No More Learning

And what brought you to town, a
bastard? Where do you lodge? At the Seven-Dials? What, you never heard
of the Foundling-house! Upon this, they all laughed so obtreperously,
that I took the opportunity of sneaking off in the tumult.

I then heard of a place at an elderly lady's. She was at cards; but in
two hours, I was told, she would speak to me. She asked me if I could
keep an account, and ordered me to write. I wrote two lines out of some
book that lay by her. She wondered what people meant, to breed up poor
girls to write at that rate. I suppose, Mrs. Flirt, if I was to see your
work, it would be fine stuff! --You may walk. I will not have love-letters
written from my house to every young fellow in the street.

Two days after, I went on the same pursuit to Lady Lofty, dressed as I
was directed, in what little ornaments I had, because she had lately got
a place at court. Upon the first sight of me, she turns to the woman that
shewed me in, Is this the lady that wants a place? Pray what place would
you have, miss? a maid of honour's place? Servants now-a-days! --Madam,
I heard you wanted--Wanted what? Somebody finer than myself? A pretty
servant indeed--I should be afraid to speak to her--I suppose, Mrs. Minx,
these fine hands cannot bear wetting--A servant indeed! Pray move off--I
am resolved to be the head person in this house--You are ready dressed,
the taverns will be open.

I went to inquire for the next place in a clean linen gown, and heard
the servant tell his lady, there was a young woman, but he saw she would
not do. I was brought up, however. Are you the trollop that has the
impudence to come for my place? What, you have hired that nasty gown, and
are come to steal a better! --Madam, I have another, but being obliged to
walk--Then these are your manners, with your blushes, and your courtesies,
to come to me in your worst gown. Madam, give me leave to wait upon you
in my other. Wait on me, you saucy slut! Then you are sure of coming--I
could not let such a drab come near me--Here, you girl, that came up
with her, have you touched her? If you have, wash your hands before you
dress me--Such trollops! Get you down. What, whimpering? Pray walk.

I went away with tears; for my cousin had lost all patience. However,
she told me, that having a respect for my relations, she was willing to
keep me out of the street, and would let me have another week.

The first day of this week I saw two places. At one I was asked where I
had lived? And upon my answer, was told by the lady, that people should
qualify themselves in ordinary places, for she should never have done
if she was to follow girls about. At the other house I was a smirking
hussy, and that sweet, face I might make money of--For her part, it was
a rule with her never to take any creature that thought herself handsome.

The three next days were spent in Lady Bluff's entry, where I waited six
hours every day for the pleasure of seeing the servants peep at me, and
go away laughing. --Madam will stretch her small shanks in the entry; she
will know the house again. --At sunset the two first days I was told,
that my lady would see me to-morrow, and on the third, that her woman
staid.

My week was now near its end, and I had no hopes of a place. My relation,
who always laid upon me the blame of every miscarriage, told me that I
must learn to humble myself, and that all great ladies had particular
ways; that if I went on in that manner, she could not tell who would
keep me; she had known many that had refused places, sell their clothes,
and beg in the streets.

It was to no purpose that the refusal was declared by me to be never
on my side; I was reasoning against interest, and against stupidity;
and therefore I comforted myself with the hope of succeeding better in
my next attempt, and went to Mrs. Courtly, a very fine lady, who had
routs at her house, and saw the best company in town.

I had not waited two hours before I was called up, and found Mr. Courtly
and his lady at piquet, in the height of good humour. This I looked
on as a favourable sign, and stood at the lower end of the room, in
expectation of the common questions. At last Mr. Courtly called out,
after a whisper, Stand facing the light, that one may see you. I changed
my place, and blushed. They frequently turned their eyes upon me, and
seemed to discover many subjects of merriment; for at every look they
whispered, and laughed with the most violent agitations of delight. At
last Mr. Courtly cried out, Is that colour your own, child? Yes, says
the lady, if she has not robbed the kitchen hearth. This was so happy
a conceit, that it renewed the storm of laughter, and they threw down
their cards in hopes of better sport. The lady then called me to her,
and began with an affected gravity to inquire what I could do? But first
turn about, and let us see your fine shape: Well, what are you fit for,
Mrs. Mum? You would find your tongue, I suppose, in the kitchen. No, no,
says Mr. Courtly, the girl's a good girl yet, but I am afraid a brisk
young fellow with fine tags on his shoulder----Come, child, hold up your
head; what? you have stole nothing. --Not yet, says the lady, but she
hopes to steal your heart quickly. --Here was a laugh of happiness and
triumph, prolonged by the confusion which I could no longer repress.
At last the lady recollected herself; Stole! no--but if I had her, I
should watch her: for that downcast eye--Why cannot you look people in
the face? Steal! says her husband, she would steal nothing but, perhaps,
a few ribands before they were left off by her lady. Sir, answered I,
why should you, by supposing me a thief, insult one from whom you have
received no injury? Insult! says the lady; are you come here to be
a servant, you saucy baggage, and talk of insulting? What will this
world come to, if a gentleman may not jest with a servant! Well, such
servants! pray be gone, and see when you will have the honour to be so
insulted again. Servants insulted! --a fine time. --Insulted! Get down
stairs, you slut, or the footman shall insult you.

The last day of the last week was now coming, and my kind cousin talked
of sending me down in the waggon to preserve me from bad courses. But
in the morning she came and told me that she had one trial more for me;
Euphemia wanted a maid, and perhaps I might do for her; for, like me,
she must fall her crest, being forced to lay down her chariot upon the
loss of half her fortune by bad securities, and with her way of giving
her money to every body that pretended to want it, she could have little
beforehand; therefore I might serve her; for, with all her fine sense,
she must not pretend to be nice.

I went immediately, and met at the door a young gentlewoman, who told me
she had herself been hired that morning, but that she was ordered to bring
any that offered up stairs. I was accordingly introduced to Euphemia,
who, when I came in, laid down her book, and told me, that she sent for
me not to gratify an idle curiosity, but lest my disappointment might
be made still more grating by incivility; that she was in pain to deny
any thing, much more what was no favour; that she saw nothing in my
appearance which did not make her wish for my company; but that another,
whose claims might perhaps be equal, had come before me. The thought
of being so near to such a place, and missing it, brought tears into
my eyes, and my sobs hindered me from returning my acknowledgments.
She rose up confused, and supposing by my concern that I was distressed,
placed me by her, and made me tell her my story: which when she had
heard, she put two guineas in my hand, ordering me to lodge near her,
and make use of her table till she could provide for me. I am now under
her protection, and know not how to shew my gratitude better than by
giving this account to the Rambler.

ZOSIMA.




No. 13. TUESDAY, MAY 1, 1750.


_Commissumque teges et vino tortus et irâ. _
HOR. lib. i. Ep. xviii. 38.

And let not wine or anger wrest
Th' intrusted secret from your breast.
FRANCIS.


