No More Learning

SATURDAY, MARCH 31, 1750.


_Simul et jucunda et idonea dicere vitæ. _
HOR. A. P. 334.

And join both profit and delight in one.
CREECH.


The works of fiction, with which the present generation seems more
particularly delighted, are such as exhibit life in its true state,
diversified only by accidents that daily happen in the world, and
influenced by passions and qualities which are really to be found in
conversing with mankind.

This kind of writing may be termed not improperly the comedy of romance,
and is to be conducted nearly by the rules of comick poetry. Its province
is to bring about natural events by easy means, and to keep up curiosity
without the help of wonder: it is therefore precluded from the machines
and expedients of the heroic romance, and can neither employ giants
to snatch away a lady from the nuptial rites, nor knights to bring her
back from captivity; it can neither bewilder its personages in deserts,
nor lodge them in imaginary castles.

I remember a remark made by Scaliger upon Pontanus, that all his writings
are filled with the same images; and that if you take from him his
lilies and his roses, his satyrs and his dryads, he will have nothing
left that can be called poetry. In like manner almost all the fictions
of the last age will vanish, if you deprive them of a hermit and a wood,
a battle and a shipwreck.

Why this wild strain of imagination found reception so long in polite
and learned ages, it is not easy to conceive; but we cannot wonder that
while readers could be procured, the authors were willing to continue it;
for when a man had by practice gained some fluency of language, he had
no further care than to retire to his closet, let loose his invention,
and heat his mind with incredibilities; a book was thus produced without
fear of criticism, without the toil of study, without knowledge of nature,
or acquaintance with life.

The task of our present writers is very different; it requires, together
with that learning which is to be gained from books, that experience which
can never be attained by solitary diligence, but must arise from general
converse and accurate observation of the living world. Their performances
have, as Horace expresses it, _plus oneris quantum veniæ minus_, little
indulgence, and therefore more difficulty. They are engaged in portraits
of which every one knows the original, and can detect any deviation
from exactness of resemblance. Other writings are safe, except from the
malice of learning, but these are in danger from every common reader;
as the slipper ill executed was censured by a shoemaker who happened to
stop in his way at the Venus of Apelles.

But the fear of not being approved as just copiers of human manners,
is not the most important concern that an author of this sort ought
to have before him. These books are written chiefly to the young, the
ignorant, and the idle, to whom they serve as lectures of conduct, and
introductions into life. They are the entertainment of minds unfurnished
with ideas, and therefore easily susceptible of impressions; not fixed
by principles, and therefore easily following the current of fancy; not
informed by experience, and consequently open to every false suggestion
and partial account.

That the highest degree of reverence should be paid to youth, and that
nothing indecent should be suffered to approach their eyes or ears,
are precepts extorted by sense and virtue from an ancient writer, by
no means eminent for chastity of thought. The same kind, though not
the same degree, of caution, is required in every thing which is laid
before them, to secure them from unjust prejudices, perverse opinions,
and incongruous combinations of images.

In the romances formerly written, every transaction and sentiment was so
remote from all that passes among men, that the reader was in very little
danger of making any applications to himself; the virtues and crimes
were equally beyond his sphere of activity; and he amused himself with
heroes and with traitors, deliverers and persecutors, as with beings of
another species, whose actions were regulated upon motives of their own,
and who had neither faults nor excellencies in common with himself.

But when an adventurer is levelled with the rest of the world, and acts
in such scenes of the universal drama, as may be the lot of any other man;
young spectators fix their eyes upon him with closer attention, and hope,
by observing his behaviour and success, to regulate their own practices,
when they shall be engaged in the like part.

For this reason these familiar histories may perhaps be made of greater
use than the solemnities of professed morality, and convey the knowledge
of vice and virtue with more efficacy than axioms and definitions. But if
the power of example is so great as to take possession of the memory by a
kind of violence, and produce effects almost without the intervention of
the will, care ought to be taken, that, when the choice is unrestrained,
the best examples only should be exhibited; and that which is likely
to operate so strongly, should not be mischievous or uncertain in its
effects.

The chief advantage which these fictions have over real life is, that
their authors are at liberty, though not to invent, yet to select objects,
and to cull from the mass of mankind, those individuals upon which the
attention ought most to be employed; as a diamond, though it cannot be
made, may be polished by art, and placed in such a situation, as to
display that lustre which before was buried among common stones.

It is justly considered as the greatest excellency of art, to imitate
nature; but it is necessary to distinguish those parts of nature,
which are most proper for imitation: greater care is still required in
representing life, which is so often discoloured by passion, or deformed
by wickedness. If the world be promiscuously described, I cannot see
of what use it can be to read the account; or why it may not be as safe
to turn the eye immediately upon mankind as upon a mirrour which shews
all that presents itself without discrimination.

It is therefore not a sufficient vindication of a character, that it is
drawn as it appears; for many characters ought never to be drawn: nor
of a narrative, that the train of events is agreeable to observation and
experience; for that observation which is called knowledge of the world,
will be found much more frequently to make men cunning than good. The
purpose of these writings is surely not only to shew mankind, but to
provide that they may be seen hereafter with less hazard; to teach the
means of avoiding the snares which are laid by Treachery for Innocence,
without infusing any wish for that superiority with which the betrayer
flatters his vanity; to give the power of counteracting fraud, without
the temptation to practise it; to initiate youth by mock encounters in
the art of necessary defence, and to increase prudence without impairing
virtue.

Many writers, for the sake of following nature, so mingle good and bad
qualities in their principal personages, that they are both equally
conspicuous; and as we accompany them through their adventures with
delight, and are led by degrees to interest ourselves in their favour,
we lose the abhorrence of their faults, because they do not hinder our
pleasure, or, perhaps, regard them with some kindness, for being united
with so much merit.

There have been men indeed splendidly wicked, whose endowments threw a
brightness on their crimes, and whom scarce any villany made perfectly
detestable, because they never could be wholly divested of their
excellencies; but such have been in all ages the great corrupters of
the world, and their resemblance ought no more to be preserved, than
the art of murdering without pain.

Some have advanced, without due attention to the consequences of
this notion, that certain virtues have their correspondent faults,
and therefore that to exhibit either apart is to deviate from
probability. Thus men are observed by Swift to be "grateful in the same
degree as they are resentful. " This principle, with others of the same
kind, supposes man to act from a brute impulse, and pursue a certain
degree of inclination, without any choice of the object; for, otherwise,
though it should be allowed that gratitude and resentment arise from
the same constitution of the passions, it follows not that they will be
equally indulged when reason is consulted; yet, unless that consequence
be admitted, this sagacious maxim becomes an empty sound, without any
relation to practice or to life.

Nor is it evident, that even the first motions to these effects are
always in the same proportion. For pride, which produces quickness of
resentment, will obstruct gratitude, by unwillingness to admit that
inferiority which obligation implies; and it is very unlikely that he
who cannot think he receives a favour, will acknowledge or repay it.
It is of the utmost importance to mankind, that positions of this tendency
should be laid open and confuted; for while men consider good and evil
as springing from the same root, they will spare the one for the sake of
the other, and in judging, if not of others at least of themselves, will
be apt to estimate their virtues by their vices. To this fatal errour all
those will contribute, who confound the colours of right and wrong, and,
instead of helping to settle their boundaries, mix them with so much art,
that no common mind is able to disunite them.

In narratives where historical veracity has no place, I cannot discover
why there should not be exhibited the most perfect idea of virtue; of
virtue not angelical, nor above probability, for what we cannot credit,
we shall never imitate, but the highest and purest that humanity can
reach, which, exercised in such trials as the various revolutions of
things shall bring upon it, may, by conquering some calamities, and
enduring others, teach us what we may hope, and what we can perform. Vice,
for vice is necessary to be shewn, should always disgust; nor should
the graces of gaiety, or the dignity of courage, be so united with it,
as to reconcile it to the mind. Wherever it appears, it should raise
hatred by the malignity of its practices, and contempt by the meanness
of its stratagems: for while it is supported by either parts or spirit,
it will be seldom heartily abhorred. The Roman tyrant was content to
be hated, if he was but feared; and there are thousands of the readers
of romances willing to be thought wicked, if they may be allowed to
be wits. It is therefore to be steadily inculcated, that virtue is the
highest proof of understanding, and the only solid basis of greatness;
and that vice is the natural consequence of narrow thoughts; that it
begins in mistake, and ends in ignominy[33].

