boast their humanity, and content themselves to
seize our chases and fisheries, who drive us from every tract of ground
where fertility and pleasantness invite them to settle, and make no war
upon us except when we intrude upon our own lands.

"Others pretend to have purchased a right of residence and tyranny; but
surely the insolence of such bargains is more offensive than the avowed
and open dominion of force. What reward can induce the possessour of a
country to admit a stranger more powerful than himself? Fraud or terrour
must operate in such contracts; either they promised protection which
they never have afforded, or instruction which they never imparted. We
hoped to be secured by their favour from some other evil, or to learn
the arts of Europe, by which we might be able to secure ourselves. Their
power they never have exerted in our defence, and their arts they have
studiously concealed from us. Their treaties are only to deceive, and
their traffick only to defraud us. They have a written law among them,
of which they boast, as derived from Him who made the earth and sea, and
by which they profess to believe that man will be made happy when life
shall forsake him. Why is not this law communicated to us? It is
concealed because it is violated. For how can they preach it to an
Indian nation, when I am told that one of its first precepts forbids
them to do to others what they would not that others should do to them?

"But the time, perhaps, is now approaching, when the pride of usurpation
shall be crushed, and the cruelties of invasion shall be revenged. The
sons of rapacity have now drawn their swords upon each other, and
referred their claims to the decision of war; let us look unconcerned
upon the slaughter, and remember that the death of every European
delivers the country from a tyrant and a robber; for what is the claim
of either nation, but the claim of the vulture to the leveret, of the
tiger to the fawn? Let them then continue to dispute their title to
regions which they cannot people, to purchase by danger and blood the
empty dignity of dominion over mountains which they will never climb,
and rivers which they will never pass. Let us endeavour, in the mean
time, to learn their discipline, and to forge their weapons; and, when
they shall be weakened with mutual slaughter, let us rush down upon
them, force their remains to take shelter in their ships, and reign once
more in our native country[1]."

[1] "How far the seizing on countries already peopled, and driving out
    or massacring the innocent and defenceless natives, merely because
    they differed from their invaders in language, in religion, in
    customs, in government or in colour; how far such a conduct was
    consonant to nature, to reason or to Christianity, deserved well to
    be considered by those who have rendered their names immortal by
    thus civilizing mankind." Blackstone, Com. ii. 7.

    I love the University of Salamanca, said Johnson, with warm emotion,
    for when the Spaniards were in doubt as to the lawfulness of their
    conquering America, the University of Salamanca gave it as their
    opinion, that it was not lawful. Boswell, i. 434.

    The untaught eloquence of Indian feeling is well preserved in the
    language of Gertrude of Wyoming.



No. 82. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1759.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

Discoursing in my last letter on the different practice of the Italian
and Dutch painters, I observed, that "the Italian painter attends only
to the invariable, the great and general ideas which are fixed and
inherent in universal nature."

I was led into the subject of this letter by endeavouring to fix the
original cause of this conduct of the Italian masters. If it can be
proved that by this choice they selected the most beautiful part of the
creation, it will show how much their principles are founded on reason,
and, at the same time, discover the origin of our ideas of beauty.

I suppose it will be easily granted, that no man can judge whether any
animal be beautiful in its kind, or deformed, who has seen only one of
that species: this is as conclusive in regard to the human figure; so
that if a man, born blind, was to recover his sight, and the most
beautiful woman was brought before him, he could not determine whether
she was handsome or not; nor, if the most beautiful and most deformed
were produced, could he any better determine to which he should give the
preference, having seen only those two. To distinguish beauty, then,
implies the having seen many individuals of that species. If it is
asked, how is more skill acquired by the observation of greater numbers?
I answer that, in consequence of having seen many, the power is
acquired, even without seeking after it, of distinguishing between
accidental blemishes and excrescences which are continually varying the
surface of Nature's works, and the invariable general form which Nature
most frequently produces, and always seems to intend in her productions.

Thus, amongst the blades of grass or leaves of the same tree, though no
two can be found exactly alike, yet the general form is invariable: a
naturalist, before he chose one as a sample, would examine many, since,
if he took the first that occurred, it might have, by accident or
otherwise, such a form as that it would scarcely be known to belong to
that species; he selects, as the painter does, the most beautiful, that
is, the most general form of nature.

Every species of the animal, as well as the vegetable creation, may be
said to have a fixed or determinate form towards which nature is
continually inclining, like various lines terminating in the centre; or
it may be compared to pendulums vibrating in different directions over
one central point; and as they all cross the centre, though only one
passes through any other point, so it will be found that perfect beauty
is oftener produced by nature than deformity; I do not mean than
deformity in general, but than any one kind of deformity. To instance in
a particular part of a feature: the line that forms the ridge of the
nose is beautiful when it is straight; this then is the central form,
which is oftener found than either concave, convex or any other
irregular form that shall be proposed. As we are then more accustomed to
beauty than deformity, we may conclude that to be the reason why we
approve and admire it, as we approve and admire customs and fashions of
dress for no other reason than that we are used to them; so that, though
habit and custom cannot be said to be the cause of beauty, it is
certainly the cause of our liking it; and I have no doubt but that, if
we were more used to deformity than beauty, deformity would then lose
the idea now annexed to it, and take that of beauty; as, if the whole
world should agree that _yes_ and _no_ should change their meanings,
_yes_ would then deny, and _no_ would affirm.

Whoever undertakes to proceed further in this argument, and endeavours
to fix a general criterion of beauty respecting different species, or to
show why one species is more beautiful than another, it will be required
from him first to prove that one species is really more beautiful than
another. That we prefer one to the other, and with very good reason,
will be readily granted; but it does not follow from thence that we
think it a more beautiful form; for we have no criterion of form by
which to determine our judgment. He who says a swan is more beautiful
than a dove, means little more than that he has more pleasure in seeing
a swan than a dove, either from the stateliness of its motions, or its
being a more rare bird; and he who gives the preference to the dove,
does it from some association of ideas of innocence that he always
annexes to the dove; but, if he pretends to defend the preference he
gives to one or the other by endeavouring to prove that this more
beautiful form proceeds from a particular gradation of magnitude,
undulation of a curve, or direction of a line, or whatever other conceit
of his imagination he shall fix on as a criterion of form, he will be
continually contradicting himself, and find at last, that the great
Mother of Nature will not be subjected to such narrow rules. Among the
various reasons why we prefer one part of her works to another, the most
general, I believe, is habit and custom; custom makes, in a certain
sense, white black, and black white; it is custom alone determines our
preference of the colour of the Europeans to the Aethiopians; and they,
for the same reason, prefer their own colour to ours. I suppose nobody
will doubt, if one of their painters were to paint the goddess of
beauty, but that he would represent her black, with thick lips, flat
nose, and woolly hair; and, it seems to me, he would act very
unnaturally if he did not; for by what criterion will any one dispute
the propriety of his idea? We, indeed, say, that the form and colour of
the European is preferable to that of the Aethiopian; but I know of no
reason we have for it, but that we are more accustomed to it. It is
absurd to say, that beauty is possessed of attractive powers, which
irresistibly seize the corresponding mind with love and admiration,
since that argument is equally conclusive in favour of the white and the
black philosopher.

The black and white nations must, in respect of beauty, be considered as
of different kinds, at least a different species of the same kind; from
one of which to the other, as I observed, no inference can be drawn.

Novelty is said to be one of the causes of beauty: that novelty is a
very sufficient reason why we should admire, is not denied; but, because
it is uncommon, is it, therefore, beautiful? The beauty that is produced
by colour, as when we prefer one bird to another, though of the same
form, on account of its colour, has nothing to do with this argument,
which reaches only to form. I have here considered the word _beauty_ as
being properly applied to form alone. There is a necessity of fixing
this confined sense; for there can be no argument, if the sense of the
word is extended to every thing that is approved. A rose may as well be
said to be beautiful, because it has a fine smell, as a bird because of
its colour. When we apply the word _beauty_ we do not mean always by it
a more beautiful form, but something valuable on account of its rarity,
usefulness, colour, or any other property. A horse is said to be a
beautiful animal; but, had a horse as few good qualities as a tortoise,
I do not imagine that he would be then esteemed beautiful.

A fitness to the end proposed, is said to be another cause of beauty;
but supposing we were proper judges of what form is the most proper in
an animal to constitute strength or swiftness, we always determine
concerning its beauty, before we exert our understanding to judge of its
fitness.

From what has been said, it may be inferred, that the works of nature,
if we compare one species with another, are all equally beautiful; and
that preference is given from custom, or some association of ideas: and
that, in creatures of the same species, beauty is the medium or centre
of all various forms.

To conclude, then, by way of corollary: If it has been proved, that the
painter, by attending to the invariable and general ideas of nature,
produces beauty, he must, by regarding minute particularities and
accidental discriminations, deviate from the universal rule, and pollute
his canvass with deformity[1].

[1] By Sir Joshua Reynolds.




No. 83. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1759.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

I suppose you have forgotten that many weeks ago I promised to send you
an account of my companions at the Wells. You would not deny me a place
among the most faithful votaries of idleness, if you knew how often I
have recollected my engagement, and contented myself to delay the
performance for some reason which I durst not examine because I knew it
to be false; how often I have sat down to write, and rejoiced at
interruption; and how often I have praised the dignity of resolution,
determined at night to write in the morning, and deferred it in the
morning to the quiet hours of night.

I have at last begun what I have long wished at an end, and find it more
easy than I expected to continue my narration.

Our assembly could boast no such constellation of intellects as
Clarendon's band of associates. We had among us no Selden, Falkland or
Waller; but we had men not less important in their own eyes, though less
distinguished by the publick; and many a time have we lamented the
partiality of mankind, and agreed that men of the deepest inquiry
sometimes let their discoveries die away in silence, that the most
comprehensive observers have seldom opportunities of imparting their
remarks, and that modest merit passes in the crowd unknown and unheeded.

One of the greatest men of the society was Sim Scruple, who lives in a
continual equipoise of doubt, and is a constant enemy to confidence and
dogmatism. Sim's favourite topick of conversation is the narrowness of
the human mind, the fallaciousness of our senses, the prevalence of
early prejudice, and the uncertainty of appearances. Sim has many doubts
about the nature of death, and is sometimes inclined to believe that
sensation may survive motion, and that a dead man may feel though he
cannot stir. He has sometimes hinted that man might, perhaps, have been
naturally a quadruped; and thinks it would be very proper, that at the
Foundling Hospital some children should be inclosed in an apartment in
which the nurses should be obliged to walk half upon four and half upon
two legs, that the younglings, being bred without the prejudice of
example, might have no other guide than nature, and might at last come
forth into the world as genius should direct, erect or prone, on two
legs or on four.

The next, in dignity of mien and fluency of talk, was Dick Wormwood,
whose sole delight is to find every thing wrong. Dick never enters a
room but he shows that the door and the chimney are ill-placed. He never
walks into the fields but he finds ground ploughed which is fitter for
pasture. He is always an enemy to the present fashion.

He holds that all the beauty and virtue of women will soon be destroyed
by the use of tea[1]. He triumphs when he talks on the present system of
education, and tells us, with great vehemence, that we are learning
words when we should learn things. He is of opinion that we suck in
errours at the nurse's breast, and thinks it extremely ridiculous that
children should be taught to use the right hand rather than the left.

Bob Sturdy considers it as a point of honour to say again what he has
once said, and wonders how any man, that has been known to alter his
opinion, can look his neighbours in the face. Bob is the most formidable
disputant of the whole company; for, without troubling himself to search
for reasons, he tires his antagonist with repeated affirmations. When
Bob has been attacked for an hour with all the powers of eloquence and
reason, and his position appears to all but himself utterly untenable,
he always closes the debate with his first declaration, introduced by a
stout preface of contemptuous civility. "All this is very judicious; you
may talk, Sir, as you please; but I will still say what I said at
first." Bob deals much in universals, which he has now obliged us to let
pass without exceptions. He lives on an annuity, and holds that _there
are as many thieves as traders_; he is of loyalty unshaken, and always
maintains, that _he who sees a Jacobite sees a rascal_.