It is related by Quintus Curtius, that the Persians always conceived
an invincible contempt of a man who had violated the laws of secrecy;
for they thought, that, however he might be deficient in the qualities
requisite to actual excellence, the negative virtues at least were in
his power, and though he perhaps could not speak well if he was to try,
it was still easy for him not to speak.

In forming this opinion of the easiness of secrecy, they seem to have
considered it as opposed, not to treachery, but loquacity, and to have
conceived the man whom they thus censured, not frighted by menaces to
reveal, or bribed by promises to betray, but incited by the mere pleasure
of talking, or some other motive equally trifling, to lay open his heart
without reflection, and to let whatever he knew slip from him, only for
want of power to retain it. Whether, by their settled and avowed scorn
of thoughtless talkers, the Persians were able to diffuse to any great
extent the virtue of taciturnity, we are hindered by the distance of
those times from being able to discover, there being very few memoirs
remaining of the court of Persepolis, nor any distinct accounts handed
down to us of their office-clerks, their ladies of the bedchamber,
their attorneys, their chambermaids, or their footmen.

In these latter ages, though the old animosity against a prattler is still
retained, it appears wholly to have lost its effect upon the conduct of
mankind, for secrets are so seldom kept, that it may with some reason be
doubted whether the ancients were not mistaken, in their first postulate,
whether the quality of retention be so generally bestowed, and whether a
secret has not some subtle volatility, by which it escapes imperceptibly
at the smallest vent; or some power of fermentation, by which it expands
itself so as to burst the heart that will not give it way.

Those that study either the body or the mind of a man, very often find the
most specious and pleasing theory falling under the weight of contrary
experience; and instead of gratifying their vanity by inferring effects
from causes, they are always reduced at last to conjecture causes from
effects. That it is easy to be secret, the speculatist can demonstrate
in his retreat, and therefore thinks himself justified in placing
confidence; the man of the world knows, that, whether difficult or not,
it is uncommon, and therefore finds himself rather inclined to search
after the reason of this universal failure in one of the most important
duties of society.

The vanity of being known to be trusted with a secret is generally
one of the chief motives to disclose it; for, however absurd it may be
thought to boast an honour by an act which shews that it was conferred
without merit, yet most men seem rather inclined to confess the want
of virtue than of importance, and more willingly shew their influence,
though at the expense of their probity, than glide through life with no
other pleasure than the private consciousness of fidelity; which, while
it is preserved, must be without praise, except from the single person
who tries and knows it.

There are many ways of telling a secret, by which a man exempts himself
from the reproaches of his conscience, and gratifies his pride, without
suffering himself to believe that he impairs his virtue. He tells the
private affairs of his patron, or his friend, only to those from whom he
would not conceal his own; he tells them to those, who have no temptation
to betray the trust, or with a denunciation of a certain forfeiture of
his friendship, if he discovers that they become publick.

Secrets are very frequently told in the first ardour of kindness, or of
love, for the sake of proving, by so important a sacrifice, sincerity
or tenderness; but with this motive, though it be strong in itself,
vanity concurs, since every man desires to be most esteemed by those whom
he loves, or with whom he converses, with whom he passes his hours of
pleasure, and to whom he retires from business and from care.

When the discovery of secrets is under consideration, there is always a
distinction carefully to be made between our own and those of another;
those of which we are fully masters, as they affect only our own interest,
and those which are reposited with us in trust, and involve the happiness
or convenience of such as we have no right to expose to hazard. To tell
our own secrets is generally folly, but that folly is without guilt;
to communicate those with which we are intrusted is always treachery,
and treachery for the most part combined with folly.

There have, indeed, been some enthusiastick and irrational zealots for
friendship, who have maintained, and perhaps believed, that one friend
has a right to all that is in possession of another; and that therefore
it is a violation of kindness to exempt any secret from this boundless
confidence. Accordingly a late female minister of state[37] has been
shameless enough to inform the world, that she used, when she wanted
to extract any thing from her sovereign, to remind her of Montaigne's
reasoning, who has determined, that to tell a secret to a friend is
no breach of fidelity, because the number of persons trusted is not
multiplied, a man and his friend being virtually the same.

That such a fallacy could be imposed upon any human understanding,
or that an author could have advanced a position so remote from truth
and reason, any otherwise than as a declaimer, to shew to what extent he
could stretch his imagination, and with what strength he could press his
principle, would scarcely have been credible, had not this lady kindly
shewn us how far weakness may be deluded, or indolence amused. But since
it appears, that even this sophistry has been able, with the help of
a strong desire, to repose in quiet upon the understanding of another,
to mislead honest intentions, and an understanding not contemptible[38],
it may not be superfluous to remark, that those things which are common
among friends are only such as either possesses in his own right, and
can alienate or destroy without injury to any other person. Without this
limitation confidence must run on without end, the second person may tell
the secret to the third, upon the same principle as he received it from
the first, and a third may hand it forward to a fourth, till at last it
is told in the round of friendship to them from whom it was the first
intention to conceal it.

The confidence which Caius has of the faithfulness of Titius is nothing
more than an opinion which himself cannot know to be true, and which
Claudius, who first tells his secret to Caius, may know to be false;
and therefore the trust is transferred by Caius, if he reveal what has
been told him, to one from whom the person originally concerned would
have withheld it: and whatever may be the event, Caius has hazarded
the happiness of his friend, without necessity and without permission,
and has put that trust in the hand of fortune, which was given only to
virtue.

All the arguments upon which a man who is telling the private affairs of
another may ground his confidence of security, he must upon reflection
know to be uncertain, because he finds them without effect upon
himself. When he is imagining that Titius will be cautious, from a regard
to his interest, his reputation, or his duty, he ought to reflect that
he is himself at that instant acting in opposition to all these reasons,
and revealing what interest, reputation, and duty, direct him to conceal.

Every one feels that in his own case he should consider the man incapable
of trust, who believed himself at liberty to tell whatever he knew to
the first whom he should conclude deserving of his confidence; therefore
Caius, in admitting Titius to the affairs imparted only to himself,
must know that he violates his faith, since he acts contrary to the
intention of Claudius, to whom that faith was given. For promises of
friendship are, like all others, useless and vain, unless they are made
in some known sense, adjusted and acknowledged by both parties.

I am not ignorant that many questions may be started relating to the duty
of secrecy, where the affairs are of publick concern; where subsequent
reasons may arise to alter the appearance and nature of the trust;
that the manner in which the secret was told may change the degree of
obligation, and that the principles upon which a man is chosen for a
confidant may not always equally constrain him. But these scruples, if
not too intricate, are of too extensive consideration for my present
purpose, nor are they such as generally occur in common life; and
though casuistical knowledge be useful in proper hands, yet it ought
by no means to be carelessly exposed, since most will use it rather to
lull than to awaken their own consciences; and the threads of reasoning,
on which truth is suspended, are frequently drawn to such subtility, that
common eyes cannot perceive, and common sensibility cannot feel them.