[Footnote 33: This excellent paper was occasioned by the popularity of
Roderick Random, and Tom Jones, which appeared about this time, and have
been the models of that species of romance, now known by the more common
name of _Novel_. --C. ]




No. 5. TUESDAY, APRIL 3, 1750.


_Et nunc omnis ager, nunc omnis parturit arbos:_
_Nunc frondent silvæ: nunc formosissimus annus. _
VIRG. Ec. iii. v. 56.

Now ev'ry field, now ev'ry tree is green;
Now genial Nature's fairest face is seen.
ELPHINSTON.


Every man is sufficiently discontented with some circumstances of his
present state, to suffer his imagination to range more or less in quest
of future happiness, and to fix upon some point of time, in which, by
the removal of the inconvenience which now perplexes him, or acquisition
of the advantage which he at present wants, he shall find the condition
of his life very much improved.

When this time, which is too often expected with great impatience,
at last arrives, it generally comes without the blessing for which it
was desired; but we solace ourselves with some new prospect, and press
forward again with equal eagerness.

It is lucky for a man, in whom this temper prevails, when he turns his
hopes upon things wholly out of his own power; since he forbears then
to precipitate his affairs, for the sake of the great event that is to
complete his felicity, and waits for the blissful hour with less neglect
of the measures necessary to be taken in the mean time.

I have long known a person of this temper, who indulged his dream of
happiness with less hurt to himself than such chimerical wishes commonly
produce, and adjusted his scheme with such address, that his hopes were
in full bloom three parts of the year, and in the other part never
wholly blasted. Many, perhaps, would be desirous of learning by what
means he procured to himself such a cheap and lasting satisfaction. It
was gained by a constant practice of referring the removal of all his
uneasiness to the coming of the next spring; if his health was impaired,
the spring would restore it; if what he wanted was at a high price,
it would fall its value in the spring.

The spring indeed did often come without any of these effects, but he
was always certain that the next would be more propitious; nor was ever
convinced, that the present spring would fail him before the middle of
summer; for he always talked of the spring as coming till it was past,
and when it was once past, every one agreed with him that it was coming.

By long converse with this man, I am, perhaps, brought to feel immoderate
pleasure in the contemplation of this delightful season; but I have
the satisfaction of finding many whom it can be no shame to resemble,
infected with the same enthusiasm; for there is, I believe, scarce any
poet of eminence, who has not left some testimony of his fondness for the
flowers, the zephyrs, and the warblers of the spring. Nor has the most
luxuriant imagination been able to describe the serenity and happiness
of the golden age, otherwise than by giving a perpetual spring, as the
highest reward of uncorrupted innocence.

There is, indeed, something inexpressibly pleasing in the annual
renovation of the world, and the new display of the treasures of
nature. The cold and darkness of winter, with the naked deformity of
every object on which we turn our eyes, make us rejoice at the succeeding
season, as well for what we have escaped as for what we may enjoy;
and every budding flower, which a warm situation brings early to our
view, is considered by us as a messenger to notify the approach of more
joyous days.

The spring affords to a mind, so free from the disturbance of cares or
passions as to be vacant to calm amusements, almost every thing that
our present state makes us capable of enjoying. The variegated verdure
of the fields and woods, the succession of grateful odours, the voice
of pleasure pouring out its notes on every side, with the gladness
apparently conceived by every animal, from the growth of his food, and
the clemency of the weather, throw over the whole earth an air of gaiety,
significantly expressed by the smile of nature.

Yet there are men to whom these scenes are able to give no delight,
and who hurry away from all the varieties of rural beauty, to lose their
hours and divert their thoughts by cards or assemblies, a tavern dinner,
or the prattle of the day.

It may be laid down as a position which will seldom deceive, that when
a man cannot bear his own company, there is something wrong. He must
fly from himself, either because he feels a tediousness in life from the
equipoise of an empty mind, which, having no tendency to one motion more
than another, but as it is impelled by some external power, must always
have recourse to foreign objects; or he must be afraid of the intrusion
of some unpleasing ideas, and perhaps is struggling to escape from the
remembrance of a loss, the fear of a calamity, or some other thought of
greater horrour.

Those whom sorrow incapacitates to enjoy the pleasures of contemplation,
may properly apply to such diversions, provided they are innocent, as
lay strong hold on the attention; and those, whom fear of any future
affliction chains down to misery, must endeavour to obviate the danger.

My considerations shall, on this occasion, be turned on such as
are burthensome to themselves merely because they want subjects for
reflection, and to whom the volume of nature is thrown open without
affording them pleasure or instruction, because they never learned to
read the characters.

A French author has advanced this seeming paradox, that _very few men
know how to take a walk_; and, indeed, it is true, that few know how to
take a walk with a prospect of any other pleasure, than the same company
would have afforded them at home.

There are animals that borrow their colour from the neighbouring body,
and consequently vary their hue as they happen to change their place.
In like manner it ought to be the endeavour of every man to derive his
reflections from the objects about him; for it is to no purpose that
he alters his position, if his attention continues fixed to the same
point. The mind should be kept open to the access of every new idea,
and so far disengaged from the predominance of particular thoughts,
as easily to accommodate itself to occasional entertainment.

A man that has formed this habit of turning every new object to his
entertainment, finds in the productions of nature an inexhaustible stock
of materials upon which he can employ himself, without any temptations to
envy or malevolence; faults, perhaps, seldom totally avoided by those,
whose judgment is much exercised upon the works of art. He has always
a certain prospect of discovering new reasons for adoring the sovereign
Author of the universe, and probable hopes of making some discovery of
benefit to others, or of profit to himself. There is no doubt but many
vegetables and animals have qualities that might be of great use, to the
knowledge of which there is not required much force of penetration, or
fatigue of study, but only frequent experiments, and close attention.
What is said by the chemists of their darling mercury, is, perhaps,
true of every body through the whole creation, that if a thousand lives
should be spent upon it, all its properties would not be found out.

Mankind must necessarily be diversified by various tastes, since life
affords and requires such multiplicity of employments, and a nation of
naturalists is neither to be hoped, nor desired; but it is surely not
improper to point out a fresh amusement to those who languish in health,
and repine in plenty, for want of some source of diversion that may
be less easily exhausted, and to inform the multitudes of both sexes,
who are burdened with every new day, that there are many shows which
they have not seen.

He that enlarges his curiosity after the works of nature, demonstrably
multiplies the inlets to happiness; and, therefore, the younger part
of my readers, to whom I dedicate this vernal speculation, must excuse
me for calling upon them, to make use at once of the spring of the year,
and the spring of life; to acquire, while their minds may be yet impressed
with new images, a love of innocent pleasures, and an ardour for useful
knowledge; and to remember, that a blighted spring makes a barren year,
and that the vernal flowers, however beautiful and gay, are only intended
by nature as preparatives to autumnal fruits.




No. 6. SATURDAY, APRIL 7, 1750.


_Strenua nos exercet inertia, navibus atque_
_Quadrigis petimus bene vicere: quod petis, hic est;_
_Est Ulubris, animus si te non deficit æquus. _
HOR. Ep. xi. lib. i.

Active in indolence, abroad we roam
In quest of happiness which dwells at home:
With vain pursuits fatigu'd, at length you'll find,
No place excludes it from an equal mind.
ELPHINSTON.


That man should never suffer his happiness to depend upon external
circumstances, is one of the chief precepts of the Stoical philosophy; a
precept, indeed, which that lofty sect has extended beyond the condition
of human life, and in which some of them seem to have comprised an
utter exclusion of all corporal pain and pleasure from the regard or
attention of a wise man.