Phil Gentle is an enemy to the rudeness of contradiction and the
turbulence of debate. Phil has no notions of his own, and, therefore,
willingly catches from the last speaker such as he shall drop. This
flexibility of ignorance is easily accommodated to any tenet; his only
difficulty is, when the disputants grow zealous, how to be of two
contrary opinions at once. If no appeal is made to his judgment, he has
the art of distributing his attention and his smiles in such a manner,
that each thinks him of his own party; but if he is obliged to speak, he
then observes that the question is difficult; that he never received so
much pleasure from a debate before; that neither of the controvertists
could have found his match in any other company; that Mr. Wormwood's
assertion is very well supported, and yet there is great force in what
Mr. Scruple advanced against it. By this indefinite declaration both are
commonly satisfied; for he that has prevailed is in good humour; and he
that has felt his own weakness is very glad to have escaped so well.

I am, Sir, yours, &c. ROBIN SPRITELY.

[1] Dr. Johnson was, as he has humorously described himself, "a hardened
    and shameless tea-drinker." See his amusing Review of a Journal of
    Eight Days' Journey and his Reply to a paper in the Gazetteer, May
    26, 1757.




No. 84. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1759.

Biography is, of the various kinds of narrative writing, that which is
most eagerly read, and most easily applied to the purposes of life.

In romances, when the wide field of possibility lies open to invention,
the incidents may easily be made more numerous, the vicissitudes more
sudden, and the events more wonderful; but from the time of life when
fancy begins to be overruled by reason and corrected by experience, the
most artful tale raises little curiosity when it is known to be
false[1]; though it may, perhaps, be sometimes read as a model of a neat
or elegant style, not for the sake of knowing what it contains, but how
it is written; or those that are weary of themselves, may have recourse
to it as a pleasing dream, of which, when they awake, they voluntarily
dismiss the images from their minds.

The examples and events of history press, indeed, upon the mind with the
weight of truth; but when they are reposited in the memory, they are
oftener employed for show than use, and rather diversify conversation
than regulate life. Few are engaged in such scenes as give them
opportunities of growing wiser by the downfal of statesmen or the defeat
of generals. The stratagems of war, and the intrigues of courts, are
read by far the greater part of mankind with the same indifference as
the adventures of fabled heroes, or the revolutions of a fairy region.
Between falsehood and useless truth there is little difference. As gold
which he cannot spend will make no man rich, so knowledge which he
cannot apply will make no man wise.

The mischievous consequences of vice and folly, of irregular desires and
predominant passions, are best discovered by those relations which are
levelled with the general surface of life, which tell not how any man
became great, but how he was made happy; not how he lost the favour of
his prince, but how he became discontented with himself.

Those relations are, therefore, commonly of most value in which the
writer tells his own story. He that recounts the life of another,
commonly dwells most upon conspicuous events, lessens the familiarity of
his tale to increase its dignity, shows his favourite at a distance,
decorated and magnified like the ancient actors in their tragick dress,
and endeavours to hide the man that he may produce a hero.

But if it be true, which was said by a French prince, "that no man was a
hero to the servants of his chamber," it is equally true, that every man
is yet less a hero to himself. He that is most elevated above the crowd
by the importance of his employments, or the reputation of his genius,
feels himself affected by fame or business but as they influence his
domestick life. The high and low, as they have the same faculties and
the same senses, have no less similitude in their pains and pleasures.
The sensations are the same in all, though produced by very different
occasions. The prince feels the same pain when an invader seizes a
province, as the farmer when a thief drives away his cow. Men thus equal
in themselves will appear equal in honest and impartial biography; and
those whom fortune or nature places at the greatest distance may afford
instruction to each other.

The writer of his own life has, at least, the first qualification of an
historian, the knowledge of the truth; and though it may be plausibly
objected that his temptations to disguise it are equal to his
opportunities of knowing it, yet I cannot but think that impartiality
may be expected with equal confidence from him that relates the passages
of his own life, as from him that delivers the transactions of another.

Certainty of knowledge not only excludes mistake, but fortifies
veracity. What we collect by conjecture, and by conjecture only, can one
man judge of another's motives or sentiments, is easily modified by
fancy or by desire; as objects imperfectly discerned take forms from the
hope or fear of the beholder. But that which is fully known cannot be
falsified but with reluctance of understanding, and alarm of conscience:
of understanding, the lover of truth; of conscience, the sentinel of
virtue.

He that writes the life of another is either his friend or his enemy,
and wishes either to exalt his praise or aggravate his infamy: many
temptations to falsehood will occur in the disguise of passions, too
specious to fear much resistance. Love of virtue will animate
panegyrick, and hatred of wickedness imbitter censure. The zeal of
gratitude, the ardour of patriotism, fondness for an opinion, or
fidelity to a party, may easily overpower the vigilance of a mind
habitually well disposed, and prevail over unassisted and unfriended
veracity.

But he that speaks of himself has no motive to falsehood or partiality
except self-love, by which all have so often been betrayed, that all are
on the watch against its artifices. He that writes an apology for a
single action, to confute an accusation, to recommend himself to favour,
is, indeed, always to be suspected of favouring his own cause; but he
that sits down calmly and voluntarily to review his life for the
admonition of posterity, or to amuse himself, and leaves this account
unpublished, may be commonly presumed to tell truth, since falsehood
cannot appease his own mind, and fame will not be heard beneath the
tomb.

[1] It is somewhere recorded of a retired citizen, that he was in the
    habit of again and again perusing the incomparable story of Robinson
    Crusoe without a suspicion of its authenticity. At length a friend
    assured him of its being a work of fiction. What you say, replied
    the old man mournfully, may be true; but your information has taken
    away the only comfort of my age.

 --Pol, me occidistis, amici,
  Non servastis, ait; cui sic extorta voluptas,
  Et demtus per vim mentis gratissimus error. HOR. Lib. ii. Ep. ii. 138.




No. 85. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 1, 1759.

One of the peculiarities which distinguish the present age is the
multiplication of books. Every day brings new advertisements of literary
undertakings, and we are flattered with repeated promises of growing
wise on easier terms than our progenitors.

How much either happiness or knowledge is advanced by this multitude of
authors, it is not very easy to decide.

He that teaches us any thing which we knew not before, is undoubtedly to
be reverenced as a master.

He that conveys knowledge by more pleasing ways, may very properly be
loved as a benefactor; and he that supplies life with innocent
amusement, will be certainly caressed as a pleasing companion.

But few of those who fill the world with books have any pretensions to
the hope either of pleasing or instructing. They have often no other
task than to lay two books before them, out of which they compile a
third, without any new materials of their own, and with very little
application of judgment to those which former authors have supplied.

That all compilations are useless, I do not assert. Particles of science
are often very widely scattered. Writers of extensive comprehension have
incidental remarks upon topicks very remote from the principal subject,
which are often more valuable than formal treatises, and which yet are
not known because they are not promised in the title. He that collects
those under proper heads is very laudably employed, for, though he
exerts no great abilities in the work, he facilitates the progress of
others, and by making that easy of attainment which is already written,
may give some mind, more vigorous or more adventurous than his own,
leisure for new thoughts and original designs.

But the collections poured lately from the press have been seldom made
at any great expense of time or inquiry, and, therefore, only serve to
distract choice without supplying any real want.

It is observed that "a corrupt society has many laws;" I know not
whether it is not equally true, that "an ignorant age has many books."
When the treasures of ancient knowledge lie unexamined, and original
authors are neglected and forgotten, compilers and plagiaries are
encouraged, who give us again what we had before, and grow great by
setting before us what our own sloth had hidden from our view.

Yet are not even these writers to be indiscriminately censured and
rejected. Truth like beauty varies its fashions, and is best recommended
by different dresses to different minds; and he that recalls the
attention of mankind to any part of learning which time has left behind
it, may be truly said to advance the literature of his own age. As the
manners of nations vary, new topicks of persuasion become necessary, and
new combinations of imagery are produced; and he that can accommodate
himself to the reigning taste, may always have readers who, perhaps,
would not have looked upon better performances.

To exact of every man who writes, that he should say something new,
would be to reduce authors to a small number; to oblige the most fertile
genius to say only what is new would be to contract his volumes to a few
pages. Yet, surely, there ought to be some bounds to repetition;
libraries ought no more to be heaped for ever with the same thoughts
differently expressed, than with the same books differently decorated.

The good or evil which these secondary writers produce is seldom of any
long duration. As they owe their existence to change of fashion, they
commonly disappear when a new fashion becomes prevalent. The authors
that in any nation last from age to age are very few, because there are
very few that have any other claim to notice than that they catch hold
on present curiosity, and gratify some accidental desire, or produce
some temporary conveniency.

But however the writers of the day may despair of future fame, they
ought at least to forbear any present mischief. Though they cannot
arrive at eminent heights of excellence, they might keep themselves
harmless. They might take care to inform themselves before they attempt
to inform others, and exert the little influence which they have for
honest purposes.

But such is the present state of our literature, that the ancient sage,
who thought _a great book a great evil_, would now think the multitude
of books a multitude of evils. He would consider a bulky writer who
engrossed a year, and a swarm of pamphleteers who stole each an hour, as
equal wasters of human life, and would make no other difference between
them, than between a beast of prey and a flight of locusts.




No. 86. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1759.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

I am a young lady newly married to a young gentleman. Our fortune is
large, our minds are vacant, our dispositions gay, our acquaintances
numerous, and our relations splendid. We considered that marriage, like
life, has its youth; that the first year is the year of gaiety and
revel, and resolved to see the shows and feel the joys of London, before
the increase of our family should confine us to domestick cares and
domestick pleasures.

Little time was spent in preparation; the coach was harnessed, and a few
days brought us to London, and we alighted at a lodging provided for us
by Miss Biddy Trifle, a maiden niece of my husband's father, where we
found apartments on a second floor, which my cousin told us would serve
us till we could please ourselves with a more commodious and elegant
habitation, and which she had taken at a very high price, because it was
not worth the while to make a hard bargain for so short a time.

Here I intended to lie concealed till my new clothes were made, and my
new lodging hired; but Miss Trifle had so industriously given notice of
our arrival to all her acquaintance, that I had the mortification next
day of seeing the door thronged with painted coaches and chairs with
coronets, and was obliged to receive all my husband's relations on a
second floor.

Inconveniencies are often balanced by some advantage: the elevation of
my apartments furnished a subject for conversation, which, without some
such help, we should have been in danger of wanting. Lady Stately told
us how many years had passed since she climbed so many steps. Miss Airy
ran to the window, and thought it charming to see the walkers so little
in the street; and Miss Gentle went to try the same experiment, and
screamed to find herself so far above the ground.

They all knew that we intended to remove, and, therefore, all gave me
advice about a proper choice. One street was recommended for the purity
of its air, another for its freedom from noise, another for its nearness
to the Park, another because there was but a step from it to all places
of diversion, and another because its inhabitants enjoyed at once the
town and country.

I had civility enough to hear every recommendation with a look of
curiosity, while it was made, and of acquiescence, when it was
concluded, but in my heart felt no other desire than to be free from the
disgrace of a second floor, and cared little where I should fix, if the
apartments were spacious and splendid.

Next day a chariot was hired, and Miss Trifle was despatched to find a
lodging. She returned in the afternoon, with an account of a charming
place, to which my husband went in the morning to make the contract.
Being young and unexperienced, he took with him his friend Ned Quick, a
gentleman of great skill in rooms and furniture, who sees, at a single
glance, whatever there is to be commended or censured. Mr. Quick, at the
first view of the house, declared that it could not be inhabited, for
the sun in the afternoon shone with full glare on the windows of the
dining-room.

Miss Trifle went out again, and soon discovered another lodging, which
Mr. Quick went to survey, and found, that, whenever the wind should blow
from the, east, all the smoke of the city would be driven upon it.

A magnificent set of rooms was then found in one of the streets near
Westminster-Bridge, which Miss Trifle preferred to any which she had yet
seen; but Mr. Quick, having mused upon it for a time, concluded that it
would be too much exposed in the morning to the fogs that rise from the
river.

Thus Mr. Quick proceeded to give us every day new testimonies of his
taste and circumspection; sometimes the street was too narrow for a
double range of coaches; sometimes it was an obscure place, not
inhabited by persons of quality. Some places were dirty, and some
crowded; in some houses the furniture was ill-suited, and in others the
stairs were too narrow. He had such fertility of objections that Miss
Trifle was at last tired, and desisted from all attempts for our
accommodation.