The whole doctrine, as well as practice of secrecy, is so perplexing
and dangerous, that next to him who is compelled to trust, I think him
unhappy who is chosen to be trusted; for he is often involved in scruples
without the liberty of calling in the help of any other understanding;
he is frequently drawn into guilt, under the appearance of friendship and
honesty; and sometimes subjected to suspicion by the treachery of others,
who are engaged without his knowledge in the same schemes; for he that
has one confidant has generally more, and when he is at last betrayed,
is in doubt on whom he shall fix the crime.

The rules therefore that I shall propose concerning secrecy, and from
which I think it not safe to deviate, without long and exact deliberation,
are--Never to solicit the knowledge of a secret. Not willingly, nor
without many limitations, to accept such confidence when it is offered.
When a secret is once admitted, to consider the trust as of a very high
nature, important as society, and sacred as truth, and therefore not
to be violated for any incidental convenience, or slight appearance of
contrary fitness.

[Footnote 37: Sarah Duchess of Marlborough. --C. ]

[Footnote 38: That of Queen Anne. ]




No. 14. SATURDAY, MAY 5, 1750.


_----Nil fuit unquam_
_Sic impar sibi----_
HOR. lib. i. Sat. iii. 18.

Sure such a various creature ne'er was known.
FRANCIS.


Among the many inconsistencies which folly produces, or infirmity suffers,
in the human mind, there has often been observed a manifest and striking
contrariety between the life of an author and his writings; and Milton,
in a letter to a learned stranger, by whom he had been visited, with
great reason congratulates himself upon the consciousness of being found
equal to his own character, and having preserved, in a private and
familiar interview, that reputation which his works had procured him.

Those whom the appearance of virtue, or the evidence of genius, have
tempted to a nearer knowledge of the writer in whose performances they
may be found, have indeed had frequent reason to repent their curiosity;
the bubble that sparkled before them has become common water at the
touch; the phantom of perfection has vanished when they wished to press
it to their bosom. They have lost the pleasure of imagining how far
humanity may be exalted, and, perhaps, felt themselves less inclined
to toil up the steeps of virtue, when they observe those who seem best
able to point the way, loitering below, as either afraid of the labour,
or doubtful of the reward.

It has been long the custom of the oriental monarchs to hide themselves
in gardens and palaces, to avoid the conversation of mankind, and to be
known to their subjects only by their edicts. The same policy is no less
necessary to him that writes, than to him that governs; for men would
not more patiently submit to be taught, than commanded, by one known to
have the same follies and weaknesses with themselves. A sudden intruder
into the closet of an author would perhaps feel equal indignation with
the officer, who having long solicited admission into the presence of
Sardanapalus, saw him not consulting upon laws, inquiring into grievances,
or modelling armies, but employed in feminine amusements, and directing
the ladies in their work.

It is not difficult to conceive, however, that for many reasons a man
writes much better than he lives. For without entering into refined
speculations, it may be shewn much easier to design than to perform.
A man proposes his schemes of life in a state of abstraction and
disengagement, exempt from the enticements of hope, the solicitations
of affection, the importunities of appetite, or the depressions of fear,
and is in the same state with him that teaches upon land the art of
navigation, to whom the sea is always smooth, and the wind always
prosperous.

The mathematicians are well acquainted with the difference between pure
science, which has to do only with ideas, and the application of its
laws to the use of life, in which they are constrained to submit to the
imperfection of matter and the influence of accidents. Thus, in moral
discussions, it is to be remembered that many impediments obstruct our
practice, which very easily give way to theory. The speculatist is only
in danger of erroneous reasoning; but the man involved in life, has his
own passions, and those of others, to encounter, and is embarrassed
with a thousand inconveniencies, which confound him with variety of
impulse, and either perplex or obstruct his way. He is forced to act
without deliberation, and obliged to choose before he can examine: he
is surprised by sudden alterations of the state of things, and changes
his measures according to superficial appearances; he is led by others,
either because he is indolent, or because he is timorous; he is sometimes
afraid to know what is right, and sometimes finds friends or enemies
diligent to deceive him.

We are, therefore, not to wonder that most fail, amidst tumult, and
snares, and danger, in the observance of those precepts, which they lay
down in solitude, safety, and tranquillity, with a mind unbiassed, and
with liberty unobstructed. It is the condition of our present state to see
more than we can attain; the exactest vigilance and caution can never
maintain a single day of unmingled innocence, much less can the utmost
efforts of incorporated mind reach the summit of speculative virtue.

It is, however, necessary for the idea of perfection to be proposed,
that we may have some object to which our endeavours are to be directed;
and he that is most deficient in the duties of life, makes some atonement
for his faults, if he warns others against his own failings, and hinders,
by the salubrity of his admonitions, the contagion of his example.

Nothing is more unjust, however common, than to charge with hypocrisy
him that expresses zeal for those virtues which he neglects to practise;
since he may be sincerely convinced of the advantages of conquering
his passions, without having yet obtained the victory, as a man may be
confident of the advantages of a voyage, or a journey, without having
courage or industry to undertake it, and may honestly recommend to others,
those attempts which he neglects himself.

The interest which the corrupt part of mankind have in hardening
themselves against every motive to amendment, has disposed them
to give to these contradictions, when they can be produced against
the cause of virtue, that weight which they will not allow them in
any other case. They see men act in opposition to their interest,
without supposing, that they do not know it; those who give way to the
sudden violence of passion, and forsake the most important pursuits
for petty pleasures, sire not supposed to have changed their opinions,
or to approve their own conduct. In moral or religious questions alone,
they determine the sentiments by the actions, and charge every man with
endeavouring to impose upon the world, whose writings are not confirmed
by his life. They never consider that themselves neglect or practise
something every day inconsistently with their own settled judgment,
nor discover that the conduct of the advocates for virtue can little
increase, or lessen, the obligations of their dictates; argument is to
be invalidated only by argument, and is in itself of the same force,
whether or not it convinces him by whom it is proposed.

Yet since this prejudice, however unreasonable, is always likely to
have some prevalence, it is the duty of every man to take care lest
he should hinder the efficacy of his own instructions. When he desires
to gain the belief of others, he should shew that he believes himself;
and when he teaches the fitness of virtue by his reasonings, he should,
by his example, prove its possibility: Thus much at least may be required
of him, that he shall not act worse than others because he writes better,
nor imagine that, by the merit of his genius, he may claim indulgence
beyond mortals of the lower classes, and be excused for want of prudence,
or neglect of virtue.