Such _sapientia insaniens_, as Horace calls the doctrine of another sect,
such extravagance of philosophy, can want neither authority nor argument
for its confutation; it is overthrown by the experience of every hour,
and the powers of nature rise up against it. But we may very properly
inquire, how near to this exalted state it is in our power to approach,
how far we can exempt ourselves from outward influences, and secure to
our minds a state of tranquillity: for, though the boast of absolute
independence is ridiculous and vain, yet a mean flexibility to every
impulse, and a patient submission to the tyranny of casual troubles,
is below the dignity of that mind, which, however depraved or weakened,
boasts its derivation from a celestial original, and hopes for an union
with infinite goodness, and unvariable felicity.

_Ni vitiis pejora fovens_
_Proprium deserat ortum. _

Unless the soul, to vice a thrall,
Desert her own original.

The necessity of erecting ourselves to some degree of intellectual
dignity, and of preserving resources of pleasure, which may not be
wholly at the mercy of accident, is never more apparent than when we turn
our eyes upon those whom fortune has let loose to their own conduct;
who, not being chained down by their condition to a regular and stated
allotment of their hours, are obliged to find themselves business or
diversion, and having nothing within that can entertain or employ them,
are compelled to try all the arts of destroying time.

The numberless expedients practised by this class of mortals to alleviate
the burthen of life, are not less shameful, nor, perhaps, much less
pitiable, than those to which a trader on the edge of bankruptcy
is reduced. I have seen melancholy overspread a whole family at the
disappointment of a party for cards; and when, after the proposal of a
thousand schemes, and the dispatch of the footman upon a hundred messages,
they have submitted, with gloomy resignation, to the misfortune of passing
one evening in conversation with each other; on a sudden, such are the
revolutions of the world, an unexpected visitor has brought them relief,
acceptable as provision to a starving city, and enabled them to hold
out till the next day.

The general remedy of those, who are uneasy without knowing the cause,
is change of place; they are willing to imagine that their pain is
the consequence of some local inconvenience, and endeavour to fly
from it, as children from their shadows; always hoping for some more
satisfactory delight from every new scene, and always returning home
with disappointment and complaints.

Who can look upon this kind of infatuation, without reflecting on those
that suffer under the dreadful symptom of canine madness, termed by
physicians the _dread of water_? These miserable wretches, unable to
drink, though burning with thirst, are sometimes known to try various
contortions, or inclinations of the body, flattering themselves that
they can swallow in one posture that liquor which they find in another
to repel their lips.

Yet such folly is not peculiar to the thoughtless or ignorant, but
sometimes seizes those minds which seem most exempted from it, by the
variety of attainments, quickness of penetration, or severity of judgment;
and, indeed, the pride of wit and knowledge is often mortified by
finding that they confer no security against the common errours, which
mislead the weakest and meanest of mankind.

These reflections arose in my mind upon the remembrance of a passage
in Cowley's preface to his poems, where, however exalted by genius,
and enlarged by study, he informs us of a scheme of happiness to which
the imagination of a girl upon the loss of her first lover could have
scarcely given way; but which he seems to have indulged, till he had
totally forgotten its absurdity, and would probably have put in execution,
had he been hindered only by his reason.

"My desire," says he, "has been for some years past, though the execution
has been accidentally diverted, and does still vehemently continue, to
retire myself to some of our American plantations, not to seek for gold,
or enrich myself with the traffick of those parts, which is the end of
most men that travel thither; but to forsake this world for ever, with all
the vanities and vexations of it, and to bury myself there in some obscure
retreat, but not without the consolation of letters and philosophy. "

Such was the chimerical provision which Cowley had made in his own mind,
for the quiet of his remaining life, and which he seems to recommend
to posterity, since there is no other reason for disclosing it. Surely
no stronger instance can be given of a persuasion that content was
the inhabitant of particular regions, and that a man might set sail
with a fair wind, and leave behind him all his cares, incumbrances,
and calamities.

If he travelled so far with no other purpose than to _bury himself
in some obscure retreat_, he might have found, in his own country,
innumerable coverts sufficiently dark to have concealed the genius of
Cowley; for whatever might be his opinion of the importunity with which
he might be summoned back into publick life, a short experience would
have convinced him, that privation is easier than acquisition, and that
it would require little continuance to free himself from the intrusion
of the world. There is pride enough in the human heart to prevent much
desire of acquaintance with a man, by whom we are sure to be neglected,
however his reputation for science or virtue may excite our curiosity
or esteem; so that the lover of retirement needs not be afraid lest the
respect of strangers should overwhelm him with visits. Even those to whom
he has formerly been known, will very patiently support his absence when
they have tried a little to live without him, and found new diversions
for those moments which his company contributed to exhilarate.

It was, perhaps, ordained by Providence, to hinder us from tyrannizing
over one another, that no individual should be of such importance, as to
cause, by his retirement or death, any chasm in the world. And Cowley had
conversed to little purpose with mankind, if he had never remarked, how
soon the useful friend, the gay companion, and the favoured lover, when
once they are removed from before the sight, give way to the succession
of new objects.

The privacy, therefore, of his hermitage might have been safe enough
from violation, though he had chosen it within the limits of his native
island; he might have found here preservatives against the _vanities_
and _vexations_ of the world, not less efficacious than those which
the woods or fields of America could afford him: but having once his
mind imbittered with disgust, he conceived it impossible to be far
enough from the cause of his uneasiness; and was posting away with the
expedition of a coward, who, for want of venturing to look behind him,
thinks the enemy perpetually at his heels.

When he was interrupted by company, or fatigued with business, he
so strongly imaged to himself the happiness of leisure and retreat,
that he determined to enjoy them for the future without interruption,
and to exclude for ever all that could deprive him of his darling
satisfactions. He forgot, in the vehemence of desire, that solitude and
quiet owe their pleasures to those miseries, which he was so studious
to obviate: for such are the vicissitudes of the world, through all
its parts, that day and night, labour and rest, hurry and retirement,
endear each other; such are the changes that keep the mind in action;
we desire, we pursue, we obtain, we are satiated; we desire something
else, and begin a new pursuit.

If he had proceeded in his project, and fixed his habitation in the most
delightful part of the new world, it may be doubted, whether his distance
from the _vanities_ of life, would have enabled him to keep away the
_vexations_. It is common for a man, who feels pain, to fancy that he
could bear it better in any other part. Cowley having known the troubles
and perplexities of a particular condition, readily persuaded himself
that nothing worse was to be found, and that every alteration would bring
some improvement: he never suspected that the cause of his unhappiness
was within, that his own passions were not sufficiently regulated, and
that he was harassed by his own impatience, which could never be without
something to awaken it, would accompany him over the sea, and find its
way to his American elysium. He would, upon the trial, have been soon
convinced, that the fountain of content must spring up in the mind: and
that he who has so little knowledge of human nature, as to seek happiness
by changing any thing but his own dispositions, will waste his life in
fruitless efforts, and multiply the griefs which he purposes to remove[34].

[Footnote 34: See Dr. Johnson's Life of Cowley. ]




No. 7. TUESDAY, APRIL 10, 1750.


_O qui perpetuâ mundum ratione gubernas,_
_Terrarum cœlique sator! ----_
_Disjice terrenæ nebulas et pondera molis,_
_Atque tuo splendore mica! Tu namque serenum,_
_Tu requies tranquilla piis. Te cernere, finis,_
_Principium, vector, dux, semila, terminus idem. _
BOETHIUS, lib. iii. Metr. 9.

O Thou, whose pow'r o'er moving worlds presides,
Whose voice created, and whose wisdom guides,
On darkling man in pure effulgence shine,
And cheer the clouded mind with light divine.
'Tis thine alone to calm the pious breast
With silent confidence and holy rest:
From thee, great God, we spring, to thee we tend,
Path, motive, guide, original, and end.
JOHNSON.


The love of Retirement has, in all ages, adhered closely to those minds,
which have been most enlarged by knowledge, or elevated by genius. Those
who have enjoyed every thing generally supposed to confer happiness,
have been forced to seek it in the shades of privacy. Though they
possessed both power and riches, and were, therefore, surrounded by men
who considered it as their chief interest to remove from them every thing
that might offend their ease, or interrupt their pleasure, they have soon
felt the languors of satiety, and found themselves unable to pursue the
race of life without frequent respirations of intermediate solitude.