In the mean time I have still continued to see my company on a second
floor, and am asked twenty times a day when I am to leave those odious
lodgings, in which I live tumultuously without pleasure, and expensively
without honour. My husband thinks so highly of Mr. Quick, that he cannot
be persuaded to remove without his approbation; and Mr. Quick thinks his
reputation raised by the multiplication of difficulties.

In this distress to whom can I have recourse? I find my temper vitiated
by daily disappointment, by the sight of pleasures which I cannot
partake, and the possession of riches which I cannot enjoy. Dear Mr.
Idler, inform my husband that he is trifling away, in superfluous
vexation, the few months which custom has appropriated to delight; that
matrimonial quarrels are not easily reconciled between those that have
no children; that wherever we settle he must always find some
inconvenience; but nothing is so much to be avoided as a perpetual state
of inquiry and suspense.

I am, Sir,

Your humble servant,

PEGGY HEARTLESS.




No. 87. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 15, 1759.

Of what we know not, we can only judge by what we know. Every novelty
appears more wonderful as it is more remote from any thing with which
experience or testimony has hitherto acquainted us; and, if it passes
further beyond the notions that we have been accustomed to form, it
becomes at last incredible.

We seldom consider that human knowledge is very narrow, that national
manners are formed by chance, that uncommon conjunctures of causes
produce rare effects, or that what is impossible at one time or place
may yet happen in another. It is always easier to deny than to inquire.
To refuse credit confers for a moment an appearance of superiority,
which every little mind is tempted to assume when it may be gained so
cheaply as by withdrawing attention from evidence, and declining the
fatigue of comparing probabilities. The most pertinacious and vehement
demonstrator may be wearied in time by continual negation; and
incredulity, which an old poet, in his address to Raleigh, calls _the
wit of fools_, obtunds the argument which it cannot answer, as woolsacks
deaden arrows though they cannot repel them.

Many relations of travellers have been slighted as fabulous, till more
frequent voyages have confirmed their veracity; and it may reasonably be
imagined, that many ancient historians are unjustly suspected of
falsehood, because our own times afford nothing that resembles what they
tell[1].

Had only the writers of antiquity informed us, that there was once a
nation in which the wife lay down upon the burning pile only to mix her
ashes with those of her husband, we should have thought it a tale to be
told with that of Endymion's commerce with the moon. Had only a single
traveller related, that many nations of the earth were black, we should
have thought the accounts of the Negroes and of the Phoenix equally
credible. But of black men the numbers are too great who are now
repining under English cruelty; and the custom of voluntary cremation is
not yet lost among the ladies of India.

Few narratives will either to men or women appear more incredible than
the histories of the Amazons; of female nations of whose constitution it
was the essential and fundamental law to exclude men from all
participation, either of publick affairs or domestick business; where
female armies marched under female captains, female farmers gathered the
harvest, female partners danced together, and female wits diverted one
another.

Yet several ages of antiquity have transmitted accounts of the Amazons
of Caucasus; and of the Amazons of America, who have given their name to
the greatest river in the world, Condamine lately found such memorials,
as can be expected among erratick and unlettered nations, where events
are recorded only by tradition, and new settling in the country from
time to time, confuse and efface all traces of former times.

To die with husbands, or to live without them, are the two extremes
which the prudence and moderation of European ladies have, in all ages,
equally declined; they have never been allured to death by the kindness
or civility of the politest nations, nor has the roughness and brutality
of more savage countries ever provoked them to doom their male
associates to irrevocable banishment. The Bohemian matrons are said to
have made one short struggle for superiority; but, instead of banishing
the men, they contented themselves with condemning them to servile
offices; and their constitution, thus left imperfect, was quickly
overthrown.

There is, I think, no class of English women from whom we are in any
danger of Amazonian usurpation. The old maids seem nearest to
independence, and most likely to be animated by revenge against
masculine authority; they often speak of men with acrimonious vehemence,
but it is seldom found that they have any settled hatred against them,
and it is yet more rarely observed that they have any kindness for each
other. They will not easily combine in any plot; and if they should ever
agree to retire and fortify themselves in castles or in mountains, the
sentinel will betray the passes in spite, and the garrison will
capitulate upon easy terms, if the besiegers have handsome swordknots,
and are well supplied with fringe and lace.

The gamesters, if they were united, would make a formidable body; and,
since they consider men only as beings that are to lose their money,
they might live together without any wish for the officiousness of
gallantry or the delights of diversified conversation. But as nothing
would hold them together but the hope of plundering one another, their
government would fail from the defect of its principles; the men would
need only to neglect them, and they would perish in a few weeks by a
civil war.

I do not mean to censure the ladies of England as defective in knowledge
or in spirit, when I suppose them unlikely to revive the military
honours of their sex. The character of the ancient Amazons was rather
terrible than lovely; the hand could not be very delicate that was only
employed in drawing the bow and brandishing the battle-axe; their power
was maintained by cruelty, their courage was deformed by ferocity, and
their example only shows that men and women live best together.

[1] _Le vrai n'est pas toujours le vraisemblable._ The researches of
    Gibbon, Rennel and Mitford, the travels of Bruce and Belzoni have
    fully proved the truth of this maxim in the case of Herodotus.




No. 88. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1759.

  _Hodie quid egisti?_

When the philosophers of the last age were first congregated into the
Royal Society, great expectations were raised of the sudden progress of
useful arts; the time was supposed to be near, when engines should turn
by a perpetual motion, and health be secured by the universal medicine;
when learning should be facilitated by a real character, and commerce
extended by ships which could reach their ports in defiance of the
tempest.

But improvement is naturally slow. The society met and parted without
any visible diminution of the miseries of life. The gout and stone were
still painful, the ground that was not ploughed brought no harvest, and
neither oranges nor grapes would grow upon the hawthorn. At last, those
who were disappointed began to be angry; those likewise who hated
innovation were glad to gain an opportunity of ridiculing men who had
depreciated, perhaps with too much arrogance, the knowledge of
antiquity. And it appears, from some of their earliest apologies, that
the philosophers felt with great sensibility the unwelcome importunities
of those who were daily asking, "What have ye done?"

The truth is, that little had been done compared with what fame had been
suffered to promise; and the question could only be answered by general
apologies and by new hopes, which, when they were frustrated, gave a new
occasion to the same vexatious inquiry.

This fatal question has disturbed the quiet of many other minds. He that
in the latter part of his life too strictly inquires what he has done,
can very seldom receive from his own heart such an account as will give
him satisfaction.

We do not indeed so often disappoint others as ourselves. We not only
think more highly than others of our own abilities, but allow ourselves
to form hopes which we never communicate, and please our thoughts with
employments which none ever will allot us, and with elevations to which
we are never expected to rise; and when our days and years have passed
away in common business or common amusements, and we find at last that
we have suffered our purposes to sleep till the time of action is past,
we are reproached only by our own reflections; neither our friends nor
our enemies wonder that we live and die like the rest of mankind; that
we live without notice, and die without memorial; they know not what
task we had proposed, and, therefore, cannot discern whether it is
finished.

He that compares what he has done with what he has left undone, will
feel the effect which must always follow the comparison of imagination
with reality; he will look with contempt on his own unimportance, and
wonder to what purpose he came into the world; he will repine that he
shall leave behind him no evidence of his having been, that he has added
nothing to the system of life, but has glided from youth to age among
the crowd, without any effort for distinction.

Man is seldom willing to let fall the opinion of his own dignity, or to
believe that he does little only because every individual is a very
little being. He is better content to want diligence than power, and
sooner confesses the depravity of his will than the imbecility of his
nature.

From this mistaken notion of human greatness it proceeds, that many who
pretend to have made great advances in wisdom so loudly declare that
they despise themselves. If I had ever found any of the self-contemners
much irritated or pained by the consciousness of their meanness, I
should have given them consolation by observing, that a little more than
nothing is as much as can be expected from a being, who, with respect to
the multitudes about him, is himself little more than nothing. Every man
is obliged by the Supreme Master of the universe to improve all the
opportunities of good which are afforded him, and to keep in continual
activity such abilities as are bestowed upon him. But he has no reason
to repine, though his abilities are small and his opportunities few. He
that has improved the virtue, or advanced the happiness of one
fellow-creature, he that has ascertained a single moral proposition, or
added one useful experiment to natural knowledge, may be contented with
his own performance, and, with respect to mortals like himself, may
demand, like Augustus, to be dismissed at his departure with applause.




No. 89. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1759.

  [Greek: Anechou kai apechou.]    EPICT.

How evil came into the world; for what reason it is that life is
overspread with such boundless varieties of misery; why the only
thinking being of this globe is doomed to think merely to be wretched,
and to pass his time from youth to age in fearing or in suffering
calamities, is a question which philosophers have long asked, and which
philosophy could never answer.

Religion informs us that misery and sin were produced together. The
depravation of human will was followed by a disorder of the harmony of
nature; and by that providence which often places antidotes in the
neighbourhood of poisons, vice was checked by misery, lest it should
swell to universal and unlimited dominion.

A state of innocence and happiness is so remote from all that we have
ever seen, that though we can easily conceive it possible, and may,
therefore, hope to attain it, yet our speculations upon it must be
general and confused. We can discover that where there is universal
innocence, there will probably be universal happiness; for, why should
afflictions be permitted to infest beings who are not in danger of
corruption from blessings, and where there is no use of terrour nor
cause of punishment? But in a world like ours, where our senses assault
us, and our hearts betray us, we should pass on from crime to crime,
heedless and remorseless, if misery did not stand in our way, and our
own pains admonish us of our folly.

Almost all the moral good, which is left among us, is the apparent
effect of physical evil.

Goodness is divided by divines into soberness, righteousness and
godliness. Let it be examined how each of these duties would be
practised, if there were no physical evil to enforce it.

Sobriety, or temperance, is nothing but the forbearance of pleasure; and
if pleasure was not followed by pain, who would forbear it? We see every
hour those in whom the desire of present indulgence overpowers all sense
of past and all foresight of future misery. In a remission of the gout,
the drunkard returns to his wine, and the glutton to his feast; and if
neither disease nor poverty were felt or dreaded, every one would sink
down in idle sensuality, without any care of others, or of himself. To
eat and drink, and lie down to sleep, would be the whole business of
mankind.

Righteousness, or the system of social duty, may be subdivided into
justice and charity. Of justice one of the Heathen sages has shown, with
great acuteness, that it was impressed upon mankind only by the
inconveniencies which injustice had produced. "In the first ages," says
he, "men acted without any rule but the impulse of desire; they
practised injustice upon others, and suffered it from others in their
turn; but in time it was discovered, that the pain of suffering wrong
was greater than the pleasure of doing it; and mankind, by a general
compact, submitted to the restraint of laws, and resigned the pleasure
to escape the pain."

Of charity it is superfluous to observe, that it could have no place if
there were no want; for of a virtue which could not be practised, the
omission could not be culpable. Evil is not only the occasional, but the
efficient cause of charity; we are incited to the relief of misery by
the consciousness that we have the same nature with the sufferer, that
we are in danger of the same distresses, and may sometimes implore the
same assistance.

Godliness, or piety, is elevation of the mind towards the Supreme Being,
and extension of the thoughts to another life. The other life is future,
and the Supreme Being is invisible. None would have recourse to an
invisible power, but that all other subjects have eluded their hopes.
None would fix their attention upon the future, but that they are
discontented with the present. If the senses were feasted with perpetual
pleasure, they would always keep the mind in subjection. Reason has no
authority over us, but by its power to warn us against evil.

In childhood, while our minds are yet unoccupied, religion is impressed
upon them, and the first years of almost all who have been well educated
are passed in a regular discharge of the duties of piety. But as we
advance forward into the crowds of life, innumerable delights solicit
our inclinations, and innumerable cares distract our attention; the time
of youth is passed in noisy frolicks; manhood is led on from hope to
hope, and from project to project; the dissoluteness of pleasure, the
inebriation of success, the ardour of expectation, and the vehemence of
competition, chain down the mind alike to the present scene, nor is it
remembered how soon this mist of trifles must be scattered, and the
bubbles that float upon the rivulet of life be lost for ever in the
gulph of eternity. To this consideration scarcely any man is awakened
but by some pressing and resistless evil. The death of those from whom
he derived his pleasures, or to whom he destined his possessions, some
disease which shows him the vanity of all external acquisitions, or the
gloom of age, which intercepts his prospects of long enjoyment, forces
him to fix his hopes upon another state; and when he has contended with
the tempests of life till his strength fails him, he flies at last to
the shelter of religion.