Bacon, in his History of the Winds, after having offered something to
the imagination as desirable, often proposes lower advantages in its
place to the reason as attainable. The same method may be sometimes
pursued in moral endeavours, which this philosopher has observed in
natural inquiries; having first set positive and absolute excellence
before us, we may be pardoned though we sink down to humbler virtue,
trying, however, to keep our point always in view, and struggling not
to lose ground, though we cannot gain it.

It is recorded of Sir Mathew Hale, that he, for a long time, concealed the
consecration of himself to the stricter duties of religion, lest by some
flagitious and shameful action, he should bring piety into disgrace. For
the same reason it may be prudent for a writer, who apprehends that he
shall not enforce his own maxims by his domestick character, to conceal
his name, that he may not injure them.

There are, indeed, a great number whose curiosity to gain a more familiar
knowledge of successful writers, is not so much prompted by an opinion
of their power to improve as to delight, and who expect from them not
arguments against vice, or dissertations on temperance or justice; but
flights of wit, and sallies of pleasantry, or, at least, acute remarks,
nice distinctions, justness of sentiment, and elegance of diction.

This expectation is, indeed, specious and probable, and yet, such is
the fate of all human hopes, that it is very often frustrated, and those
who raise admiration by their books, disgust by their company. A man of
letters for the most part spends in the privacies of study, that season
of life in which the manners are to be softened into ease, and polished
into elegance; and, when he has gained knowledge enough to be respected,
has neglected the minuter acts by which he might have pleased. When he
enters life, if his temper be soft and timorous, he is diffident and
bashful, from the knowledge of his defects; or if he was born with spirit
and resolution, he is ferocious and arrogant, from the consciousness of
his merit; he is either dissipated by the awe of company, and unable
to recollect his reading, and arrange his arguments; or he is hot and
dogmatical, quick in opposition, and tenacious in defence, disabled by
his own violence, and confused by his haste to triumph.

The graces of writing and conversation are of different kinds, and though
he who excels in one might have been, with opportunities and application,
equally successful in the other, yet as many please by extemporary talk,
though utterly unacquainted with the more accurate method, and more
laboured beauties, which composition requires; so it is very possible
that men, wholly accustomed to works of study, may be without that
readiness of conception, and affluence of language, always necessary to
colloquial entertainment. They may want address to watch the hints which
conversation offers for the display of their particular attainments,
or they may be so much unfurnished with matter on common subjects, that
discourse not professedly literary, glides over them as heterogeneous
bodies, without admitting their conceptions to mix in the circulation.

A transition from an author's book to his conversation, is too often
like an entrance into a large city, after a distant prospect. Remotely,
we see nothing but spires of temples and turrets of palaces, and imagine
it the residence of splendour, grandeur and magnificence; but, when
we have passed the gates, we find it perplexed with narrow passages,
disgraced with despicable cottages, embarrassed with obstructions,
and clouded with smoke.




No. 15. TUESDAY, MAY 8, 1750.


_Et quando uberior vitiorum copia? quando_
_Major avaritiæ patuit sinus? Alea quando_
_Hos animos? _
JUV. Sat. i. 87.

What age so large a crop of vices bore,
Or when was avarice extended more?
When were the dice with more profusion thrown?
DRYDEN.


There is no grievance, publick or private, of which, since I took upon
me the office of a periodical monitor, I have received so many, or so
earnest complaints, as of the predominance of play; of a fatal passion
for cards and dice, which seems to have overturned, not only the ambition
of excellence, but the desire of pleasure; to have extinguished the
flames of the lover, as well as of the patriot; and threatens, in its
further progress, to destroy all distinctions, both of rank and sex,
to crush all emulation but that of fraud, to corrupt all those classes
of our people, whose ancestors have, by their virtue, their industry,
or their parsimony, given them the power of living in extravagance,
idleness, and vice, and to leave them without knowledge, but of the
modish games, and without wishes, but for lucky hands.

I have found by long experience, that there are few enterprises so
hopeless as contests with the fashion, in which the opponents are not
only made confident by their numbers, and strong by their union, but
are hardened by contempt of their antagonist, whom they always look
upon as a wretch of low notions, contracted views, mean conversation,
and narrow fortune, who envies the elevations which he cannot reach, who
would gladly imbitter the happiness which his inelegance or indigence
deny him to partake, and who has no other end in his advice than to
revenge his own mortification by hindering those whom their birth and
taste have set above him, from the enjoyment of their superiority, and
bringing them down to a level with himself.

Though I have never found myself much affected by this formidable
censure, which I have incurred often enough to be acquainted with its
full force, yet I shall, in some measure, obviate it on this occasion,
by offering very little in my own name, either of argument or entreaty,
since those who suffer by this general infatuation may be supposed best
able to relate its effects.

* * * * *

SIR,

There seems to be so little knowledge left in the world, and so little
of that reflection practised, by which knowledge is to be gained, that
I am in doubt, whether I shall be understood, when I complain of want
of opportunity for thinking; or whether a condemnation, which at present
seems irreversible, to perpetual ignorance, will raise any compassion,
either in you, or your readers: yet I will venture to lay my state before
you, because I believe it is natural, to most minds, to take some pleasure
in complaining of evils, of which they have no reason to be ashamed.

I am the daughter of a man of great fortune, whose diffidence of mankind,
and, perhaps, the pleasure of continual accumulation, incline him to
reside upon his own estate, and to educate his children in his own house,
where I was bred, if not with the most brilliant examples of virtue
before my eyes, at least remote enough from any incitements to vice; and
wanting neither leisure nor books, nor the acquaintance of some persons
of learning in the neighbourhood, I endeavoured to acquire such knowledge
as might most recommend me to esteem, and thought myself able to support
a conversation upon most of the subjects, which my sex and condition made
it proper for me to understand.

I had, besides my knowledge, as my mamma and my maid told me, a very fine
face, and elegant shape, and with all these advantages had been seventeen
months the reigning toast for twelve miles round, and never came to the
monthly assembly, but I heard the old ladies that sat by wishing that
_it might end well_, and their daughters criticising my air, my features,
or my dress.

You know, Mr.
Rambler, that ambition is natural to youth, and curiosity
to understanding, and therefore will hear, without wonder, that I was
desirous to extend my victories over those who might give more honour to
the conqueror; and that I found in a country life a continual repetition
of the same pleasures, which was not sufficient to fill up the mind for
the present, or raise any expectations of the future; and I will confess
to you, that I was impatient for a sight of the town, and filled my
thoughts with the discoveries which I should make, the triumphs that I
should obtain, and the praises that I should receive.

At last the time came. My aunt, whose husband has a seat in parliament,
and a place at court, buried her only child, and sent for me to supply
the loss. The hope that I should so far insinuate myself into their
favour, as to obtain a considerable augmentation of my fortune, procured
me every convenience for my departure, with great expedition; and I
could not, amidst all my transports, forbear some indignation to see with
what readiness the natural guardians of my virtue sold me to a state,
which they thought more hazardous than it really was, as soon as a new
accession of fortune glittered in their eyes.