To produce this disposition, nothing appears requisite but a quick
sensibility, and active imagination; for, though not devoted to virtue,
or science, the man, whose faculties enable him to make ready comparisons
of the present with the past, will find such a constant recurrence of the
same pleasures and troubles, the same expectations and disappointments,
that he will gladly snatch an hour of retreat, to let his thoughts
expatiate at large, and seek for that variety in his own ideas, which
the objects of sense cannot afford him.

Nor will greatness, or abundance, exempt him from the importunities of
this desire, since, if he is born to think, he cannot restrain himself
from a thousand inquiries and speculations, which he must pursue by his
own reason, and which the splendour of his condition can only hinder:
for those who are most exalted above dependance or controul, are yet
condemned to pay so large a tribute of their time to custom, ceremony,
and popularity, that, according to the Greek proverb, no man in the
house is more a slave than the master.

When a king asked Euclid, the mathematician, whether he could not
explain his art to him in a more compendious manner? he was answered,
that there was no royal way to geometry. Other things may be seized by
might, or purchased with money, but knowledge is to be gained only by
study, and study to be prosecuted only in retirement.

These are some of the motives which have had power to sequester kings and
heroes from the crowds that soothed them with flatteries, or inspirited
them with acclamations; but their efficacy seems confined to the higher
mind, and to operate little upon the common classes of mankind, to whose
conceptions the present assemblage of things is adequate, and who seldom
range beyond those entertainments and vexations, which solicit their
attention by pressing on their senses.

But there is an universal reason for some stated intervals of solitude,
which the institutions of the church call upon me now especially to
mention; a reason which extends as wide as moral duty, or the hopes of
divine favour in a future state; and which ought to influence all ranks
of life, and all degrees of intellect; since none can imagine themselves
not comprehended in its obligation, but such as determine to set their
Maker at defiance by obstinate wickedness, or whose enthusiastick security
of his approbation places them above external ordinances, and all human
means of improvement.

The great task of him who conducts his life by the precepts of religion,
is to make the future predominate over the present, to impress upon his
mind so strong a sense of the importance of obedience to the divine will,
of the value of the reward promised to virtue, and the terrours of the
punishment denounced against crimes, as may overbear all the temptations
which temporal hope or fear can bring in his way, and enable him to
bid equal defiance to joy and sorrow, to turn away at one time from
the allurements of ambition, and push forward at another against the
threats of calamity.

It is not without reason that the apostle represents our passage through
this stage of our existence by images drawn from the alarms and solicitude
of a military life; for we are placed in such a state, that almost every
thing about us conspires against our chief interest. We are in danger
from whatever can get possession of our thoughts; all that can excite
in us either pain or pleasure, has a tendency to obstruct the way that
leads to happiness, and either to turn us aside, or retard our progress.

Our senses, our appetites, and our passions, are our lawful and faithful
guides, in most things that relate solely to this life; and, therefore,
by the hourly necessity of consulting them, we gradually sink into an
implicit submission, and habitual confidence. Every act of compliance
with their motions facilitates a second compliance, every new step
towards depravity is made with less reluctance than the former, and thus
the descent to life merely sensual is perpetually accelerated.

The senses have not only that advantage over conscience, which things
necessary must always have over things chosen, but they have likewise a
kind of prescription in their favour. We feared pain much earlier than
we apprehended guilt, and were delighted with the sensations of pleasure,
before we had capacities to be charmed with the beauty of rectitude. To
this power, thus early established, and incessantly increasing, it
must be remembered that almost every man has, in some part of his life,
added new strength by a voluntary or negligent subjection of himself;
for who is there that has not instigated his appetites by indulgence,
or suffered them, by an unresisting neutrality, to enlarge their
dominion, and multiply their demands?

From the necessity of dispossessing the sensitive faculties of the
influence which they must naturally gain by this pre-occupation of
the soul, arises that conflict between opposite desires in the first
endeavours after a religious life; which, however enthusiastically it may
have been described, or however contemptuously ridiculed, will naturally
be felt in some degree, though varied without end, by different tempers
of mind, and innumerable circumstances of health or condition, greater
or less fervour, more or fewer temptations to relapse.

From the perpetual necessity of consulting the animal faculties, in our
provision for the present life, arises the difficulty of withstanding
their impulses, even in cases where they ought to be of no weight; for
the motions of sense are instantaneous, its objects strike unsought,
we are accustomed to follow its directions, and therefore often submit
to the sentence without examining the authority of the judge.

Thus it appears, upon a philosophical estimate, that, supposing the mind,
at any certain time, in an equipois between the pleasures of this life,
and the hopes of futurity, present objects falling more frequently
into the scale, would in time preponderate, and that our regard for an
invisible state would grow every moment weaker, till at last it would
lose all its activity, and become absolutely without effect.

To prevent this dreadful event, the balance is put into our own hands,
and we have power to transfer the weight to either side. The motives to
a life of holiness are infinite, not less than the favour or anger of
Omnipotence, not less than eternity of happiness or misery. But these can
only influence our conduct as they gain our attention, which the business
or diversions of the world are always calling off by contrary attractions.

The great art therefore of piety, and the end for which all the rites
of religion seem to be instituted, is the perpetual renovation of
the motives to virtue, by a voluntary employment of our mind in the
contemplation of its excellence, its importance, and its necessity, which,
in proportion as they are more frequently and more willingly revolved,
gain a more forcible and permanent influence, till in time they become
the reigning ideas, the standing principles of action, and the test by
which every thing proposed to the judgment is rejected or approved.

To facilitate this change of our affections, it is necessary that we
weaken the temptations of the world, by retiring at certain seasons from
it; for its influence, arising only from its presence, is much lessened
when it becomes the object of solitary meditation. A constant residence
amidst noise and pleasure, inevitably obliterates the impressions of
piety, and a frequent abstraction of ourselves into a state, where this
life, like the next, operates only upon the reason, will reinstate
religion in its just authority, even without those irradiations from
above, the hope of which I have no intention to withdraw from the sincere
and the diligent.

This is that conquest of the world and of ourselves, which has been
always considered as the perfection of human nature; and this is only
to be obtained by fervent prayer, steady resolutions, and frequent
retirement from folly and vanity, from the cares of avarice, and the
joys of intemperance, from the lulling sounds of deceitful flattery,
and the tempting sight of prosperous wickedness.




No. 8. SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 1750.


_----Patitur pœnas peccandi sola voluntas;_
_Nam scelus intra se tacitum qui cogitat ullum,_
_Facti crimen habet. _
JUV. Sat. xiii. 208.

For he that but conceives a crime in thought,
Contracts the danger of an actual fault.
CREECH.


If the most active and industrious of mankind was able, at the close of
life, to recollect distinctly his past moments, and distribute them in a
regular account, according to the manner in which they have been spent,
it is scarcely to be imagined how few would be marked out to the mind,
by any permanent or visible effects, how small a proportion his real
action would bear to his seeming possibilities of action, how many chasms
he would find of wide and continued vacuity, and how many interstitial
spaces unfilled, even in the most tumultuous hurries of business, and
the most eager vehemence of pursuit.

It is said by modern philosophers, that not only the great globes
of matter are thinly scattered through the universe, but the hardest
bodies are so porous, that, if all matter were compressed to perfect
solidity, it might be contained in a cube of a few feet. In like manner,
if all the employments of life were crowded into the time which it really
occupied, perhaps a few weeks, days, or hours, would be sufficient for its
accomplishment, so far as the mind was engaged in the performance. For
such is the inequality of our corporeal to our intellectual faculties,
that we contrive in minutes what we execute in years, and the soul often
stands an idle spectator of the labour of the hands, and expedition of
the feet.

For this reason the ancient generals often found themselves at leisure to
pursue the study of philosophy in the camp; and Lucan, with historical
veracity, makes Cæsar relate of himself, that he noted the revolutions
of the stars in the midst of preparations for battle.

_----Media inter prœlia semper_
_Stellarum, cœlique plagis, superisque vacavi. _
LUCAN, l. x. 186.

Amid the storms of war, with curious eyes
I trace the planets and survey the skies.

That the soul always exerts her peculiar powers, with greater or less
force, is very probable, though the common occasions of our present
condition require but a small part of that incessant cogitation; and by
the natural frame of our bodies, and general combination of the world,
we are so frequently condemned to inactivity, that as though all our
time we are thinking, so for a great part of our time we can only think.