That misery does not make all virtuous, experience too certainly informs
us; but it is no less certain that of what virtue there is, misery
produces far the greater part. Physical evil may be, therefore, endured
with patience, since it is the cause of moral good; and patience itself
is one virtue by which we are prepared for that state in which evil
shall be no more[1].

[1] For a fuller exposition of Johnson's sentiments on this dark and
    deep subject, see his Review of Soame Jenyns' Nature and Origin of
    Evil.




No. 90. SATURDAY, JANUARY 5, 1760.

It is a complaint which has been made from time to time, and which seems
to have lately become more frequent, that English oratory, however
forcible in argument, or elegant in expression, is deficient and
inefficacious, because our speakers want the grace and energy of action.

Among the numerous projectors who are desirous to refine our manners,
and improve our faculties, some are willing to supply the deficiency of
our speakers[1]. We have had more than one exhortation to study the
neglected art of moving the passions, and have been encouraged to
believe that our tongues, however feeble in themselves, may, by the help
of our hands and legs, obtain an uncontroulable dominion over the most
stubborn audience, animate the insensible, engage the careless, force
tears from the obdurate, and money from the avaricious.

If by sleight of hand, or nimbleness of foot, all these wonders can be
performed, he that shall neglect to attain the free use of his limbs may
be justly censured as criminally lazy. But I am afraid that no specimen
of such effects will easily be shown. If I could once find a speaker in
'Change-Alley raising the price of stocks by the power of persuasive
gestures, I should very zealously recommend the study of his art; but
having never seen any action by which language was much assisted, I have
been hitherto inclined to doubt whether my countrymen are not blamed too
hastily for their calm and motionless utterance.

Foreigners of many nations accompany their speech with action; but why
should their example have more influence upon us than ours upon them?
Customs are not to be changed but for better. Let those who desire to
reform us show the benefits of the change proposed. When the Frenchman
waves his hands and writhes his body in recounting the revolutions of a
game at cards, or the Neapolitan, who tells the hour of the day, shows
upon his fingers the number which he mentions; I do not perceive that
their manual exercise is of much use, or that they leave any image more
deeply impressed by their bustle and vehemence of communication.

Upon the English stage there is no want of action; but the difficulty of
making it at once various and proper, and its perpetual tendency to
become ridiculous, notwithstanding all the advantages which art and
show, and custom and prejudice can give it, may prove how little it can
be admitted into any other place, where it can have no recommendation
but from truth and nature.

The use of English oratory is only at the bar, in the parliament, and in
the church. Neither the judges of our laws nor the representatives of
our people would be much affected by laboured gesticulation, or believe
any man the more because he rolled his eyes, or puffed his cheeks, or
spread abroad his arms, or stamped the ground, or thumped his breast, or
turned his eyes sometimes to the ceiling and sometimes to the floor.
Upon men intent only upon truth, the arm of an orator has little power;
a credible testimony, or a cogent argument will overcome all the art of
modulation, and all the violence of contortion.

It is well known that, in the city which may be called the parent of
oratory, all the arts of mechanical persuasion were banished from the
court of supreme judicature. The judges of the Areopagus considered
action and vociferation as a foolish appeal to the external senses, and
unworthy to be practised before those who had no desire of idle
amusement, and whose only pleasure was to discover right.

Whether action may not be yet of use in churches, where the preacher
addresses a mingled audience, may deserve inquiry. It is certain that
the senses are more powerful as the reason is weaker; and that he whose
ears convey little to his mind, may sometimes listen with his eyes till
truth may gradually take possession of his heart. If there be any use of
gesticulation, it must be applied to the ignorant and rude, who will be
more affected by vehemence than delighted by propriety. In the pulpit
little action can be proper, for action can illustrate nothing but that
to which it may be referred by nature or by custom. He that imitates by
his hand a motion which he describes, explains it by natural similitude;
he that lays his hand on his breast, when he expresses pity, enforces
his words by a customary allusion. But theology has few topicks to which
action can be appropriated; that action which is vague and indeterminate
will at last settle into habit, and habitual peculiarities are quickly
ridiculous.

It is, perhaps, the character of the English to despise trifles; and
that art may surely be accounted a trifle which is at once useless and
ostentatious, which can seldom be practised with propriety, and which,
as the mind is more cultivated, is less powerful. Yet as all innocent
means are to be used for the propagation of truth, I would not deter
those who are employed in preaching to common congregations from any
practice which they may find persuasive: for, compared with the
conversion of sinners, propriety and elegance are less than nothing.

[1] Johnson might here be glancing at the oratorical lectures of the
    modern _Rhetor_ Sheridan, whose plans he delighted incessantly to
    ridicule. See Boswell. Many acute remarks occur in Hume's Essay on
    Eloquence.




No. 91. SATURDAY, JANUARY 12, 1760.

It is common to overlook what is near, by keeping the eye fixed upon
something remote. In the same manner present opportunities are
neglected, and attainable good is slighted, by minds busied in extensive
ranges, and intent upon future advantages. Life, however short, is made
still shorter by waste of time, and its progress towards happiness,
though naturally slow, is yet retarded by unnecessary labour.

The difficulty of obtaining knowledge is universally confessed. To fix
deeply in the mind the principles of science, to settle their
limitations, and deduce the long succession of their consequences; to
comprehend the whole compass of complicated systems, with all the
arguments, objections and solutions, and to reposite in the intellectual
treasury the numberless facts, experiments, apophthegms and positions,
which must stand single in the memory, and of which none has any
perceptible connexion with the rest, is a task which, though undertaken
with ardour and pursued with diligence, must at last be left unfinished
by the frailty of our nature.

To make the way to learning either less short or less smooth, is
certainly absurd; yet this is the apparent effect of the prejudice which
seems to prevail among us in favour of foreign authors, and of the
contempt of our native literature, which this excursive curiosity must
necessarily produce. Every man is more speedily instructed by his own
language, than by any other; before we search the rest of the world for
teachers, let us try whether we may not spare our trouble by finding
them at home.

The riches of the English language are much greater than they are
commonly supposed. Many useful and valuable books lie buried in shops
and libraries, unknown and unexamined, unless some lucky compiler opens
them by chance, and finds an easy spoil of wit and learning. I am far
from intending to insinuate, that other languages are not necessary to
him who aspires to eminence, and whose whole life is devoted to study;
but to him who reads only for amusement, or whose purpose is not to deck
himself with the honours of literature, but to be qualified for
domestick usefulness, and sit down content with subordinate reputation,
we have authors sufficient to fill up all the vacancies of his time, and
gratify most of his wishes for information.

Of our poets I need say little, because they are, perhaps, the only
authors to whom their country has done justice. We consider the whole
succession from Spenser to Pope as superior to any names which the
continent can boast; and, therefore, the poets of other nations, however
familiarly they may be sometimes mentioned, are very little read, except
by those who design to borrow their beauties.

There is, I think, not one of the liberal arts which may not be
competently learned in the English language. He that searches after
mathematical knowledge may busy himself among his own countrymen, and
will find one or other able to instruct him in every part of those
abstruse sciences. He that is delighted with experiments, and wishes to
know the nature of bodies from certain and visible effects, is happily
placed where the mechanical philosophy was first established by a
publick institution, and from which it was spread to all other
countries.

The more airy and elegant studies of philology and criticism have little
need of any foreign help. Though our language, not being very
analogical, gives few opportunities for grammatical researches, yet we
have not wanted authors who have considered the principles of speech;
and with critical writings we abound sufficiently to enable pedantry to
impose rules which can seldom be observed, and vanity to talk of books
which are seldom read.

But our own language has, from the Reformation to the present time, been
chiefly dignified and adorned by the works of our divines, who,
considered as commentators, controvertists, or preachers, have
undoubtedly left all other nations far behind them. No vulgar language
can boast such treasures of theological knowledge, or such multitudes of
authors at once learned, elegant and pious. Other countries and other
communions have authors, perhaps, equal in abilities and diligence to
ours; but if we unite number with excellence, there is certainly no
nation which must not allow us to be superior. Of morality little is
necessary to be said, because it is comprehended in practical divinity,
and is, perhaps, better taught in English sermons than in any other
books, ancient and modern. Nor shall I dwell on our excellence in
metaphysical speculations, because he that reads the works of our
divines will easily discover how far human subtilty has been able to
penetrate.

Political knowledge is forced upon us by the form of our constitution;
and all the mysteries of government are discovered in the attack or
defence of every minister. The original law of society, the rights of
subjects and the prerogatives of kings, have been considered with the
utmost nicety, sometimes profoundly investigated, and sometimes
familiarly explained.

Thus copiously instructive is the English language; and thus needless is
all recourse to foreign writers. Let us not, therefore, make our
neighbours proud by soliciting help which we do not want, nor discourage
our own industry by difficulties which we need not suffer.




No. 92. SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 1760.

Whatever is useful or honourable will be desired by many who never can
obtain it; and that which cannot be obtained when it is desired,
artifice or folly will be diligent to counterfeit. Those to whom fortune
has denied gold and diamonds decorate themselves with stones and metals,
which have something of the show, but little of the value; and every
moral excellence or intellectual faculty has some vice or folly which
imitates its appearance.

Every man wishes to be wise, and they who cannot be wise are almost
always cunning. The less is the real discernment of those whom business
or conversation brings together, the more illusions are practised; nor
is caution ever so necessary as with associates or opponents of feeble
minds.

Cunning differs from wisdom as twilight from open day. He that walks in
the sunshine goes boldly forward by the nearest way; he sees that where
the path is straight and even, he may proceed in security, and where it
is rough and crooked he easily complies with the turns, and avoids the
obstructions. But the traveller in the dusk fears more as he sees less;
he knows there may be danger, and, therefore, suspects that he is never
safe, tries every step before he fixes his foot, and shrinks at every
noise lest violence should approach him. Wisdom comprehends at once the
end and the means, estimates easiness or difficulty, and is cautious or
confident in due proportion. Cunning discovers little at a time, and has
no other means of certainty than multiplication of stratagems and
superfluity of suspicion. The man of cunning always considers that he
can never be too safe, and, therefore, always keeps himself enveloped in
a mist, impenetrable, as he hopes, to the eye of rivalry or curiosity.

Upon this principle Tom Double has formed a habit of eluding the most
harmless question. What he has no inclination to answer, he pretends
sometimes not to hear, and endeavours to divert the inquirer's attention
by some other subject; but if he be pressed hard by repeated
interrogation, he always evades a direct reply. Ask him whom he likes
best on the stage; he is ready to tell that there are several excellent
performers. Inquire when he was last at the coffee-house; he replies,
that the weather has been bad lately. Desire him to tell the age of any
of his acquaintance; he immediately mentions another who is older or
younger.

Will Puzzle values himself upon a long reach. He foresees every thing
before it will happen, though he never relates his prognostications till
the event is past. Nothing has come to pass for these twenty years of
which Mr. Puzzle had not given broad hints, and told at least that it
was not proper to tell. Of those predictions, which every conclusion
will equally verify, he always claims the credit, and wonders that his
friends did not understand them. He supposes very truly that much may be
known which he knows not, and, therefore, pretends to know much of which
he and all mankind are equally ignorant. I desired his opinion yesterday
of the German war, and was told, that if the Prussians were well
supported, something great may be expected; but that they have very
powerful enemies to encounter; that the Austrian general has long
experience, and the Russians are hardy and resolute; but that no human
power is invincible. I then drew the conversation to our own affairs,
and invited him to balance the probabilities of war and peace. He told
me that war requires courage, and negociation judgment, and that the
time will come when it will be seen, whether our skill in treaty is
equal to our bravery in battle. To this general prattle he will appeal
hereafter, and will demand to have his foresight applauded, whoever
shall at last be conquered or victorious.

With Ned Smuggle all is a secret. He believes himself watched by
observation and malignity on every side, and rejoices in the dexterity
by which he has escaped snares that never were laid. Ned holds that a
man is never deceived if he never trusts, and, therefore, will not tell
the name of his tailor or his hatter. He rides out every morning for the
air, and pleases himself with thinking that nobody knows where he has
been. When he dines with a friend, he never goes to his house the
nearest way, but walks up a by-street to perplex the scent. When he has
a coach called, he never tells him at the door the true place to which
he is going, but stops him in the way that he may give him directions
where nobody can hear him. The price of what he buys or sells is always
concealed. He often takes lodgings in the country by a wrong name, and
thinks that the world is wondering where he can be hid. All these
transactions he registers in a book, which, he says, will some time or
other amaze posterity.