Three days I was upon the road, and on the fourth morning my heart danced
at the sight of London. I was set down at my aunt's, and entered upon
the scene of action. I expected now, from the age and experience of my
aunt, some prudential lessons; but, after the first civilities and first
tears were over, was told what pity it was to have kept so fine a girl so
long in the country; for the people who did not begin young, seldom dealt
their cards handsomely, or played them tolerably.

Young persons are commonly inclined to slight the remarks and counsels
of their elders. I smiled, perhaps, with too much contempt, and was upon
the point of telling her that my time had not been passed in such trivial
attainments. But I soon found that things are to be estimated, not by the
importance of their effects, but the frequency of their use.

A few days after, my aunt gave me notice, that some company, which she had
been six weeks in collecting, was to meet that evening, and she expected
a finer assembly than had been seen all the winter. She expressed this
in the jargon of a gamester, and, when I asked an explication of her
terms of art, wondered where I had lived. I had already found my aunt
so incapable of any rational conclusion, and so ignorant of every thing,
whether great or little, that I had lost all regard to her opinion,
and dressed myself with great expectations of an opportunity to display
my charms among rivals, whose competition would not dishonour me. The
company came in, and after the cursory compliments of salutation, alike
easy to the lowest and the highest understanding, what was the result?
The cards were broke open, the parties were formed, the whole night
passed in a game, upon which the young and old were equally employed; nor
was I able to attract an eye, or gain an ear; but being compelled to play
without skill, I perpetually embarrassed my partner, and soon perceived
the contempt of the whole table gathering upon me.

I cannot but suspect, Sir, that this odious fashion is produced by a
conspiracy of the old, the ugly, and the ignorant, against the young
and beautiful, the witty and the gay, as a contrivance to level all
distinctions of nature and art, to confound the world in a chaos of
folly, to take from those who could outshine them all the advantages
of mind and body, to withhold youth from its natural pleasures, deprive
wit of its influence, and beauty of its charms, to fix those hearts upon
money, to which love has hitherto been entitled, to sink life into a
tedious uniformity, and to allow it no other hopes or fears, but those
of robbing, and being robbed.

Be pleased, Sir, to inform those of my sex who have minds capable of
nobler sentiments, that, if they will unite in vindication of their
pleasures and their prerogatives, they may fix a time, at which cards
shall cease to be in fashion, or be left only to those who have neither
beauty to be loved, nor spirit to be feared; neither knowledge to teach,
nor modesty to learn; and who, having passed their youth in vice, are
justly condemned to spend their age in folly[39].

I am, Sir, &c.

CLEORA.

* * * * *

SIR,

Vexation will burst my heart, if I do not give it vent. As you publish a
paper, I insist upon it that you insert this in your next, as ever you
hope for the kindness and encouragement of any woman of taste, spirit,
and virtue. I would have it published to the world, how deserving wives
are used by imperious coxcombs, that henceforth no woman may marry who
has not the patience of Grizzel. Nay, if even Grizzel had been married to
a gamester, her temper would never have held out. A wretch that loses his
good-humour and humanity along with his money, and will not allow enough
from his own extravagances to support a woman of fashion in the necessary
amusements of life! --Why does not he employ his wise head to make a figure
in parliament, raise an estate, and get a title? That would be fitter for
the master of a family, than rattling a noisy dice-box; and then he might
indulge his wife in a few slight expenses and elegant diversions.

What if I was unfortunate at Brag! --should he not have stayed to see
how luck would turn another time? Instead of that, what does he do, but
picks a quarrel, upbraids me with loss of beauty, abuses my acquaintance,
ridicules my play, and insults my understanding; says, forsooth, that
women have not heads enough to play with any thing but dolls, and that
they should be employed in things proportionable to their understanding,
keep at home, and mind family affairs.

I do stay at home, Sir, and all the world knows I am at home every Sunday.
I have had six routs this winter, and sent out ten packs of cards in
invitations to private parties. As for management, I am sure he cannot
call me extravagant, or say I do not mind my family. The children are out
at nurse in villages as cheap as any two little brats can be kept, nor
have I ever seen them since; so he has no trouble about them. The servants
live at board wages. My own dinners come from the Thatched House; and I
have never paid a penny for any thing I have bought since I was married.
As for play, I do think I may, indeed, indulge in that, now I am my own
mistress. Papa made me drudge at wist till I was tired of it; and, far
from wanting a head, Mr. Hoyle, when he had not given me above forty
lessons, said I was one of his best scholars. I thought then with myself,
that, if once I was at liberty, I would leave play, and take to reading
romances, things so forbidden at our house, and so railed at, that it was
impossible not to fancy them very charming. Most unfortunately, to save
me from absolute undutifulness, just as I was married, came dear Brag
into fashion, and ever since it has been the joy of my life; so easy, so
cheerful and careless, so void of thought, and so genteel! Who can help
loving it? Yet the perfidious thing has used me very ill of late, and
to-morrow I should have changed it for Faro. But, oh! this detestable
to-morrow, a thing always expected, and never found. --Within these few
hours must I be dragged into the country. The wretch, Sir, left me in a
fit, which his threatenings had occasioned, and unmercifully ordered a
post-chaise. Stay I cannot, for money I have none, and credit I cannot
get. ----But I will make the monkey play with me at picquet upon the road
for all I want. I am almost sure to beat him, and his debts of honour I
know he will pay. Then who can tell but I may still come back and conquer
Lady Packer? Sir, you need not print this last scheme, and, upon second
thoughts, you may. --Oh, distraction! the post-chaise is at the door. Sir,
publish what you will, only let it be printed without a name.

[Footnote 39: A youth of frolicks, an old age of cards. POPE. ]




No. 16. SATURDAY, MAY 12, 1750.


_----Torrens dicendi copia multis,_
_Et sua mortifera est facundia----_
JUV. Sat. x. 10.

Some who the depths of eloquence have found,
In that unnavigable stream were drown'd.
DRYDEN.


SIR,

I am the modest young man whom you favoured with your advice, in a
late paper; and, as I am very far from suspecting that you foresaw the
numberless inconveniencies which I have, by following it, brought upon
myself, I will lay my condition open before you, for you seem bound
to extricate me from the perplexities in which your counsel, however
innocent in the intention, has contributed to involve me.

You told me, as you thought, to my comfort, that a writer might easily
find means of introducing his genius to the world, for the _presses of
England were open_. This I have now fatally experienced; the press is,
indeed, open.

_----Facilis descensus Averni,_
_Noctes atque dies patet atri janua Ditis. _
VIRG. Æn. lib. vi. 126.

The gates of hell are open night and day;
Smooth the descent, and easy is the way.
DRYDEN.