Lest a power so restless should be either unprofitably or hurtfully
employed, and the superfluities of intellect run to waste, it is no vain
speculation to consider how we may govern our thoughts, restrain them
from irregular motions, or confine them from boundless dissipation.

How the understanding is best conducted to the knowledge of science,
by what steps it is to be led forwards in its pursuit, how it is to be
cured of its defects, and habituated to new studies, has been the inquiry
of many acute and learned men, whose observations I shall not either
adopt or censure: my purpose being to consider the moral discipline of
the mind, and to promote the increase of virtue rather than of learning.

This inquiry seems to have been neglected for want of remembering, that
all action has its origin in the mind, and that therefore to suffer
the thoughts to be vitiated, is to poison the fountains of morality;
irregular desires will produce licentious practices; what men allow
themselves to wish they will soon believe, and will be at last incited
to execute what they please themselves with contriving.

For this reason the casuists of the Roman church, who gain, by confession,
great opportunities of knowing human nature, have generally determined
that what it is a crime to do, it is a crime to think[35]. Since by
revolving with pleasure the facility, safety, or advantage of a wicked
deed, a man soon begins to find his constancy relax, and his detestation
soften; the happiness of success glittering before him, withdraws his
attention from the atrociousness of the guilt, and acts are at last
confidently perpetrated, of which the first conception only crept into
the mind, disguised in pleasing complications, and permitted rather
than invited.

No man has ever been drawn to crimes by love or jealousy, envy or
hatred, but he can tell how easily he might at first have repelled the
temptation, how readily his mind would have obeyed a call to any other
object, and how weak his passion has been after some casual avocation,
till he has recalled it again to his heart, and revived the viper by
too warm a fondness.

Such, therefore, is the importance of keeping reason a constant guard
over imagination, that we have otherwise no security for our own virtue,
but may corrupt our hearts in the most recluse solitude, with more
pernicious and tyrannical appetites and wishes than the commerce of the
world will generally produce; for we are easily shocked by crimes which
appear at once in their full magnitude; but the gradual growth of our
own wickedness, endeared by interest, and palliated by all the artifices
of self-deceit, gives us time to form distinctions in our own favour,
and reason by degrees submits to absurdity, as the eye is in time
accommodated to darkness.

In this disease of the soul, it is of the utmost importance to apply
remedies at the beginning; and therefore I shall endeavour to shew what
thoughts are to be rejected or improved, as they regard the past, present,
or future; in hopes that some may be awakened to caution and vigilance,
who, perhaps, indulge themselves in dangerous dreams, so much the more
dangerous, because, being yet only dreams, they are concluded innocent.

The recollection of the past is only useful by way of provision for the
future; and, therefore, in reviewing all occurrences that fall under a
religious consideration, it is proper that a man stop at the first
thoughts, to remark how he was led thither, and why he continues the
reflection.
If he is dwelling with delight upon a stratagem of successful
fraud, a night of licentious riot, or an intrigue of guilty pleasure,
let him summon off his imagination as from an unlawful pursuit, expel
those passages from his remembrance, of which, though he cannot seriously
approve them, the pleasure overpowers the guilt, and refer them to
a future hour, when they may be considered with greater safety. Such
an hour will certainly come; for the impressions of past pleasure are
always lessening, but the sense of guilt, which respects futurity,
continues the same.

The serious and impartial retrospect of our conduct, is indisputably
necessary to the confirmation or recovery of virtue, and is, therefore,
recommended under the name of self-examination, by divines, as the first
act previous to repentance. It is, indeed, of so great use, that without
it we should always be to begin life, be seduced for ever by the same
allurements, and misled by the same fallacies. But in order that we
may not lose the advantage of our experience, we must endeavour to see
every thing in its proper form, and excite in ourselves those sentiments,
which the great Author of nature has decreed the concomitants or followers
of good and bad actions.

Μηδ' ὑπνον μαλακοισιν επ' ομμασι προσδεξασθαι,
Πριν των ἡμερινων εργων τρις ἑκαστον επελθειν·
Πηι παρεβην; τι δ' ερεξα; τι μοι δεον ουκ ετελεσθη;
Αρξαμενος δ' απο πρωτου επεξιθι; και μετεπειτα,
Δειλα μεν εκπρηξας, επιπλησσεο, χρηστα δε, τερπου.

Let not sleep (says Pythagoras) fall upon thy eyes till thou
hast thrice reviewed the transactions of the past day. Where have
I turned aside from rectitude? What have I been doing? What have
I left undone, which I ought to have done? Begin thus from the
first act, and proceed; and in conclusion, at the ill which thou
hast done be troubled, and rejoice for the good.

Our thoughts on present things being determined by the objects before us,
fall not under those indulgences or excursions, which I am now considering.
But I cannot forbear, under this head, to caution pious and tender minds,
that are disturbed by the irruptions of wicked imaginations, against too
great dejection, and too anxious alarms; for thoughts are only criminal,
when they are first chosen, and then voluntarily continued.

Evil into the mind of God or man
May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave
No spot or stain behind.
MILTON.

In futurity chiefly are the snares lodged, by which the imagination
is entangled. Futurity is the proper abode of hope and fear, with all
their train and progeny of subordinate apprehensions and desires. In
futurity, events and chances are yet floating at large, without apparent
connexion with their causes, and we therefore easily indulge the liberty
of gratifying ourselves with a pleasing choice. To pick and cull among
possible advantages is, as the civil law terms it, _in vacuum venire_,
to take what belongs to nobody; but it has this hazard in it, that we
shall be unwilling to quit what we have seized, though an owner should be
found. It is easy to think on that which may be gained, till at last we
resolve to gain it, and to image the happiness of particular conditions,
till we can be easy in no other. We ought, at least, to let our desires
fix upon nothing in another's power for the sake of our quiet, or in
another's possession for the sake of our innocence. When a man finds
himself led, though by a train of honest sentiments, to wish for that to
which he has no right, he should start back as from a pitfall covered
with flowers. He that fancies he should benefit the publick more in a
great station than the man that fills it, will in time imagine it an
act of virtue to supplant him; and as opposition readily kindles into
hatred, his eagerness to do that good, to which he is not called, will
betray him to crimes, which in his original scheme were never proposed.

He therefore that would govern his actions by the laws of virtue, must
regulate his thoughts by those of reason; he must keep guilt from the
recesses of his heart, and remember that the pleasures of fancy, and
the emotions of desire, are more dangerous as they are more hidden,
since they escape the awe of observation, and operate equally in every
situation, without the concurrence of external opportunities.

[Footnote 35: This was determined before their time. See Matt. ch. v.
ver. 28. --C. ]




No. 9. TUESDAY, APRIL 17, 1750.


_Quod sis esse velis, nihilque malis. _
MART. lib. x. Ep. xlvii. 12.

Choose what you are; no other state prefer.
ELPHINSTON.


It is justly remarked by Horace, that howsoever every man may complain
occasionally of the hardships of his condition, he is seldom willing
to change it for any other on the same level: for whether it be that
he, who follows an employment, made choice of it at first on account
of its suitableness to his inclination; or that when accident, or the
determination of others, have placed him in a particular station, he,
by endeavouring to reconcile himself to it, gets the custom of viewing
it only on the fairest side; or whether every man thinks that class to
which he belongs the most illustrious, merely because he has honoured
it with his name; it is certain that, whatever be the reason, most men
have a very strong and active prejudice in favour of their own vocation,
always working upon their minds, and influencing their behaviour.

This partiality is sufficiently visible in every rank of the human
species; but it exerts itself more frequently and with greater force
among those who have never learned to conceal their sentiments for reasons
of policy, or to model their expressions by the laws of politeness; and
therefore the chief contests of wit among artificers and handicraftsmen
arise from a mutual endeavour to exalt one trade by depreciating another.

From the same principles are derived many consolations to alleviate the
inconveniences to which every calling is peculiarly exposed. A blacksmith
was lately pleasing himself at his anvil, with observing that, though
his trade was hot and sooty, laborious and unhealthy, yet he had the
honour of living by his hammer, he got his bread like a man, and if his
son should rise in the world, and keep his coach, nobody could reproach
him that his father was a tailor.