It is remarked by Bacon, that many men try to procure reputation only by
objections, of which, if they are once admitted, the nullity never
appears, because the design is laid aside. "This false feint of wisdom,"
says he, "is the ruin of business." The whole power of cunning is
privative; to say nothing, and to do nothing, is the utmost of its
reach. Yet men thus narrow by nature, and mean by art, are sometimes
able to rise by the miscarriages of bravery and the openness of
integrity; and by watching failures and snatching opportunities, obtain
advantages which belong properly to higher characters.




No. 93. SATURDAY, JANUARY 26, 1760.

Sam Softly was bred a sugar-baker; but succeeding to a considerable
estate on the death of his elder brother, he retired early from
business, married a fortune, and settled in a country-house near
Kentish-town, Sam, who formerly was a sportsman, and in his
apprenticeship used to frequent Barnet races, keeps a high chaise, with
a brace of seasoned geldings. During the summer months, the principal
passion and employment of Sam's life is to visit, in this vehicle, the
most eminent seats of the nobility and gentry in different parts of the
kingdom, with his wife and some select friends. By these periodical
excursions Sam gratifies many important purposes. He assists the several
pregnancies of his wife; he shows his chaise to the best advantage; he
indulges his insatiable curiosity for finery, which, since he has turned
gentleman, has grown upon him to an extraordinary degree; he discovers
taste and spirit, and, what is above all, he finds frequent
opportunities of displaying to the party, at every house he sees, his
knowledge of family connexion. At first, Sam was contented with driving
a friend between London and his villa. Here he prided himself in
pointing out the boxes of the citizens on each side of the road, with an
accurate detail of their respective failures or successes in trade; and
harangued on the several equipages that were accidentally passing. Here,
too, the seats, interspersed on the surrounding hills, afforded ample
matter for Sam's curious discoveries. For one, he told his companion, a
rich Jew had offered money; and that a retired widow was courted at
another, by an eminent dry-salter. At the same time he discussed the
utility, and enumerated the expenses, of the Islington turnpike. But
Sam's ambition is at present raised to nobler undertakings.

When the happy hour of the annual expedition arrives, the seat of the
chaise is furnished with Ogilvy's Book of Roads, and a choice quantity
of cold tongues. The most alarming disaster which can happen to our
hero, who thinks he _throws a whip_ admirably well, is to be overtaken
in a road which affords no _quarter_ for wheels. Indeed, few men possess
more skill or discernment for concerting and conducting a _party of
pleasure_. When a seat is to be surveyed, he has a peculiar talent in
selecting some shady bench in the park, where the company may most
commodiously refresh themselves with cold tongue, chicken and French
rolls; and is very sagacious in discovering what cool temple in the
garden will be best adapted for drinking tea, brought for this purpose,
in the afternoon, and from which the chaise may be resumed with the
greatest convenience. In viewing the house itself, he is principally
attracted by the chairs and beds, concerning the cost of which his
minute inquiries generally gain the clearest information. An agate table
easily diverts his eyes from the most capital strokes of Rubens, and a
Turkey carpet has more charms than a Titian. Sam, however, dwells with
some attention on the family portraits, particularly the most modern
ones; and as this is a topick on which the housekeeper usually harangues
in a more copious manner, he takes this opportunity of improving his
knowledge of intermarriages. Yet, notwithstanding this appearance of
satisfaction, Sam has some objection to all he sees. One house has too
much gilding; at another, the chimney-pieces are all monuments; at a
third, he conjectures that the beautiful canal must certainly be dried
up in a hot summer. He despises the statues at Wilton, because he thinks
he can see much better carving in Westminster Abbey. But there is one
general objection which he is sure to make at almost every house,
particularly at those which are most distinguished. He allows that all
the apartments are extremely fine, but adds, with a sneer, that they are
too fine to be inhabited.

Misapplied genius most commonly proves ridiculous. Had Sam, as Nature
intended, contentedly continued in the calmer and less conspicuous
pursuits of sugar-baking, he might have been a respectable and useful
character. At present he dissipates his life in a specious idleness,
which neither improves himself nor his friends. Those talents, which
might have benefited society, he exposes to contempt by false
pretensions. He affects pleasures which he cannot enjoy, and is
acquainted only with those subjects on which he has no right to talk,
and which it is no merit to understand[1].

[1] This humorous paper was written by Mr. Thomas Warton, who is said to
    have sketched from a character in real life, distantly related to
    himself.--Drake's Essays, Vol. II.




No. 94. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 1760.

It is common to find young men ardent and diligent in the pursuit of
knowledge; but the progress of life very often produces laxity and
indifference; and not only those who are at liberty to choose their
business and amusements, but those likewise whose professions engage
them in literary inquiries, pass the latter part of their time without
improvement, and spend the day rather in any other entertainment than
that which they might find among their books.

This abatement of the vigour of curiosity is sometimes imputed to the
insufficiency of learning. Men are supposed to remit their labours,
because they find their labours to have been vain; and to search no
longer after truth and wisdom, because they at last despair of finding
them.

But this reason is, for the most part, very falsely assigned. Of
learning, as of virtue, it may be affirmed, that it is at once honoured
and neglected. Whoever forsakes it will for ever look after it with
longing, lament the loss which he does not endeavour to repair, and
desire the good which he wants resolution to seize and keep. The Idler
never applauds his own idleness, nor does any man repent of the
diligence of his youth.

So many hindrances may obstruct the acquisition of knowledge, that there
is little reason for wondering that it is in a few hands. To the greater
part of mankind the duties of life are inconsistent with much study; and
the hours which they would spend upon letters must be stolen from their
occupations and their families. Many suffer themselves to be lured by
more sprightly and luxurious pleasures from the shades of contemplation,
where they find seldom more than a calm delight, such as, though greater
than all others, its certainty and its duration being reckoned with its
power of gratification, is yet easily quitted for some extemporary joy,
which the present moment offers, and another, perhaps, will put out of
reach.

It is the great excellence of learning, that it borrows very little from
time or place; it is not confined to season or to climate, to cities or
to the country, but may be cultivated and enjoyed where no other
pleasure can be obtained. But this quality, which constitutes much of
its value, is one occasion of neglect; what may be done at all times
with equal propriety, is deferred from day to day, till the mind is
gradually reconciled to the omission, and the attention is turned to
other objects. Thus habitual idleness gains too much power to be
conquered, and the soul shrinks from the idea of intellectual labour and
intenseness of meditation.

That those who profess to advance learning sometimes obstruct it, cannot
be denied; the continual multiplication of books not only distracts
choice, but disappoints inquiry. To him that has moderately stored his
mind with images, few writers afford any novelty, or what little they
have to add to the common stock of learning, is so buried in the mass of
general notions, that, like silver mingled with the ore of lead, it is
too little to pay for the labour of separation; and he that has often
been deceived by the promise of a title, at last grows weary of
examining, and is tempted to consider all as equally fallacious.

There are indeed some repetitions always lawful, because they never
deceive. He that writes the history of past times, undertakes only to
decorate known facts by new beauties of method or of style, or at most
to illustrate them by his own reflections. The author of a system,
whether moral or physical, is obliged to nothing beyond care of
selection and regularity of disposition. But there are others who claim
the name of authors merely to disgrace it, and fill the world with
volumes only to bury letters in their own rubbish. The traveller, who
tells, in a pompous folio, that he saw the Pantheon at Rome, and the
Medicean Venus at Florence; the natural historian, who, describing the
productions of a narrow island, recounts all that it has in common with
every other part of the world; the collector of antiquities, that
accounts every thing a curiosity which the ruins of Herculaneum happen
to emit, though an instrument already shown in a thousand repositories,
or a cup common to the ancients, the moderns and all mankind; may be
justly censured as the persecutors of students, and the thieves of that
time which never can be restored.




No. 95. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 1760.

TO THE IDLER.

Mr. Idler,

It is, I think, universally agreed, that seldom any good is gotten by
complaint; yet we find that few forbear to complain, but those who are
afraid of being reproached as the authors of their own miseries. I hope,
therefore, for the common permission to lay my case before you and your
readers, by which I shall disburden my heart, though I cannot hope to
receive either assistance or consolation.

I am a trader, and owe my fortune to frugality and industry. I began
with little; but by the easy and obvious method of spending less than I
gain, I have every year added something to my stock, and expect to have
a seat in the common-council at the next election.

My wife, who was as prudent as myself, died six years ago, and left me
one son and one daughter, for whose sake I resolved never to marry
again, and rejected the overtures of Mrs. Squeeze, the broker's widow,
who had ten thousand pounds at her own disposal.

I bred my son at a school near Islington; and when he had learned
arithmetick, and wrote a good hand, I took him into the shop, designing,
in about ten years, to retire to Stratford or Hackney, and leave him
established in the business.

For four years he was diligent and sedate, entered the shop before it
was opened, and when it was shut, always examined the pins of the
window. In any intermission of business it was his constant practice to
peruse the leger. I had always great hopes of him, when I observed how
sorrowfully he would shake his head over a bad debt, and how eagerly he
would listen to me when I told him that he might at one time or other
become an alderman.

We lived together with mutual confidence, till, unluckily, a visit was
paid him by two of his school-fellows, who were placed, I suppose, in
the army, because they were fit for nothing better: they came glittering
in their military dress, accosted their old acquaintance, and invited
him to a tavern, where, as I have been since informed, they ridiculed
the meanness of commerce, and wondered how a youth of spirit could spend
the prime of life behind a counter. I did not suspect any mischief. I
knew my son was never without money in his pocket, and was better able
to pay his reckoning than his companions; and expected to see him return
triumphing in his own advantages, and congratulating himself that he was
not one of those who expose their heads to a musket bullet for three
shillings a day.

He returned sullen and thoughtful; I supposed him sorry for the hard
fortune of his friends; and tried to comfort him, by saying that the war
would soon be at an end, and that, if they had any honest occupation,
half-pay would be a pretty help. He looked at me with indignation; and
snatching up his candle, told me, as he went up stairs, that _he hoped
to see a battle yet_.

Why he should hope to see a battle, I could not conceive, but let him go
quietly to sleep away his folly. Next day he made two mistakes in the
first bill, disobliged a customer by surly answers, and dated all his
entries in the journal in a wrong month. At night he met his military
companions again, came home late, and quarrelled with the maid.

From this fatal interview he has gradually lost all his laudable
passions and desires. He soon grew useless in the shop, where, indeed, I
did not willingly trust him any longer; for he often mistook the price
of goods to his own loss, and once gave a promissory note instead of a
receipt.

I did not know to what degree he was corrupted, till an honest tailor
gave me notice that he had bespoke a laced suit, which was to be left
for him at a house kept by the sister of one of my journeymen. I went to
this clandestine lodging, and found, to my amazement, all the ornaments
of a fine gentleman, which I know not whether he has taken upon credit,
or purchased with money subducted from the shop.

This detection has made him desperate. He now openly declares his
resolution to be a gentleman; says that his soul is too great for a
counting-house; ridicules the conversation of city taverns; talks of new
plays, and boxes and ladies; gives duchesses for his toasts; carries
silver, for readiness, in his waistcoat-pocket; and comes home at night
in a chair, with such thunders at the door, as have more than once
brought the watchmen from their stands.

Little expenses will not hurt us; and I could forgive a few juvenile
frolicks, if he would be careful of the main; but his favourite topick
is contempt of money, which, he says, is of no use but to be spent.
Riches, without honour, he holds empty things; and once told me to my
face, that wealthy plodders were only purveyors to men of spirit.

He is always impatient in the company of his old friends, and seldom
speaks till he is warmed with wine; he then entertains us with accounts
that we do not desire to hear, of intrigues among lords and ladies, and
quarrels between officers of the guards; shows a miniature on his
snuff-box, and wonders that any man can look upon the new dancer without
rapture.