The means of doing hurt to ourselves are always at hand. I immediately
sent to a printer, and contracted with him for an impression of several
thousands of my pamphlet. While it was at the press, I was seldom absent
from the printing-house, and continually urged the workmen to haste, by
solicitations, promises, and rewards. From the day all other pleasures
were excluded, by the delightful employment of correcting the sheets; and
from the night, sleep generally was banished, by anticipations of the
happiness which every hour was bringing nearer. At last the time of
publication approached, and my heart beat with the raptures of an author.
I was above all little precautions, and, in defiance of envy or of
criticism, set my name upon the title, without sufficiently considering,
that what has once passed the press is irrevocable, and that though the
printing-house may properly be compared to the infernal regions, for the
facility of its entrance, and the difficulty with which authors return
from it; yet there is this difference, that a great genius can never
return to his former state, by a happy draught of the waters of oblivion.

I am now, Mr. Rambler, known to be an author, and am condemned,
irreversibly condemned, to all the miseries of high reputation. The first
morning after publication my friends assembled about me; I presented
each, as is usual, with a copy of my book. They looked into the first
pages, but were hindered, by their admiration, from reading further. The
first pages are, indeed, very elaborate. Some passages they particularly
dwelt upon, as more eminently beautiful than the rest; and some delicate
strokes, and secret elegancies, I pointed out to them, which had escaped
their observation. I then begged of them to forbear their compliments,
and invited them, I could do no less, to dine with me at a tavern.
After dinner, the book was resumed; but their praises very often so much
over-powered my modesty, that I was forced to put about the glass, and
had often no means of repressing the clamours of their admiration, but by
thundering to the drawer for another bottle.

Next morning another set of my acquaintance congratulated me upon my
performance, with such importunity of praise, that I was again forced
to obviate their civilities by a treat. On the third day, I had yet a
greater number of applauders to put to silence in the same manner; and,
on the fourth, those whom I had entertained the first day came again,
having, in the perusal of the remaining part of the book, discovered so
many forcible sentences and masterly touches, that it was impossible for
me to bear the repetition of their commendations. I therefore persuaded
them once more to adjourn to the tavern, and choose some other subject,
on which I might share in their conversation. But it was not in their
power to withhold their attention from my performance, which had so
entirely taken possession of their minds, that no entreaties of mine
could change their topick, and I was obliged to stifle, with claret, that
praise which neither my modesty could hinder, nor my uneasiness repress.

The whole week was thus spent in a kind of literary revel, and I have now
found that nothing is so expensive as great abilities, unless there is
joined with them an insatiable eagerness of praise; for to escape from
the pain of hearing myself exalted above the greatest names, dead and
living, of the learned world, it has already cost me two hogsheads of
port, fifteen gallons of arrack, ten dozen of claret, and five and forty
bottles of champagne.

I was resolved to stay at home no longer, and therefore rose early and
went to the coffee-house; but found that I had now made myself too
eminent for happiness, and that I was no longer to enjoy the pleasure
of mixing, upon equal terms, with the rest of the world. As soon as I
enter the room, I see part of the company raging with envy, which they
endeavour to conceal, sometimes with the appearance of laughter, and
sometimes with that of contempt; but the disguise is such, that I can
discover the secret rancour of their hearts, and as envy is deservedly
its own punishment, I frequently indulge myself in tormenting them with
my presence.

But though there may be some slight satisfaction received from the
mortification of my enemies, yet my benevolence will not suffer me to
take any pleasure in the terrours of my friends. I have been cautious,
since the appearance of my work, not to give myself more premeditated
airs of superiority, than the most rigid humility might allow. It is,
indeed, not impossible that I may sometimes have laid down my opinion,
in a manner that shewed a consciousness of my ability to maintain it, or
interrupted the conversation, when I saw its tendency, without suffering
the speaker to waste his time in explaining his sentiments; and, indeed,
I did indulge myself for two days in a custom of drumming with my
fingers, when the company began to lose themselves in absurdities, or
to encroach upon subjects which I knew them unqualified to discuss. But
I generally acted with great appearance of respect, even to those whose
stupidity I pitied in my heart. Yet, notwithstanding this exemplary
moderation, so universal is the dread of uncommon powers, and such the
unwillingness of mankind to be made wiser, that I have now for some days
found myself shunned by all my acquaintance. If I knock at a door, nobody
is at home; if I enter a coffee-house, I have the box to myself. I live
in the town like a lion in his desert, or an eagle on his rock, too great
for friendship or society, and condemned to solitude by unhappy elevation
and dreaded ascendency.

Nor is my character only formidable to others, but burdensome to myself.
I naturally love to talk without much thinking, to scatter my merriment
at random, and to relax my thoughts with ludicrous remarks and fanciful
images; but such is now the importance of my opinion, that I am afraid to
offer it, lest, by being established too hastily into a maxim, it should
be the occasion of errour to half the nation; and such is the expectation
with which I am attended, when I am going to speak, that I frequently
pause to reflect whether what I am about to utter is worthy of myself.

This, Sir, is sufficiently miserable; but there are still greater
calamities behind. You must have read in Pope and Swift how men of parts
have had their closets rifled, and their cabinets broke open, at the
instigation of piratical booksellers, for the profit of their works; and
it is apparent that there are many prints now sold in the shops, of men
whom you cannot suspect of sitting for that purpose, and whose likenesses
must have been certainly stolen when their names made their faces
vendible. These considerations at first put me on my guard, and I have,
indeed, found sufficient reason for my caution, for I have discovered
many people examining my countenance, with a curiosity that shewed their
intention to draw it; I immediately left the house, but find the same
behaviour in another.

Others may be persecuted, but I am haunted; I have good reason to believe
that eleven painters are now dogging me, for they know that he who can get
my face first will make his fortune. I often change my wig, and wear my
hat over my eyes, by which I hope somewhat to confound them; for you know
it is not fair to sell my face, without admitting me to share the profit.

I am, however, not so much in pain for my face as for my papers, which I
dare neither carry with me nor leave behind. I have, indeed, taken some
measures for their preservation, having put them in an iron chest, and
fixed a padlock upon my closet. I change my lodgings five times a week,
and always remove at the dead of night.

Thus I live, in consequence of having given too great proofs of a
predominant genius, in the solitude of a hermit, with the anxiety of
a miser, and the caution of an outlaw; afraid to shew my face lest it
should be copied; afraid to speak, lest I should injure my character;
and to write, lest my correspondents should publish my letters; always
uneasy lest my servants should steal my papers for the sake of money, or
my friends for that of the publick. This it is to soar above the rest of
mankind; and this representation I lay before you, that I may be informed
how to divest myself of the laurels which are so cumbersome to the
wearer, and descend to the enjoyment of that quiet, from which I find a
writer of the first class so fatally debarred.

MISELLUS.




No. 17. TUESDAY, MAY 15, 1750.


_----Me non oracula certum,_
_Sed mors certa facit. _
LUCAN, lib. ix. 582.