A man, truly zealous for his fraternity, is never so irresistibly
flattered, as when some rival calling is mentioned with contempt. Upon
this principle a linen-draper boasted that he had got a new customer,
whom he could safely trust, for he could have no doubt of his honesty,
since it was known, from unquestionable authority, that he was now filing
a bill in chancery to delay payment for the clothes which he had worn
the last seven years; and he himself had heard him declare, in a public
coffee-house, that he looked upon the whole generation of woollen-drapers
to be such despicable wretches, that no gentleman ought to pay them.

It has been observed that physicians and lawyers are no friends to
religion; and many conjectures have been formed to discover the reason
of such a combination between men who agree in nothing else, and who
seem less to be affected, in their own provinces, by religious opinions,
than any other part of the community. The truth is, very few of them
have thought about religion; but they have all seen a parson; seen him
in a habit different from their own, and therefore declared war against
him. A young student from the inns of court, who has often attacked the
curate of his father's parish with such arguments as his acquaintances
could furnish, and returned to town without success, is now gone down
with a resolution to destroy him; for he has learned at last how to
manage a prig, and if he pretends to hold him again to syllogism, he
has a catch in reserve, which neither logick nor metaphysicks can resist:

I laugh to think how your unshaken Cato
Will look aghast, when unforeseen destruction
Pours in upon him thus.
CATO, Act. ii. Sc. 6.

The malignity of soldiers and sailors against each other has been
often experienced at the cost of their country; and, perhaps, no orders
of men have an enmity of more acrimony, or longer continuance. When,
upon our late successes at sea, some new regulations were concerted
for establishing the rank of the naval commanders, a captain of foot
very acutely remarked, that nothing was more absurd than to give any
honorary rewards to seamen, "for honour," says he, "ought only to be
won by bravery, and all the world knows that in a sea-fight there is no
danger, and therefore no evidence of courage. "

But although this general desire of aggrandizing themselves, by raising
their profession, betrays men to a thousand ridiculous and mischievous
acts of supplantation and detraction, yet as almost all passions have
their good as well as bad effects, it likewise excites ingenuity, and
sometimes raises an honest and useful emulation of diligence. It may be
observed in general, that no trade had ever reached the excellence to
which it is now improved, had its professors looked upon it with the eyes
of indifferent spectators; the advances, from the first rude essays,
must have been made by men who valued themselves for performances,
for which scarce any other would be persuaded to esteem them.

It is pleasing to contemplate a manufacture rising gradually from its
first mean state by the successive labours of innumerable minds; to
consider the first hollow trunk of an oak, in which, perhaps, the shepherd
could scarce venture to cross a brook swelled with a shower, enlarged
at last into a ship of war, attacking fortresses, terrifying nations,
setting storms and billows at defiance, and visiting the remotest parts of
the globe. And it might contribute to dispose us to a kinder regard for
the labours of one another, if we were to consider from what unpromising
beginnings the most useful productions of art have probably arisen. Who,
when he saw the first sand or ashes, by a casual intenseness of heat,
melted into a metalline form, rugged with excrescences, and clouded
with impurities, would have imagined, that in this shapeless lump lay
concealed so many conveniences of life, as would in time constitute a
great part of the happiness of the world? Yet by some such fortuitous
liquefaction was mankind taught to procure a body at once in a high
degree solid and transparent, which might admit the light of the sun,
and exclude the violence of the wind; which might extend the sight of
the philosopher to new ranges of existence, and charm him at one time
with the unbounded extent of the material creation, and at another
with the endless subordination of animal life; and, what is yet of
more importance, might supply the decays of nature, and succour old age
with subsidiary sight. Thus was the first artificer in glass employed,
though without his own knowledge or expectation. He was facilitating
and prolonging the enjoyment of light, enlarging the avenues of science,
and conferring the highest and most lasting pleasures; he was enabling
the student to contemplate nature, and the beauty to behold herself.

This passion for the honour of a profession, like that for the grandeur
of our own country, is to be regulated, not extinguished. Every man,
from the highest to the lowest station, ought to warm his heart, and
animate his endeavours with the hopes of being useful to the world, by
advancing the art which it is his lot to exercise, and for that end he
must necessarily consider the whole extent of its application, and the
whole weight of its importance. But let him not too readily imagine that
another is ill employed, because, for want of fuller knowledge of his
business, he is not able to comprehend its dignity. Every man ought to
endeavour at eminence, not by pulling others down, but by raising himself,
and enjoy the pleasure of his own superiority, whether imaginary or real,
without interrupting others in the same felicity. The philosopher may
very justly be delighted with the extent of his views, and the artificer
with the readiness of his hands; but let the one remember, that, without
mechanical performances, refined speculation is an empty dream, and the
other, that, without theoretical reasoning, dexterity is little more
than a brute instinct.




No. 10. SATURDAY, APRIL 21, 1750.


_Posthabui tamen illorum mea seria ludo. _
VIRG. Ec. vii. 17.

For trifling sports I quitted grave affairs.


The number of correspondents which increases every day upon me, shews
that my paper is at least distinguished from the common productions of
the press. It is no less a proof of eminence to have many enemies than
many friends, and I look upon every letter, whether it contains encomiums
or reproaches, as an equal attestation of rising credit. The only pain,
which I can feel from my correspondence, is the fear of disgusting those,
whose letters I shall neglect; and therefore I take this opportunity of
reminding them, that in disapproving their attempts, whenever it may
happen, I only return the treatment which I often receive. Besides,
many particular motives influence a writer, known only to himself,
or his private friends; and it may be justly concluded, that not all
letters which are postponed are rejected, nor all that are rejected,
critically condemned.

Having thus eased my heart of the only apprehension that sat heavy on
it, I can please myself with the candour of Benevolus, who encourages me
to proceed, without sinking under the anger of Flirtilla, who quarrels
with me for being old and ugly, and for wanting both activity of body,
and sprightliness of mind; feeds her monkey with my lucubrations,
and refuses any reconciliation till I have appeared in vindication
of masquerades. That she may not however imagine me without support,
and left to rest wholly upon my own fortitude, I shall now publish some
letters which I have received from men as well dressed, and as handsome,
as her favourite; and others from ladies, whom I sincerely believe as
young, as rich, as gay, as pretty, as fashionable, and as often toasted
and treated as herself.

"A set of candid readers send their respects to the Rambler,
and acknowledge his merit in so well beginning a work that may
be of publick benefit. But, superior as his genius is to the
impertinences of a trifling age, they cannot help a wish that he
would condescend to the weakness of minds softened by perpetual
amusements, and now and then throw in, like his predecessors,
some papers of a gay and humorous turn. Too fair a field now
lies open, with too plentiful a harvest of follies! let the
cheerful Thalia put in her sickle, and, singing at her work,
deck her hair with red and blue. "

"A lady sends her compliments to the Rambler, and desires to know
by what other name she may direct to him; what are his set of
friends, his amusements; what his way of thinking, with regard
to the living world, and its ways; in short, whether he is a
person now alive, and in town? If he be, she will do herself
the honour to write to him pretty often, and hopes, from time
to time, to be the better for his advice and animadversions;
for his animadversions on her neighbours at least. But, if he
is a mere essayist, and troubles not himself with the manners
of the age, she is sorry to tell him, that even the genius and
correctness of an Addison will not secure him from neglect. "

No man is so much abstracted from common life, as not to feel a particular
pleasure from the regard of the female world; the candid writers of the
first billet will not be offended, that my haste to satisfy a lady has
hurried their address too soon out of my mind, and that I refer them
for a reply to some future paper, in order to tell this curious inquirer
after my other name, the answer of a philosopher to a man, who meeting
him in the street, desired to see what he carried under his cloak;
_I carry it there_, says he, _that you may not see it_. But, though she
is never to know my name, she may often see my face; for I am of her
opinion, that a diurnal writer ought to view the world, and that he who
neglects his contemporaries, may be, with justice, neglected by them.