All this is very provoking; and yet all this might be borne, if the boy
could support his pretensions. But, whatever he may think, he is yet far
from the accomplishments which he has endeavoured to purchase at so dear
a rate. I have watched him in publick places. He sneaks in like a man
that knows he is where he should not be; he is proud to catch the
slightest salutation, and often claims it when it is not intended. Other
men receive dignity from dress, but my booby looks always more meanly
for his finery. Dear Mr. Idler, tell him what must at last become of a
fop, whom pride will not suffer to be a trader, and whom long habits in
a shop forbid to be a gentleman.

I am, Sir, &c.

TIM WAINSCOT.




No. 96. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1760.

  _Qui se volet esse potentem,
  Animos domet ille feroces:
  Nec victa libidine colla
  Foedis submittat habenis._ BOETHIUS.

Hacho, a king of Lapland, was in his youth the most renowned of the
Northern warriors. His martial achievements remain engraved on a pillar
of flint in the rocks of Hanga, and are to this day solemnly carolled to
the harp by the Laplanders, at the fires with which, they celebrate
their nightly festivities. Such was his intrepid spirit, that he
ventured to pass the lake Vether to the isle of Wizards, where he
descended alone into the dreary vault in which a magician had been kept
bound for six ages, and read the Gothick characters inscribed on his
brazen mace. His eye was so piercing, that, as ancient chronicles
report, he could blunt the weapons of his enemies only by looking at
them. At twelve years of age he carried an iron vessel of a prodigious
weight, for the length of five furlongs, in the presence of all the
chiefs of his father's castle.

Nor was he less celebrated for his prudence and wisdom. Two of his
proverbs are yet remembered and repeated among Laplanders. To express
the vigilance of the Supreme Being, he was wont to say, "Odin's belt is
always buckled." To show that the most prosperous condition of life is
often hazardous, his lesson was, "When you slide on the smoothest ice,
beware of pits beneath." He consoled his countrymen, when they were once
preparing to leave the frozen deserts of Lapland, and resolved to seek
some warmer climate, by telling them, that the Eastern nations,
notwithstanding their boasted fertility, passed every night amidst the
horrours of anxious apprehension, and were inexpressibly affrighted, and
almost stunned, every morning, with the noise of the sun while he was
rising.

His temperance and severity of manners were his chief praise. In his
early years he never tasted wine; nor would he drink out of a painted
cup. He constantly slept in his armour, with his spear in his hand; nor
would he use a battle-axe whose handle was inlaid with brass. He did
not, however, persevere in this contempt of luxury; nor did he close his
days with honour.

One evening, after hunting the gulos or wild-dog, being bewildered in a
solitary forest, and having passed the fatigues of the day without any
interval of refreshment, he discovered a large store of honey in the
hollow of a pine. This was a dainty which he had never tasted before;
and being at once faint and hungry, he fed greedily upon it. From this
unusual and delicious repast he received so much satisfaction, that, at
his return home, he commanded honey to be served up at his table every
day. His palate, by degrees, became refined and vitiated; he began to
lose his native relish for simple fare, and contracted a habit of
indulging himself in delicacies; he ordered the delightful gardens of
his castle to be thrown open, in which the most luscious fruits had been
suffered to ripen and decay, unobserved and untouched, for many
revolving autumns, and gratified his appetite with luxurious desserts.
At length he found it expedient to introduce wine, as an agreeable
improvement, or a necessary ingredient, to his new way of living; and
having once tasted it, he was tempted, by little and little, to give a
loose to the excesses of intoxication. His general simplicity of life
was changed; he perfumed his apartments by burning the wood of the most
aromatick fir, and commanded his helmet to be ornamented with beautiful
rows of the teeth of the raindeer. Indolence and effeminacy stole upon
him by pleasing and imperceptible gradations, relaxed the sinews of his
resolution, and extinguished his thirst of military glory.

While Hacho was thus immersed in pleasure and in repose, it was reported
to him, one morning, that the preceding night, a disastrous omen had
been discovered, and that bats and hideous birds had drunk up the oil
which nourished the perpetual lamp in the temple of Odin. About the same
time, a messenger arrived to tell him, that the king of Norway had
invaded his kingdom with a formidable army. Hacho, terrified as he was
with the omen of the night, and enervated with indulgence, roused
himself from his voluptuous lethargy, and, recollecting some faint and
few sparks of veteran valour, marched forward to meet him. Both armies
joined battle in the forest where Hacho had been lost after hunting; and
it so happened, that the king of Norway challenged him to single combat,
near the place where he had tasted the honey. The Lapland chief, languid
and long disused to arms, was soon overpowered; he fell to the ground;
and before his insulting adversary struck his head from his body,
uttered this exclamation, which the Laplanders still use as an early
lesson to their children: "The vicious man should date his destruction
from the first temptation. How justly do I fall a sacrifice to sloth and
luxury, in the place where I first yielded to those allurements which
seduced me to deviate from temperance and innocence! The honey which I
tasted in this forest, and not the hand of the king of Norway, conquers
Hacho[1]."

[1] By Mr. Thomas Warton.




No. 97. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 1760.

It may, I think, be justly observed, that few books disappoint their
readers more than the narrations of travellers. One part of mankind is
naturally curious to learn the sentiments, manners, and condition of the
rest; and every mind that has leisure or power to extend its views, must
be desirous of knowing in what proportion Providence has distributed the
blessings of nature, or the advantages of art, among the several nations
of the earth.

This general desire easily procures readers to every book from which it
can expect gratification. The adventurer upon unknown coasts, and the
describer of distant regions, is always welcomed as a man who has
laboured for the pleasure of others, and who is able to enlarge our
knowledge and rectify our opinions; but when the volume is opened,
nothing is found but such general accounts as leave no distinct idea
behind them, or such minute enumerations as few can read with either
profit or delight.

Every writer of travels should consider, that, like all other authors,
he undertakes either to instruct or please, or to mingle pleasure with
instruction. He that instructs must offer to the mind something to be
imitated, or something to be avoided; he that pleases must offer new
images to his reader, and enable him to form a tacit comparison of his
own state with that of others.

The greater part of travellers tell nothing, because their method of
travelling supplies them with nothing to be told. He that enters a town
at night, and surveys it in the morning, and then hastens away to
another place, and guesses at the manners of the inhabitants by the
entertainment which his inn afforded him, may please himself for a time
with a hasty change of scenes, and a confused remembrance of palaces and
churches; he may gratify his eye with a variety of landscapes, and
regale his palate with a succession of vintages; but let him be
contented to please himself without endeavouring to disturb others.

Why should he record excursions by which nothing could be learned, or
wish to make a show of knowledge, which, without some power of intuition
unknown to other mortals, he never could attain?

Of those who crowd the world with their itineraries, some have no other
purpose than to describe the face of the country; those who sit idle at
home, and are curious to know what is done or suffered in distant
countries, may be informed by one of these wanderers, that on a certain
day he set out early with the caravan, and in the first hour's march
saw, towards the south, a hill covered with trees, then passed over a
stream, which ran northward with a swift course, but which is probably
dry in the summer months; that an hour after he saw something to the
right which looked at a distance like a castle with towers, but which he
discovered afterwards to be a craggy rock; that he then entered a
valley, in which he saw several trees tall and flourishing, watered by a
rivulet not marked in the maps, of which he was not able to learn the
name; that the road afterward grew stony, and the country uneven, where
he observed among the hills many hollows worn by torrents, and was told
that the road was passable only part of the year; that going on they
found the remains of a building, once, perhaps, a fortress to secure the
pass, or to restrain the robbers, of which the present inhabitants can
give no other account than that it is haunted by fairies; that they went
to dine at the foot of a rock, and travelled the rest of the day along
the banks of a river, from which the road turned aside towards evening,
and brought them within sight of a village, which was once a
considerable town, but which afforded them neither good victuals nor
commodious lodging.

Thus he conducts his reader through wet and dry, over rough and smooth,
without incidents, without reflection; and, if he obtains his company
for another day, will dismiss him again at night, equally fatigued with
a like succession of rocks and streams, mountains and ruins.

This is the common style of those sons of enterprise, who visit savage
countries, and range through solitude and desolation; who pass a desert,
and tell that it is sandy; who cross a valley, and find that it is
green. There are others of more delicate sensibility, that visit only
the realms of elegance and softness; that wander through Italian
palaces, and amuse the gentle reader with catalogues of pictures; that
hear masses in magnificent churches, and recount the number of the
pillars or variegations of the pavement. And there are yet others, who,
in disdain of trifles, copy inscriptions elegant and rude, ancient and
modern; and transcribe into their book the walls of every edifice,
sacred or civil. He that reads these books must consider his labour as
its own reward; for he will find nothing on which attention can fix, or
which memory can retain.

He that would travel for the entertainment of others, should remember
that the great object of remark is human life. Every nation has
something peculiar in its manufactures, its works of genius, its
medicines, its agriculture, its customs and its policy. He only is a
useful traveller, who brings home something by which his country may be
benefited; who procures some supply of want, or some mitigation of evil,
which may enable his readers to compare their condition with that of
others, to improve it whenever it is worse, and whenever it is better to
enjoy it.




No. 98. SATURDAY, MARCH 1, 1760.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

I am the daughter of a gentleman, who during his lifetime enjoyed a
small income which arose from a pension from the court, by which he was
enabled to live in a genteel and comfortable manner.

By the situation of life in which he was placed, he was frequently
introduced into the company of those of much greater fortunes than his
own, among whom he was always received with complaisance, and treated
with civility.

At six years of age I was sent to a boarding-school in the country, at
which I continued till my father's death. This melancholy event happened
at a time when I was by no means of sufficient age to manage for myself,
while the passions of youth continued unsubdued, and before experience
could guide my sentiments or my actions.

I was then taken from school by an uncle, to the care of whom my father
had committed me on his dying-bed. With him I lived several years; and,
as he was unmarried, the management of his family was committed to me.
In this character I always endeavoured to acquit myself, if not with
applause, at least without censure.

At the age of twenty-one, a young gentleman of some fortune paid his
addresses to me, and offered me terms of marriage. This proposal I
should readily have accepted, because from vicinity of residence, and
from many opportunities of observing his behaviour, I had, in some sort,
contracted an affection for him. My uncle, for what reason I do not
know, refused his consent to this alliance, though it would have been
complied with by the father of the young gentleman; and, as the future
condition of my life was wholly dependant on him, I was not willing to
disoblige him, and, therefore, though unwillingly, declined the offer.

My uncle, who possessed a plentiful fortune, frequently hinted to me in
conversation, that at his death I should be provided for in such a
manner that I should be able to make my future life comfortable and
happy. As this promise was often repeated, I was the less anxious about
any provision for myself. In a short time my uncle was taken ill, and
though all possible means were made use of for his recovery, in a few
days he died.

The sorrow arising from the loss of a relation, by whom I had been
always treated with the greatest kindness, however grievous, was not the
worst of my misfortunes. As he enjoyed an almost uninterrupted state of
health, he was the less mindful of his dissolution, and died intestate;
by which means his whole fortune devolved to a nearer relation, the heir
at law.

Thus excluded from all hopes of living in the manner with which I have
so long flattered myself, I am doubtful what method I shall take to
procure a decent maintenance. I have been educated in a manner that has
set me above a state of servitude, and my situation renders me unfit for
the company of those with whom I have hitherto conversed. But, though
disappointed in my expectations, I do not despair. I will hope that
assistance may still be obtained for innocent distress, and that
friendship, though rare, is yet not impossible to be found.

I am, Sir, Your humble servant,

SOPHIA HEEDFUL.[1]

[1] By an unknown correspondent.




No. 99. SATURDAY, MARCH 8, 1760.

As Ortogrul of Basra was one day wandering along the streets of Bagdat,
musing on the varieties of merchandise which the shops offered to his
view, and observing the different occupations which busied the
multitudes on every side, he was awakened from the tranquillity of
meditation by a crowd that obstructed his passage. He raised his eyes,
and saw the chief visier, who, having returned from the divan, was
entering his palace.

Ortogrul mingled with the attendants, and being supposed to have some
petition for the visier, was permitted to enter. He surveyed the
spaciousness of the apartments, admired the walls hung with golden
tapestry, and the floors covered with silken carpets, and despised the
simple neatness of his own little habitation.