Let those weak minds, who live in doubt and fear,
To juggling priests for oracles repair;
One certain hour of death to each decreed,
My fixt, my certain soul from doubt has freed.
ROWE.


It is recorded of some eastern monarch, that he kept an officer in
his house, whose employment it was to remind him of his mortality,
by calling out every morning, at a stated hour, _Remember, prince, that
thou shalt die! _ And the contemplation of the frailness and uncertainty
of our present state appeared of so much importance to Solon of Athens,
that he left this precept to future ages; _Keep thine eye fixed upon
the end of life. _

A frequent and attentive prospect of that moment, which must put a
period to all our schemes, and deprive us of all our acquisitions, is
indeed of the utmost efficacy to the just and rational regulation of
our lives; nor would ever any thing wicked, or often any thing absurd,
be undertaken or prosecuted by him who should begin every day with a
serious reflection that he is born to die.

The disturbers of our happiness, in this world, are our desires, our
griefs, and our fears; and to all these, the consideration of mortality
is a certain and adequate remedy. Think, says Epictetus, frequently on
poverty, banishment, and death, and thou wilt then never indulge violent
desires, or give up thy heart to mean sentiments, ουδεν ουδεποτε ταπεινον
ενθυμηση, ουτε αγαν επιθυμησεις τινος.

That the maxim of Epictetus is founded on just observation will easily
be granted, when we reflect, how that vehemence of eagerness after
the common objects of pursuit is kindled in our minds. We represent
to ourselves the pleasures of some future possession, and suffer our
thoughts to dwell attentively upon it, till it has wholly engrossed
the imagination, and permits us not to conceive any happiness but
its attainment, or any misery but its loss; every other satisfaction
which the bounty of Providence has scattered over life is neglected as
inconsiderable, in comparison of the great object which we have placed
before us, and is thrown from us as incumbering our activity, or trampled
under foot as standing in our way.

Every man has experienced how much of this ardour has been remitted, when
a sharp or tedious sickness has set death before his eyes. The extensive
influence of greatness, the glitter of wealth, the praises of admirers,
and the attendance of supplicants, have appeared vain and empty things,
when the last hour seemed to be approaching: and the same appearance they
would always have, if the same thought was always predominant. We should
then find the absurdity of stretching out our arms incessantly to grasp
that which we cannot keep, and wearing out our lives in endeavours to
add new turrets to the fabrick of ambition, when the foundation itself
is shaking, and the ground on which it stands is mouldering away.

All envy is proportionate to desire; we are uneasy at the attainments
of another, according as we think our own happiness would be advanced by
the addition of that which he withholds from us; and therefore whatever
depresses immoderate wishes, will, at the same time, set the heart
free from the corrosion of envy, and exempt us from that vice which is,
above most others, tormenting to ourselves, hateful to the world, and
productive of mean artifices, and sordid projects. He that considers
how soon he must close his life, will find nothing of so much importance
as to close it well; and will, therefore, look with indifference upon
whatever is useless to that purpose. Whoever reflects frequently upon the
uncertainty of his own duration, will find out, that the state of others
is not more permanent, and that what can confer nothing on himself very
desirable, cannot so much improve the condition of a rival, as to make
him much superior to those from whom he has carried the prize--a prize
too mean to deserve a very obstinate opposition.

Even grief, that passion to which the virtuous and tender mind is
particularly subject, will be obviated or alleviated by the same
thoughts. It will be obviated, if all the blessings of our condition are
enjoyed with a constant sense of this uncertain tenure. If we remember,
that whatever we possess is to be in our hands but a very little time,
and that the little which our most lively hopes can promise us may be
made less by ten thousand accidents; we shall not much repine at a loss,
of which we cannot estimate the value, but of which, though we are not
able to tell the least amount, we know, with sufficient certainty, the
greatest; and are convinced that the greatest is not much to be regretted.

But, if any passion has so much usurped our understanding, as not to
suffer us to enjoy advantages with the moderation prescribed by reason, it
is not too late to apply this remedy, when we find ourselves sinking under
sorrow, and inclined to pine for that which is irrecoverably vanished. We
may then usefully revolve the uncertainty of our own condition, and the
folly of lamenting that from which, if it had stayed a little longer,
we should ourselves have been taken away.

With regard to the sharpest and most melting sorrow, that which arises
from the loss of those whom we have loved with tenderness, it may be
observed, that friendship between mortals can be contracted on no other
terms, than that one must some time mourn for the other's death: and this
grief will always yield to the survivor one consolation proportionate
to his affliction; for the pain, whatever it be, that he himself feels,
his friend has escaped.

Nor is fear, the most overbearing and resistless of all our passions,
less to be temperated by this universal medicine of the mind. The
frequent contemplation of death, as it shews the vanity of all human
good, discovers likewise the lightness of all terrestrial evil, which
certainly can last no longer than the subject upon which it acts; and
according to the old observation, must be shorter, as it is more
violent. The most cruel calamity which misfortune can produce, must,
by the necessity of nature, be quickly an at end. The soul cannot long
be held in prison, but will fly away, and leave a lifeless body to
human malice.

_----Ridetque sui ludibria trunci. _

And soaring mocks the broken frame below.

The utmost that we can threaten to one another is that death, which,
indeed, we may precipitate, but cannot retard, and from which, therefore,
it cannot become a wise man to buy a reprieve at the expense of virtue,
since he knows not how small a portion of time he can purchase, but
knows, that whether short or long, it will be made less valuable by the
remembrance of the price at which it has been obtained. He is sure that
he destroys his happiness, but is not sure that he lengthens his life.

The known shortness of life, as it ought to moderate our passions, may
likewise, with equal propriety, contract our designs. There is not time
for the most forcible genius, and most active industry, to extend its
effects beyond a certain sphere. To project the conquest of the world,
is the madness of mighty princes; to hope for excellence in every
science, has been the folly of literary heroes; and both have found at
last, that they have panted for a height of eminence denied to humanity,
and have lost many opportunities of making themselves useful and happy,
by a vain ambition of obtaining a species of honour, which the eternal
laws of Providence have placed beyond the reach of man.

The miscarriages of the great designs of princes are recorded in the
histories of the world, but are of little use to the bulk of mankind,
who seem very little interested in admonitions against errours which they
cannot commit. But the fate of learned ambition is a proper subject for
every scholar to consider; for who has not had occasion to regret the
dissipation of great abilities in a boundless multiplicity of pursuits,
to lament the sudden desertion of excellent designs, upon the offer of
some other subject made inviting by its novelty, and to observe the
inaccuracy and deficiencies of works left unfinished by too great an
extension of the plan?