"Lady Racket sends compliments to the Rambler, and lets him know
she shall have cards at her house, every Sunday, the remainder of
the season, where he will be sure of meeting all the good company
in town. By this means she hopes to see his papers interspersed
with living characters. She longs to see the torch of truth
produced at an assembly, and to admire the charming lustre it
will throw on the jewels, complexions, and behaviour of every
dear creature there. "

It is a rule with me to receive every offer with the same civility as
it is made; and, therefore, though lady Racket may have had some reason
to guess, that I seldom frequent card-tables on Sundays, I shall not
insist upon an exception, which may to her appear of so little force.
My business has been to view, as opportunity was offered, every place
in which mankind was to be seen; but at card-tables, however brilliant,
I have always thought my visit lost, for I could know nothing of the
company, but their clothes and their faces. I saw their looks clouded
at the beginning of every game with an uniform solicitude, now and then
in its progress varied with a short triumph, at one time wrinkled with
cunning, at another deadened with despondency, or by accident flushed with
rage at the unskilful or unlucky play of a partner. From such assemblies,
in whatever humour I happened to enter them, I was quickly forced to
retire; they were too trifling for me, when I was grave, and too dull,
when I was cheerful.

Yet I cannot but value myself upon this token of regard from a lady who
is not afraid to stand before the torch of truth. Let her not, however,
consult her curiosity more than her prudence; but reflect a moment on
the fate of Semele, who might have lived the favourite of Jupiter,
if she could have been content without his thunder. It is dangerous
for mortal beauty, or terrestrial virtue, to be examined by too strong
a light. The torch of truth shews much that we cannot, and all that we
would not see. In a face dimpled with smiles, it has often discovered
malevolence and envy, and detected under jewels and brocade, the frightful
forms of poverty and distress. A fine hand of cards have changed before
it into a thousand spectres of sickness, misery, and vexation; and
immense sums of money, while the winner counted them with transport,
have at the first glimpse of this unwelcome lustre vanished from before
him. If her ladyship therefore designs to continue her assembly, I would
advise her to shun such dangerous experiments, to satisfy herself with
common appearances, and to light up her apartments rather with myrtle,
than the torch of truth.

"A modest young man sends his service to the author of the
Rambler, and will be very willing to assist him in his work,
but is sadly afraid of being discouraged by having his first
essay rejected, a disgrace he has woefully experienced in every
offer he had made of it to every new writer of every new paper;
but he comforts himself by thinking, without vanity, that
this has been from a peculiar favour of the muses, who saved
his performance from being buried in trash, and reserved it to
appear with lustre in the Rambler. "

I am equally a friend to modesty and enterprize; and therefore shall
think it an honour to correspond with a young man who possesses both in
so eminent a degree. Youth is, indeed, the time in which these qualities
ought chiefly to be found; modesty suits well with inexperience, and
enterprize with health and vigour, and an extensive prospect of life.
One of my predecessors has justly observed, that, though modesty has
an amiable and winning appearance, it ought not to hinder the exertion of
the active powers, but that a man should shew under his blushes a latent
resolution. This point of perfection, nice as it is, my correspondent
seems to have attained. That he is modest, his own declaration may evince;
and, I think, the _latent resolution_ may be discovered in his letter
by an acute observer. I will advise him, since he so well deserves my
precepts, not to be discouraged though the Rambler should prove equally
envious, or tasteless, with the rest of this fraternity. If his paper is
refused, the presses of England are open, let him try the judgment of
the publick. If, as it has sometimes happened in general combinations
against merit, he cannot persuade the world to buy his works, he may
present them to his friends; and if his friends are seized with the
epidemical infatuation, and cannot find his genius, or will not confess
it, let him then refer his cause to posterity, and reserve his labours
for a wiser age.

Thus have I dispatched some of my correspondents in the usual manner with
fair words, and general civility. But to Flirtilla, the gay Flirtilla,
what shall I reply? Unable as I am to fly, at her command, over land
and seas, or to supply her from week to week with the fashions of
Paris, or the intrigues of Madrid, I am yet not willing to incur her
further displeasure, and would save my papers from her monkey on any
reasonable terms. By what propitiation, therefore, may I atone for my
former gravity, and open, without trembling, the future letters of
this sprightly persecutor? To write in defence of masquerades is no
easy task; yet something difficult and daring may well be required,
as the price of so important an approbation. I therefore consulted,
in this great emergency, a man of high reputation in gay life, who
having added to his other accomplishments, no mean proficiency, in the
minute philosophy, after the fifth perusal of her letter, broke out with
rapture into these words: "And can you, Mr. Rambler, stand out against
this charming creature? Let her know, at least, that from this moment
Nigrinus devotes his life and his labours to her service. Is there any
stubborn prejudice of education, that stands between thee and the most
amiable of mankind? Behold, Flirtilla, at thy feet, a man grown gray in
the study of those noble arts by which right and wrong may be confounded;
by which reason may be blinded, when we have a mind to escape from her
inspection; and caprice and appetite instated in uncontrouled command,
and boundless dominion! Such a casuist may surely engage, with certainty
of success, in vindication of an entertainment, which in an instant
gives confidence to the timorous, and kindles ardour in the cold; an
entertainment where the vigilance of jealousy has so often been eluded,
and the virgin is set free from the necessity of languishing in silence;
where all the outworks of chastity are at once demolished; where the
heart is laid open without a blush; where bashfulness may survive virtue,
and no wish is crushed under the frown of modesty. Far weaker influence
than Flirtilla's might gain over an advocate for such amusements. It
was declared by Pompey, that if the commonwealth was violated, he
could stamp with his foot, and raise an army out of the ground; if the
rights of pleasure are again invaded, let but Flirtilla crack her fan,
neither pens, nor swords, shall be wanting at the summons; the wit and
the colonel shall march out at her command, and neither law nor reason
shall stand before us[36]. "

[Footnote 36: The four billets in this paper were written by Miss Mulso,
afterwards Mrs. Chapone, who survived this work more than half a century,
and died Dec. 25, 1801. ]




No. 11. TUESDAY, APRIL 24, 1750.


_Non Dindymene, non adytis quatit_
_Mentem sacerdotum incota Pythius,_
_Non Liber æque, non acuta_
_Sic geminant Corybantes æra,_
_Tristes ut inæ. --_
HOR. lib. i. Ode xvi. 5.

Yet O! remember, nor the god of wine,
Nor Pythian Phœbus from his inmost shrine,
Nor Dindymene, nor her priests possest,
Can with their sounding cymbals shake the breast,
Like furious anger.
FRANCIS.


The maxim which Periander of Corinth, one of the seven sages of Greece,
left as a memorial of his knowledge and benevolence, was χολου κρατει,
_Be master of thy anger_. He considered anger as the great disturber
of human life, the chief enemy both of publick happiness and private
tranquillity, and thought that he could not lay on posterity a stronger
obligation to reverence his memory, than by leaving them a salutary
caution against this outrageous passion.

To what latitude Periander might extend the word, the brevity of his
precept will scarce allow us to conjecture. From anger, in its full
import, protracted into malevolence, and exerted in revenge, arise,
indeed, many of the evils to which the life of man is exposed. By
anger operating upon power are produced the subversion of cities,
the desolation of countries, the massacre of nations, and all those
dreadful and astonishing calamities which fill the histories of the
world, and which could not be read at any distant point of time, when
the passions stand neutral, and every motive and principle is left to
its natural force, without some doubt of the truth of the relation, did
we not see the same causes still tending to the same effects, and only
acting with less vigour for want of the same concurrent opportunities.

But this gigantick and enormous species of anger falls not properly
under the animadversion of a writer, whose chief end is the regulation
of common life, and whose precepts are to recommend themselves by their
general use. Nor is this essay intended to expose the tragical or fatal
effects even of private malignity. The anger which I propose now for
my subject, is such as makes those who indulge it more troublesome
than formidable, and ranks them rather with hornets and wasps, than
with basilisks and lions. I have, therefore, prefixed a motto, which
characterizes this passion, not so much by the mischief that it causes,
as by the noise that it utters.