Surely, said he to himself, this palace is the seat of happiness, where
pleasure succeeds to pleasure, and discontent and sorrow can have no
admission. Whatever Nature has provided for the delight of sense, is
here spread forth to be enjoyed. What can mortals hope or imagine, which
the master of this palace has not obtained? The dishes of luxury cover
his table, the voice of harmony lulls him in his bowers; he breathes the
fragrance of the groves of Java, and sleeps upon the down of the cygnets
of Ganges. He speaks, and his mandate is obeyed; he wishes, and his wish
is gratified; all whom he sees obey him, and all whom he hears flatter
him. How different, Ortogrul, is thy condition, who art doomed to the
perpetual torments of unsatisfied desire, and who hast no amusement in
thy power that can withhold thee from thy own reflections! They tell
thee that thou art wise; but what does wisdom avail with poverty? None
will flatter the poor, and the wise have very little power of flattering
themselves. That man is surely the most wretched of the sons of
wretchedness, who lives with his own faults and follies always before
him, and who has none to reconcile him to himself by praise and
veneration. I have long sought content, and have not found it; I will
from this moment endeavour to be rich.

Full of this new resolution, he shut himself up in his chamber for six
months, to deliberate how he should grow rich; he sometimes proposed to
offer himself as a counsellor to one of the kings of India, and
sometimes resolved to dig for diamonds in the mines of Golconda. One
day, after some hours passed in violent fluctuation of opinion, sleep
insensibly seized him in his chair; he dreamed that he was ranging a
desert country in search of some one that might teach him to grow rich;
and as he stood on the top of a hill shaded with cypress, in doubt
whither to direct his steps, his father appeared on a sudden standing
before him. Ortogrul, said the old man, I know thy perplexity; listen to
thy father; turn thine eye on the opposite mountain. Ortogrul looked,
and saw a torrent tumbling down the rocks, roaring with the noise of
thunder, and scattering its foam on the impending woods. Now, said his
father, behold the valley that lies between the hills. Ortogrul looked,
and espied a little well, out of which issued a small rivulet. Tell me
now, said his father, dost thou wish for sudden affluence, that may pour
upon thee like the mountain torrent, or for a slow and gradual increase,
resembling the rill gliding from the well? Let me be quickly rich, said
Ortogrul; let the golden stream be quick and violent. Look round thee,
said his father, once again. Ortogrul looked, and perceived the channel
of the torrent dry and dusty; but following the rivulet from the well,
he traced it to a wide lake, which the supply, slow and constant, kept
always full. He waked, and determined to grow rich by silent profit and
persevering industry.

Having sold his patrimony, he engaged in merchandise, and in twenty
years purchased lands, on which he raised a house, equal in
sumptuousness to that of the visier, to which he invited all the
ministers of pleasure, expecting to enjoy all the felicity which he had
imagined riches able to afford. Leisure soon made him weary of himself,
and he longed to be persuaded that he was great and happy. He was
courteous and liberal; he gave all that approached him hopes of pleasing
him, and all who should please him hopes of being rewarded. Every art of
praise was tried, and every source of adulatory fiction was exhausted.
Ortogrul heard his flatterers without delight, because he found himself
unable to believe them. His own heart told him its frailties, his own
understanding reproached him with his faults. How long, said he, with a
deep sigh, have I been labouring in vain to amass wealth which at last
is useless! Let no man hereafter wish to be rich, who is already too
wise to be flattered.




No. 100. SATURDAY, MARCH 15, 1760,

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

The uncertainty and defects of language have produced very frequent
complaints among the learned; yet there still remain many words among us
undefined, which are very necessary to be rightly understood, and which
produce very mischievous mistakes when they are erroneously interpreted.

I lived in a state of celibacy beyond the usual time. In the hurry first
of pleasure, and afterwards of business, I felt no want of a domestick
companion; but becoming weary of labour, I soon grew more weary of
idleness, and thought it reasonable to follow the custom of life, and to
seek some solace of my cares in female tenderness, and some amusement of
my leisure in female cheerfulness.

The choice which has been long delayed is commonly made at last with
great caution. My resolution was, to keep my passions neutral, and to
marry only in compliance with my reason. I drew upon a page of my
pocket-book a scheme of all female virtues and vices, with the vices
which border upon every virtue, and the virtues which are allied to
every vice. I considered that wit was sarcastick, and magnanimity
imperious; that avarice was economical, and ignorance obsequious; and
having estimated the good and evil of every quality, employed my own
diligence, and that of my friends, to find the lady in whom nature and
reason had reached that happy mediocrity which is equally remote from
exuberance and deficience.

Every woman had her admirers and her censurers; and the expectations
which one raised were by another quickly depressed; yet there was one in
whose favour almost all suffrages concurred. Miss Gentle was universally
allowed to be a good sort of woman. Her fortune was not large, but so
prudently managed, that she wore finer clothes, and saw more company,
than many who were known to be twice as rich. Miss Gentle's visits were
every where welcome; and whatever family she favoured with her company,
she always left behind her such a degree of kindness as recommended her
to others. Every day extended her acquaintance; and all who knew her
declared, that they never met with a better sort of woman.

To Miss Gentle I made my addresses, and was received with great equality
of temper. She did not in the days of courtship assume the privilege of
imposing rigorous commands, or resenting slight offences. If I forgot
any of her injunctions, I was gently reminded; if I missed the minute of
appointment, I was easily forgiven. I foresaw nothing in marriage but a
halcyon calm, and longed for the happiness which was to be found in the
inseparable society of a good sort of woman.

The jointure was soon settled by the intervention of friends, and the
day came in which Miss Gentle was made mine for ever. The first month
was passed easily enough in receiving and repaying the civilities of our
friends. The bride practised with great exactness all the niceties of
ceremony, and distributed her notice in the most punctilious proportions
to the friends who surrounded us with their happy auguries.

But the time soon came when we were left to ourselves, and were to
receive our pleasures from each other; and I then began to perceive that
I was not formed to be much delighted by a good sort of woman. Her great
principle is, that the orders of a family must not be broken. Every hour
of the day has its employment inviolably appropriated; nor will any
importunity persuade her to walk in the garden at the time which she has
devoted to her needlework, or to sit up stairs in that part of the
forenoon which she has accustomed herself to spend in the back parlour.
She allows herself to sit half an hour after breakfast, and an hour
after dinner; while I am talking or reading to her, she keeps her eye
upon her watch, and when the minute of departure comes, will leave an
argument unfinished, or the intrigue of a play unravelled. She once
called me to supper when I was watching an eclipse, and summoned me at
another time to bed when I was going to give directions at a fire.

Her conversation is so habitually cautious, that she never talks to me
but in general terms, as to one whom it is dangerous to trust. For
discriminations of character she has no names: all whom she mentions are
honest men and agreeable women. She smiles not by sensation, but by
practice. Her laughter is never excited but by a joke, and her notion of
a joke is not very delicate. The repetition of a good joke does not
weaken its effect; if she has laughed once, she will laugh again.

She is an enemy to nothing but ill-nature and pride; but she has
frequent reason to lament that they are so frequent in the world. All
who are not equally pleased with the good and the bad, with the elegant
and gross, with the witty and the dull, all who distinguish excellence
from defect, she considers as ill-natured; and she condemns as proud all
who repress impertinence or quell presumption, or expect respect from
any other eminence than that of fortune, to which she is always willing
to pay homage.

There are none whom she openly hates, for if once she suffers, or
believes herself to suffer, any contempt or insult, she never dismisses
it from her mind, but takes all opportunities to tell how easily she can
forgive. There are none whom she loves much better than others; for when
any of her acquaintance decline in the opinion of the world, she always
finds it inconvenient to visit them; her affection continues unaltered,
but it is impossible to be intimate with the whole town.

She daily exercises her benevolence by pitying every misfortune that
happens to every family within her circle of notice; she is in hourly
terrours lest one should catch cold in the rain, and another be frighted
by the high wind. Her charity she shows by lamenting that so many poor
wretches should languish in the streets, and by wondering what the great
can think on that they do so little good with such large estates.

Her house is elegant, and her table dainty, though she has little taste
of elegance, and is wholly free from vicious luxury; but she comforts
herself that nobody can say that her house is dirty, or that her dishes
are not well drest.

This, Mr. Idler, I have found, by long experience, to be the character
of a good sort of woman, which I have sent you for the information of
those by whom a _good sort of woman_ and a _good woman_, may happen to
be used as equivalent terms, and who may suffer by the mistake, like

Your humble servant,

TIM WARNER.




No. 101. SATURDAY, MARCH 22, 1760.

  _Carpe hilaris: fuget heu! non revocanda dies._

Omar, the son of Hussan, had passed seventy-five years in honour and
prosperity. The favour of three successive califs had filled his house
with gold and silver; and, whenever he appeared, the benedictions of the
people proclaimed his passage.

Terrestrial happiness is of short continuance. The brightness of the
flame is wasting its fuel; the fragrant flower is passing away in its
own odours. The vigour of Omar began to fail, the curls of beauty fell
from his head, strength departed from his hands, and agility from his
feet. He gave back to the calif the keys of trust and the seals of
secrecy; and sought no other pleasure for the remains of life than the
converse of the wise, and the gratitude of the good.

The powers of his mind were yet unimpaired. His chamber was filled by
visitants, eager to catch the dictates of experience, and officious to
pay the tribute of admiration. Caled, the son of the viceroy of Egypt,
entered every day early, and retired late. He was beautiful and
eloquent; Omar admired his wit, and loved his docility. Tell me, said
Caled, thou to whose voice nations have listened, and whose wisdom is
known to the extremities of Asia, tell me how I may resemble Omar the
prudent. The arts by which you have gained power and preserved it, are
to you no longer necessary or useful; impart to me the secret of your
conduct, and teach me the plan upon which your wisdom has built your
fortune.

Young man, said Omar, it is of little use to form plans of life. When I
took my first survey of the world, in my twentieth year, having
considered the various conditions of mankind, in the hour of solitude I
said thus to myself, leaning against a cedar which spread its branches
over my head: Seventy years are allowed to man; I have yet fifty
remaining: ten years I will allot to the attainment of knowledge, and
ten I will pass in foreign countries; I shall be learned, and,
therefore, shall be honoured; every city will shout at my arrival, and
every student will solicit my friendship. Twenty years thus passed will
store my mind with images, which I shall be busy through the rest of my
life in combining and comparing. I shall revel in inexhaustible
accumulations of intellectual riches; I shall find new pleasures for
every moment, and shall never more be weary of myself. I will, however,
not deviate too far from the beaten track of life, but will try what can
be found in female delicacy. I will marry a wife beautiful as the
Houries, and wise as Zobeide; with her I will live twenty years within
the suburbs of Bagdat, in every pleasure that wealth can purchase and
fancy can invent. I will then retire to a rural dwelling, pass my last
days in obscurity and contemplation, and lie silently down on the bed of
death. Through my life it shall be my settled resolution, that I will
never depend upon the smile of princes; that I will never stand exposed
to the artifices of courts; I will never pant for publick honours, nor
disturb my quiet with affairs of state. Such was my scheme of life,
which I impressed indelibly upon my memory.

The first part of my ensuing time was to be spent in search of
knowledge; and I know not how I was diverted from my design. I had no
visible impediments without, nor any ungovernable passions within. I
regarded knowledge as the highest honour and the most engaging pleasure;
yet day stole upon day, and month glided after month, till I found that
seven years of the first ten had vanished, and left nothing behind them.
I now postponed my purpose of travelling; for why should I go abroad
while so much remained to be learned at home? I immured myself for four
years, and studied the laws of the empire. The fame of my skill reached
the judges; I was found able to speak upon doubtful questions, and was
commanded to stand at the footstool of the calif. I was heard with
attention, I was consulted with confidence, and the love of praise
fastened on my heart.

I still wished to see distant countries, listened with rapture to the
relations of travellers, and resolved some time to ask my dismission,
that I might feast my soul with novelty; but my presence was always
necessary, and the stream of business hurried me along. Sometimes I was
afraid lest I should be charged with ingratitude; but I still proposed
to travel, and, therefore, would, not confine myself by marriage.

In my fiftieth year I began to suspect that the time of travelling was
past, and thought it best to lay hold on the felicity yet in my power,
and indulge myself in domestick pleasures. But at fifty no man easily
finds a woman beautiful as the Houries, and wise as Zobeide. I inquired
and rejected, consulted and deliberated, till the sixty-second year made
me ashamed of gazing upon girls. I had now nothing left but retirement,
and for retirement I never found a time, till disease forced me from
publick employment.