It is always pleasing to observe, how much more our minds can conceive,
than our bodies can perform; yet it is our duty, while we continue in
this complicated state, to regulate one part of our composition by some
regard to the other. We are not to indulge our corporeal appetites with
pleasures that impair our intellectual vigour, nor gratify our minds with
schemes which we know our lives must fail in attempting to execute. The
uncertainty of our duration ought at once to set bounds to our designs,
and add incitements to our industry; and when we find ourselves inclined
either to immensity in our schemes, or sluggishness in our endeavours,
we may either check, or animate, ourselves, by recollecting, with the
father of physick, _that art is long, and life is short_.




No. 18. SATURDAY, MAY 19, 1750.


_Illic matre carentibus,_
_Privignis mulier temperat innocens,_
_Nec dotata regit virum_
_Conjux, nec nitido fidit adultero:_
_Dos est magna parentium_
_Virtus, et metuens alterius viri_
_Certo fœdere castitas. _
HOR. lib. iii. Ode xxiv. 17.

Not there the guiltless step-dame knows
The baleful draught for orphans to compose;
No wife high portion'd rules her spouse,
Or trusts her essenc'd lover's faithless vows:
The lovers there for dow'ry claim
The father's virtue, and the spotless fame,
Which dares not break the nuptial tie.
FRANCIS.


There is no observation more frequently made by such as employ themselves
in surveying the conduct of mankind, than that marriage, though the
dictate of nature, and the institution of Providence, is yet very often
the cause of misery, and that those who enter into that state can seldom
forbear to express their repentance, and their envy of those whom either
chance or caution hath withheld from it.

This general unhappiness has given occasion to many sage maxims among
the serious, and smart remarks among the gay; the moralist and the
writer of epigrams have equally shewn their abilities upon it; some have
lamented, and some have ridiculed it; but as the faculty of writing has
been chiefly a masculine endowment, the reproach of making the world
miserable has been always thrown upon the women, and the grave and the
merry have equally thought themselves at liberty to conclude either
with declamatory complaints, or satirical censures, of female folly or
fickleness, ambition or cruelty, extravagance or lust.

Led by such a number of examples, and incited by my share in the common
interest, I sometimes venture to consider this universal grievance,
having endeavoured to divest my heart of all partiality, and place
myself as a kind of neutral being between the sexes, whose clamours
being equally vented on both sides with all the vehemence of distress,
all the apparent confidence of justice, and all the indignation of
injured virtue, seem entitled to equal regard. The men have, indeed,
by their superiority of writing, been able to collect the evidence
of many ages, and raise prejudices in their favour by the venerable
testimonies of philosophers, historians, and poets; but the pleas of the
ladies appeal to passions of more forcible operation than the reverence
of antiquity. If they have not so great names on their side, they have
stronger arguments: it is to little purpose that Socrates, or Euripides,
are produced against the sighs of softness, and the tears of beauty. The
most frigid and inexorable judge would at least stand suspended between
equal powers, as Lucan was perplexed in the determination of the cause,
where the deities were on one side, and Cato on the other.

But I, who have long studied the severest and most abstracted philosophy,
have now, in the cool maturity of life, arrived at such command over
my passions, that I can hear the vociferations of either sex without
catching any of the fire from those that utter them. For I have found,
by long experience, that a man will sometimes rage at his wife, when
in reality his mistress has offended him; and a lady complain of the
cruelty of her husband, when she has no other enemy than bad cards.
I do not suffer myself to be any longer imposed upon by oaths on one
side, or fits on the other; nor when the husband hastens to the tavern,
and the lady retires to her closet, am I always confident that they
are driven by their miseries; since I have sometimes reason to believe,
that they purpose not so much to soothe their sorrows, as to animate their
fury. But how little credit soever may be given to particular accusations,
the general accumulation of the charge shews, with too much evidence, that
married persons are not very often advanced in felicity; and, therefore,
it may be proper to examine at what avenues so many evils have made
their way into the world. With this purpose, I have reviewed the lives
of my friends, who have been least successful in connubial contracts,
and attentively considered by what motives they were incited to marry,
and by what principles they regulated their choice.

One of the first of my acquaintances that resolved to quit the unsettled
thoughtless condition of a bachelor, was Prudentius, a man of slow parts,
but not without knowledge or judgment in things which he had leisure
to consider gradually before he determined them. Whenever we met at a
tavern, it was his province to settle the scheme of our entertainment,
contract with the cook, and inform us when we had called for wine to the
sum originally proposed. This grave considerer found, by deep meditation,
that a man was no loser by marrying early, even though he contented
himself with a less fortune; for estimating the exact worth of annuities,
he found that considering the constant diminution of the value of life,
with the probable fall of the interest of money, it was not worse to
have ten thousand pounds at the age of two and twenty years, than a much
larger fortune at thirty; for many opportunities, says he, occur of
improving money, which if a man misses, he may not afterwards recover.

Full of these reflections, he threw his eyes about him, not in search
of beauty or elegance, dignity or understanding, but of a woman with ten
thousand pounds. Such a woman, in a wealthy part of the kingdom, it was
not very difficult to find; and by artful management with her father,
whose ambition was to make his daughter a gentlewoman, my friend got
her, as he boasted to us in confidence two days after his marriage,
for a settlement of seventy-three pounds a year less than her fortune
might have claimed, and less than he would himself have given, if the
fools had been but wise enough to delay the bargain.

Thus, at once delighted with the superiority of his parts and the
augmentation of his fortune, he carried Furia to his own house, in which
he never afterwards enjoyed one hour of happiness. For Furia was a wretch
of mean intellects, violent passions, a strong voice, and low education,
without any sense of happiness but that which consisted in eating and
counting money. Furia was a scold. They agreed in the desire of wealth,
but with this difference, that Prudentius was for growing rich by gain,
Furia by parsimony. Prudentius would venture his money with chances
very much in his favour; but Furia very wisely observing, that what
they had was, while they had it, _their own_, thought all traffick
too great a hazard, and was for putting it out at low interest,
upon good security. Prudentius ventured, however, to insure a ship
at a very unreasonable price, but happening to lose his money, was
so tormented with the clamours of his wife, that he never durst try
a second experiment. He has now grovelled seven and forty years under
Furia's direction, who never once mentioned him, since his bad luck,
by any other name than that of _the insurer_.

The next that married from our society was Florentius. He happened to
see Zephyretta in a chariot at a horse-race, danced with her at night,
was confirmed in his first ardour, waited on her next morning, and
declared himself her lover. Florentius had not knowledge enough of
the world, to distinguish between the flutter of coquetry, and the
sprightliness of wit, or between the smile of allurement, and that of
cheerfulness. He was soon awaked from his rapture, by conviction that
his pleasure was but the pleasure of a day. Zephyretta had in four and
twenty hours spent her stock of repartee, gone round the circle of her
airs, and had nothing remaining for him but childish insipidity, or for
herself, but the practice of the same artifices upon new men.

Melissus was a man of parts, capable of enjoying and of improving life.