There is in the world a certain class of mortals, known, and contentedly
known, by the appellation of _passionate men_, who imagine themselves
entitled by that distinction to be provoked on every slight occasion,
and to vent their rage in vehement and fierce vociferations, in furious
menaces and licentious reproaches. Their rage, indeed, for the most
part, fumes away in outcries of injury, and protestations of vengeance,
and seldom proceeds to actual violence, unless a drawer or linkboy falls
in their way; but they interrupt the quiet of those that happen to be
within the reach of their clamours, obstruct the course of conversation,
and disturb the enjoyment of society.

Men of this kind are sometimes not without understanding or virtue,
and are, therefore, not always treated with the severity which their
neglect of the ease of all about them might justly provoke; they have
obtained a kind of prescription for their folly, and are considered by
their companions as under a predominant influence that leaves them not
masters of their conduct or language, as acting without consciousness, and
rushing into mischief with a mist before their eyes; they are therefore
pitied rather than censured, and their sallies are passed over as the
involuntary blows of a man agitated by the spasms of a convulsion.

It is surely not to be observed without indignation, that men may be
found of minds mean enough to be satisfied with this treatment; wretches
who are proud to obtain the privilege of madmen, and can, without shame,
and without regret, consider themselves as receiving hourly pardons from
their companions, and giving them continual opportunities of exercising
their patience, and boasting their clemency.

Pride is undoubtedly the original of anger; but pride, like every
other passion, if it once breaks loose from reason, counteracts its own
purposes. A passionate man, upon the review of his day, will have very
few gratifications to offer to his pride, when he has considered how his
outrages were caused, why they were borne, and in what they are likely
to end at last.

Those sudden bursts of rage generally break out upon small occasions; for
life, unhappy as it is, cannot supply great evils as frequently as the
man of fire thinks it fit to be enraged; therefore the first reflection
upon his violence must shew him that he is mean enough to be driven from
his post by every petty incident, that he is the mere slave of casualty,
and that his reason and virtue are in the power of the wind.

One motive there is of these loud extravagancies, which a man is careful
to conceal from others, and does not always discover to himself. He that
finds his knowledge narrow, and his arguments weak, and by consequence
his suffrage not much regarded, is sometimes in hope of gaining that
attention by his clamours which he cannot otherwise obtain, and is
pleased with remembering that at least he made himself heard, that he
had the power to interrupt those whom he could not confute, and suspend
the decision which he could not guide.

Of this kind is the fury to which many men give way among their servants
and domesticks; they feel their own ignorance, they see their own
insignificance; and therefore they endeavour, by their fury, to fright
away contempt from before them, when they know it must follow them
behind; and think themselves eminently masters, when they see one folly
tamely complied with, only lest refusal or delay should provoke them to
a greater.

These temptations cannot but be owned to have some force. It is so
little pleasing to any man to see himself wholly overlooked in the mass
of things, that he may be allowed to try a few expedients for procuring
some kind of supplemental dignity, and use some endeavour to add weight,
by the violence of his temper, to the lightness of his other powers. But
this has now been long practised, and found, upon the most exact estimate,
not to produce advantages equal to its inconveniences; for it appears not
that a man can by uproar, tumult, and bluster, alter any one's opinion of
his understanding, or gain influence, except over those whom fortune or
nature have made his dependants. He may, by a steady perseverance in his
ferocity, fright his children, and harass his servants, but the rest of
the world will look on and laugh; and he will have the comfort at last of
thinking, that he lives only to raise contempt and hatred, emotions to
which wisdom and virtue would be always unwilling to give occasion. He
has contrived only to make those fear him, whom every reasonable being
is endeavouring to endear by kindness; and must content himself with
the pleasure of a triumph, obtained by trampling on those who could
not resist. He must perceive that the apprehension which his presence
causes is not the awe of his virtue, but the dread of his brutality,
and that he has given up the felicity of being loved, without gaining
the honour of being reverenced.

But this is not the only ill consequence of the frequent indulgence of
this blustering passion, which a man, by often calling to his assistance
will teach, in a short time, to intrude before the summons, to rush
upon him with resistless violence, and without any previous notice of
its approach. He will find himself liable to be inflamed at the first
touch of provocation, and unable to retain his resentment till he has
a full conviction of the offence, to proportion his anger to the cause,
or to regulate it by prudence or by duty. When a man has once suffered
his mind to be thus vitiated, he becomes one of the most hateful and
unhappy beings. He can give no security to himself that he shall not,
at the next interview, alienate by some sudden transport his dearest
friend; or break out, upon some slight contradiction, into such terms
of rudeness as can never be perfectly forgotten. Whoever converses with
him, lives with the suspicion and solicitude of a man that plays with
a tame tiger, always under a necessity of watching the moment in which
the capricious savage shall begin to growl.

It is told by Prior, in a panegyrick on the earl of Dorset, that his
servants used to put themselves in his way when he was angry, because
he was sure to recompense them for any indignities which he made them
suffer. This is the round of a passionate man's life; he contracts debts
when he is furious, which his virtue, if he has virtue, obliges him to
discharge at the return of reason. He spends his time in outrage and
acknowledgment, injury and reparation. Or, if there be any who hardens
himself in oppression, and justifies the wrong, because he has done it,
his insensibility can make small part of his praise, or his happiness; he
only adds deliberate to hasty folly, aggravates petulance by contumacy,
and destroys the only plea that he can offer for the tenderness and
patience of mankind.

Yet, even this degree of depravity we may be content to pity, because it
seldom wants a punishment equal to its guilt. Nothing is more despicable
or more miserable than the old age of a passionate man. When the vigour
of youth fails him, and his amusements pall with frequent repetition,
his occasional rage sinks by decay of strength into peevishness; that
peevishness, for want of novelty and variety, becomes habitual; the
world falls off from around him, and he is left, as Homer expresses it,
φθινυθων φιλον κηρ, to devour his own heart in solitude and contempt.




No. 12. SATURDAY, APRIL 28, 1750.


_----Miserum parva stipe focilat, ut pudibundos_
_Exercere sales inter convivia possit. ----_
_----Tu mitis, et acri_
_Asperitate carens, positoque per omnia fastu,_
_Inter ut æquales unus numeraris amicos,_
_Obsequiumque doces, et amorem quæris amando. _
Lucanus _ad_ Pisonem.

Unlike the ribald whose licentious jest
Pollutes his banquet, and insults his guest;
From wealth and grandeur easy to descend,
Thou joy'st to lose the master in the friend:
We round thy board the cheerful menials see,
Gay with the smile of bland equality;
No social care the gracious lord disdains;
Love prompts to love, and rev'rence rev'rence gains.


TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

As you seem to have devoted your labours to virtue, I cannot forbear to
inform you of one species of cruelty with which the life of a man of
letters perhaps does not often make him acquainted; and which, as it
seems to produce no other advantage to those that practise it than a
short gratification of thoughtless vanity, may become less common when
it has been once exposed in its various forms, and its full magnitude.

I am the daughter of a country gentleman, whose family is numerous,
and whose estate, not at first sufficient to supply us with affluence,
has been lately so much impaired by an unsuccessful law-suit, that all
the younger children are obliged to try such means as their education
affords them, for procuring the necessaries of life. Distress and
curiosity concurred to bring me to London, where I was received by a
relation with the coldness which misfortune generally finds. A week,
a long week, I lived with my cousin, before the most vigilant inquiry
could procure us the least hopes of a place, in which time I was much
better qualified to bear all the vexations of servitude. The first two
days she was content to pity me, and only wished I had not been quite so
well bred; but people must comply with their circumstances. This lenity,
however, was soon at an end; and, for the remaining part of the week,
I heard every hour of the pride of my family, the obstinacy of my father,
and of people better born than myself that were common servants.

At last, on Saturday noon, she told me, with very visible satisfaction,
that Mrs. Bombasine, the great silk-mercer's lady, wanted a maid, and a
fine place it would be, for there would be nothing to do but to clean
my mistress's room, get up her linen, dress the young ladies, wait at
tea in the morning, take care of a little miss just come from nurse,
and then sit down to my needle. But madam was a woman of great spirit,
and would not be contradicted, and therefore I should take care, for
good places were not easily to be got.

With these cautions I waited on madam Bombasine, of whom the first
sight gave me no ravishing ideas.