Such was my scheme, and such has been its consequence. With an
insatiable thirst for knowledge, I trifled away the years of
improvement; with a restless desire of seeing different countries, I
have always resided in the same city; with the highest expectation of
connubial felicity, I have lived unmarried; and with unalterable
resolutions of contemplative retirement, I am going to die within the
walls of Bagdat.




No. 102. SATURDAY, MARCH 29, 1760.

It very seldom happens to man that his business is his pleasure. What is
done from necessity is so often to be done when against the present
inclination, and so often fills the mind with anxiety, that an habitual
dislike steals upon us, and we shrink involuntarily from the remembrance
of our task. This is the reason why almost every one wishes to quit his
employment; he does not like another state, but is disgusted with his
own.

From this unwillingness to perform more than is required of that which
is commonly performed with reluctance, it proceeds that few authors
write their own lives. Statesmen, courtiers, ladies, generals and seamen
have given to the world their own stories, and the events with which
their different stations have made them acquainted. They retired to the
closet as to a place of quiet and amusement, and pleased themselves with
writing, because they could lay down the pen whenever they were weary.
But the author, however conspicuous, or however important, either in the
publick eye or in his own, leaves his life to be related by his
successors, for he cannot gratify his vanity but by sacrificing his
ease.

It is commonly supposed that the uniformity of a studious life affords
no matter for a narration: but the truth is, that of the most studious
life a great part passes without study. An author partakes of the common
condition of humanity; he is born and married like another man; he has
hopes and fears, expectations and disappointments, griefs and joys, and
friends and enemies, like a courtier or a statesman; nor can I conceive
why his affairs should not excite curiosity as much as the whisper of a
drawing-room or the factions of a camp.

Nothing detains the reader's attention more powerfully than deep
involutions of distress, or sudden vicissitudes of fortune; and these
might be abundantly afforded by memoirs of the sons of literature. They
are entangled by contracts which they know not how to fulfil, and
obliged to write on subjects which they do not understand. Every
publication is a new period of time, from which some increase or
declension of fame is to be reckoned. The gradations of a hero's life
are from battle to battle, and of an author's from book to book.

Success and miscarriage have the same effects in all conditions. The
prosperous are feared, hated and flattered; and the unfortunate avoided,
pitied and despised. No sooner is a book published than the writer may
judge of the opinion of the world. If his acquaintance press round him
in publick places, or salute him from the other side of the street; if
invitations to dinner come thick upon him, and those with whom he dines
keep him to supper; if the ladies turn to him when his coat is plain,
and the footmen serve him with attention and alacrity; he may be sure
that his work has been praised by some leader of literary fashions.

Of declining reputation the symptoms are not less easily observed. If
the author enters a coffee-house, he has a box to himself; if he calls
at a bookseller's, the boy turns his back and, what is the most fatal of
all prognosticks, authors will visit him in a morning, and talk to him
hour after hour of the malevolence of criticks, the neglect of merit,
the bad taste of the age and the candour of posterity.

All this, modified and varied by accident and custom, would form very
amusing scenes of biography, and might recreate many a mind which is
very little delighted with conspiracies or battles, intrigues of a
court, or debates of a parliament; to this might be added all the
changes of the countenance of a patron, traced from the first glow which
flattery raises in his cheek, through ardour of fondness, vehemence of
promise, magnificence of praise, excuse of delay, and lamentation of
inability, to the last chill look of final dismission, when the one
grows weary of soliciting, and the other of hearing solicitation. Thus
copious are the materials which have been hitherto suffered to lie
neglected, while the repositories of every family that has produced a
soldier or a minister are ransacked, and libraries are crowded with
useless folios of state-papers which will never be read, and which
contribute nothing to valuable knowledge.

I hope the learned will be taught to know their own strength and their
value, and, instead of devoting their lives to the honour of those who
seldom thank them for their labours, resolve at last to do justice to
themselves.




No. 103. SATURDAY, APRIL 5, 1760.

  _Respicere ad longae jussit spatia ultima vitae_.   JUV. Sat. x. 275.

Much of the pain and pleasure of mankind arises from the conjectures
which every one makes of the thoughts of others; we all enjoy praise
which we do not hear, and resent contempt which we do not see. The Idler
may, therefore, be forgiven, if he suffers his imagination to represent
to him what his readers will say or think when they are informed that
they have now his last paper in their hands.

Value is more frequently raised by scarcity than by use. That which lay
neglected when it was common, rises in estimation as its quantity
becomes less. We seldom learn the true want of what we have till it is
discovered that we can have no more.

This essay will, perhaps, be read with care even by those who have not
yet attended to any other; and he that finds this late attention
recompensed, will not forbear to wish that he had bestowed it sooner.

Though the Idler and his readers have contracted no close friendship,
they are, perhaps, both unwilling to part. There are few things not
purely evil, of which we can say, without some emotion of uneasiness,
_this is the last_. Those who never could agree together, shed tears
when mutual discontent has determined them to final separation; of a
place which has been frequently visited, though without pleasure, the
last look is taken with heaviness of heart; and the Idler, with all his
chilness of tranquillity, is not wholly unaffected by the thought that
his last essay is now before him.

The secret horrour of the last is inseparable from a thinking being,
whose life is limited, and to whom death is dreadful. We always make a
secret comparison between a part and the whole; the termination of any
period of life reminds us that life itself has likewise its termination;
when we have done any thing for the last time, we involuntarily reflect
that a part of the days allotted us is past, and that as more is past
there is less remaining.

It is very happily and kindly provided, that in every life there are
certain pauses and interruptions, which force consideration upon the
careless, and seriousness upon the light; points of time where one
course of action ends, and another begins; and by vicissitudes of
fortune or alteration of employment, by change of place or loss of
friendship, we are forced to say of something, _this is the last_.

An even and unvaried tenour of life always hides from our apprehension
the approach of its end. Succession is not perceived but by variation;
he that lives to-day as he lived yesterday, and expects that, as the
present day is, such will be the morrow, easily conceives time as
running in a circle and returning to itself. The uncertainty of our
duration is impressed commonly by dissimilitude of condition; it is only
by finding life changeable that we are reminded of its shortness.

This conviction, however forcible at every new impression, is every
moment fading from the mind; and partly by the inevitable incursion of
new images, and partly by voluntary exclusion of unwelcome thoughts, we
are again exposed to the universal fallacy; and we must do another thing
for the last time, before we consider that the time is nigh when we
shall do no more.

As the last Idler is published in that solemn week which the Christian
world has always set apart for the examination of the conscience, the
review of life, the extinction of earthly desires, and the renovation of
holy purposes; I hope that my readers are already disposed to view every
incident with seriousness, and improve it by meditation; and that, when
they see this series of trifles brought to a conclusion, they will
consider that, by out-living the Idler, they have passed weeks, months
and years, which are now no longer in their power; that an end must in
time be put to every thing great as to every thing little; that to life
must come its last hour, and to this system of being its last day, the
hour at which probation ceases, and repentance will be vain; the day in
which every work of the hand, and imagination of the heart shall be
brought to judgment, and an everlasting futurity shall be determined by
the past[1].

[1] This most solemn and impressive paper may be profitably compared
    with the introduction of Bishop Heber's first Bampton-Lecture.




THE IDLER. No. 22[1]

Many naturalists are of opinion, that the animals which we commonly
consider as mute, have the power of imparting their thoughts to one
another. That they can express general sensations is very certain; every
being that can utter sounds, has a different voice for pleasure and for
pain. The hound informs his fellows when he scents his game; the hen
calls her chickens to their food by her cluck, and drives them from
danger by her scream.

Birds have the greatest variety of notes; they have, indeed, a variety,
which seems almost sufficient to make a speech adequate to the purposes
of a life which is regulated by instinct, and can admit little change or
improvement. To the cries of birds, curiosity or superstition has been
always attentive; many have studied the language of the feathered
tribes, and some have boasted that they understood it.

The most skilful or most confident interpreters of the sylvan dialogues
have been commonly found among the philosophers of the east, in a
country where the calmness of the air, and the mildness of the seasons,
allow the student to pass a great part of the year in groves and bowers.
But what may be done in one place by peculiar opportunities, may be
performed in another by peculiar diligence. A shepherd of Bohemia has,
by long abode in the forests, enabled himself to understand the voice of
birds; at least he relates with great confidence a story, of which the
credibility is left to be considered by the learned.

"As I was sitting" said he, "within a hollow rock, and watching my sheep
that fed in the valley, I heard two vultures interchangeably crying on
the summit of the cliff. Both voices were earnest and deliberate. My
curiosity prevailed over my care of the flock; I climbed slowly and
silently from crag to crag, concealed among the shrubs, till I found a
cavity where I might sit and listen without suffering or giving
disturbance."

"I soon perceived, that my labour would be well repaid; for an old
vulture was sitting on a naked prominence, with her young about her,
whom she was instructing in the arts of a vulture's life, and preparing,
by the last lecture, for their final dismission to the mountains and the
skies."

"My children," said the old vulture, "you will the less want my
instructions, because you have had my practice before your eyes; you
have seen me snatch from the farm the household fowl; you have seen me
seize the leveret in the bush, and the kid in the pasture; you know how
to fix your talons, and how to balance your flight when you are laden
with your prey. But you remember the taste of more delicious food; I
have often regaled you with the flesh of man." "Tell us," said the young
vultures, "where man may be found, and how he may be known; his flesh is
surely the natural food of a vulture. Why have you never brought a man
in your talons to the nest?" "He is too bulky," said the mother; "when
we find a man, we can only tear away his flesh, and leave his bones upon
the ground." "Since man is so big," said the young ones, "how do you
kill him? You are afraid of the wolf and of the bear, by what power are
vultures superior to man? is man more defenceless than a sheep?" "We
have not the strength of man," returned the mother, "and I am sometimes
in doubt whether we have the subtilty; and the vultures would seldom
feast upon his flesh, had not nature, that devoted him to our uses,
infused into him a strange ferocity, which I have never observed in any
other being that feeds upon the earth. Two herds of men will often meet
and shake the earth with noise, and fill the air with fire. When you
hear noise and see fire, with flashes along the ground, hasten to the
place with your swiftest wing, for men are surely destroying one
another; you will then find the ground smoking with blood, and covered
with carcasses, of which many are dismembered and mangled for the
convenience of the vulture." "But when men have killed their prey," said
the pupil, "why do they not eat it? When the wolf has killed a sheep, he
suffers not the vulture to touch it till he has satisfied himself. Is
not man another kind of wolf?" "Man," said the mother, "is the only
beast who kills that which he does not devour, and this quality makes
him so much a benefactor to our species." "If men kill our prey and lay
it in our way," said the young one, "what need shall we have of
labouring for ourselves?" "Because man will, sometimes," replied the
mother, "remain for a long time quiet in his den. The old vultures will
tell you when you are to watch his motions. When you see men in great
numbers moving close together, like a flock of storks, you may conclude
that they are hunting, and that you will soon revel in human blood."
"But still," said the young one, "I would gladly know the reason of this
mutual slaughter. I could never kill what I could not eat." "My child,"
said the mother, "this is a question which I cannot answer, though I am
reckoned the most subtle bird of the mountain. When I was young, I used
frequently to visit the aerie of an old vulture, who dwelt upon the
Carpathian rocks; he had made many observations; he knew the places that
afforded prey round his habitation; as far in every direction as the
strongest wing can fly between the rising and setting of the summer sun;
he had fed year after year on the entrails of men. His opinion was, that
men had only the appearance of animal life, being really vegetables with
a power of motion; and that as the boughs of an oak are dashed together
by the storm, that swine may fatten upon the fallen acorns, so men are
by some unaccountable power driven one against another, till they lose
their motion, that vultures may be fed. Others think they have observed
something of contrivance and policy among these mischievous beings; and
those that hover more closely round them, pretend, that there is, in
every herd, one that gives directions to the rest, and seems to be more
eminently delighted with a wide carnage. What it is that entitles him to
such preeminence we know not; he is seldom the biggest or the swiftest,
but he shows by his eagerness and diligence that he is, more than any of
the others, a friend to the vultures."

[1] This was the original No. 22, but on the republication of the work
    in volumes, Dr. Johnson substituted what now stands under that head.

END OF VOL. IV.














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