No More Learning

Leviculus was bred under a merchant, and by the
graces of his person, the sprightliness of his prattle, and the neatness
of his dress, so much enamoured his master's second daughter, a girl of
sixteen, that she declared her resolution to have no other husband. Her
father, after having chidden her for undutifulness, consented to the
match, not much to the satisfaction of Leviculus, who was sufficiently
elated with his conquest to think himself entitled to a larger fortune.
He was, however, soon rid of his perplexity, for his mistress died
before their marriage.

He was now so well satisfied with his own accomplishments, that he
determined to commence fortune-hunter; and when his apprenticeship
expired, instead of beginning, as was expected, to walk the Exchange
with a face of importance, or associating himself with those who were
most eminent for their knowledge of the stocks, he at once threw off the
solemnity of the counting-house, equipped himself with a modish wig,
listened to wits in coffee-houses, passed his evenings behind the scenes
in the theatres, learned the names of beauties of quality, hummed the
last stanzas of fashionable songs, talked with familiarity of high play,
boasted of his achievements upon drawers and coachmen, was often brought
to his lodgings at midnight in a chair, told with negligence and
jocularity of bilking a tailor, and now and then let fly a shrewd jest
at a sober citizen.

Thus furnished with irresistible artillery, he turned his batteries upon
the female world, and, in the first warmth of self-approbation, proposed
no less than the possession of riches and beauty united. He therefore
paid his civilities to Flavilla, the only daughter of a wealthy
shop-keeper, who not being accustomed to amorous blandishments, or
respectful addresses, was delighted with the novelty of love, and easily
suffered him to conduct her to the play, and to meet her where she
visited. Leviculus did not doubt but her father, however offended by a
clandestine marriage, would soon be reconciled by the tears of his
daughter, and the merit of his son-in-law, and was in haste to conclude
the affair. But the lady liked better to be courted than married, and
kept him three years in uncertainty and attendance. At last she fell in
love with a young ensign at a ball, and having danced with him all
night, married him in the morning.

Leviculus, to avoid the ridicule of his companions, took a journey to a
small estate in the country, where, after his usual inquiries concerning
the nymphs in the neighbourhood, he found it proper to fall in love with
Altilia, a maiden lady, twenty years older than himself, for whose
favour fifteen nephews and nieces were in perpetual contention. They
hovered round her with such jealous officiousness, as scarcely left a
moment vacant for a lover. Leviculus, nevertheless, discovered his
passion in a letter, and Altilia could not withstand the pleasure of
hearing vows and sighs, and flatteries and protestations. She admitted
his visits, enjoyed for five years the happiness of keeping all her
expectants in perpetual alarms, and amused herself with the various
stratagems which were practised to disengage her affections. Sometimes
she was advised with great earnestness to travel for her health, and
sometimes entreated to keep her brother's house. Many stories were
spread to the disadvantage of Leviculus, by which she commonly seemed
affected for a time, but took care soon afterwards to express her
conviction of their falsehood. But being at last satiated with this
ludicrous tyranny, she told her lover, when he pressed for the reward of
his services, that she was very sensible of his merit, but was resolved
not to impoverish an ancient family.

He then returned to the town, and soon after his arrival, became
acquainted with Latronia, a lady distinguished by the elegance of her
equipage, and the regularity of her conduct. Her wealth was evident in
her magnificence, and her prudence in her economy, and therefore
Leviculus, who had scarcely confidence to solicit her favour, readily
acquitted fortune of her former debts, when he found himself
distinguished by her with such marks of preference as a woman of modesty
is allowed to give. He now grew bolder, and ventured to breathe out his
impatience before her. She heard him without resentment, in time
permitted him to hope for happiness, and at last fixed the nuptial day,
without any distrustful reserve of pin-money, or sordid stipulations for
jointure, and settlements.

Leviculus was triumphing on the eve of marriage, when he heard on the
stairs the voice of Latronia's maid, whom frequent bribes had secured in
his service. She soon burst into his room, and told him that she could
not suffer him to be longer deceived; that her mistress was now spending
the last payment of her fortune, and was only supported in her expense
by the credit of his estate. Leviculus shuddered to see himself so near
a precipice, and found that he was indebted for his escape to the
resentment of the maid, who having assisted Latronia to gain the
conquest, quarrelled with her at last about the plunder.

Leviculus was now hopeless and disconsolate, till one Sunday he saw a
lady in the Mall, whom her dress declared a widow, and whom, by the
jolting prance of her gait, and the broad resplendence of her
countenance, he guessed to have lately buried some prosperous citizen.
He followed her home, and found her to be no less than the relict of
Prune the grocer, who, having no children, had bequeathed to her all his
debts and dues, and his estates real and personal. No formality was
necessary in addressing madam Prune, and therefore Leviculus went next
morning without an introductor. His declaration was received with a loud
laugh; she then collected her countenance, wondered at his impudence,
asked if he knew to whom he was talking, then shewed him the door, and
again laughed to find him confused. Leviculus discovered that this
coarseness was nothing more than the coquetry of Cornhill, and next day
returned to the attack. He soon grew familiar to her dialect, and in a
few weeks heard, without any emotion, hints of gay clothes with empty
pockets; concurred in many sage remarks on the regard due to people of
property; and agreed with her in detestation of the ladies at the other
end of the town, who pinched their bellies to buy fine laces, and then
pretended to laugh at the city.

He sometimes presumed to mention marriage; but was always answered with
a slap, a hoot, and a flounce. At last he began to press her closer, and
thought himself more favourably received; but going one morning, with a
resolution to trifle no longer, he found her gone to church with a young
journeyman from the neighbouring shop, of whom she had become enamoured
at her window.

In these, and a thousand intermediate adventures, has Leviculus spent
his time, till he is now grown grey with age, fatigue, and
disappointment. He begins at last to find that success is not to be
expected, and being unfit for any employment that might improve his
fortune, and unfurnished with any arts that might amuse his leisure, is
condemned to wear out a tasteless life in narratives which few will
hear, and complaints which none will pity.



No. 183. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 17, 1751.

_Nidla fides regni sociis, omnisque potestas
Impatiens consortis erit_. LUCAN. Lib. i. 92.

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

The hostility perpetually exercised between one man and another, is
caused by the desire of many for that which only few can possess. Every
man would be rich, powerful, and famous; yet fame, power, and riches are
only the names of relative conditions, which imply the obscurity,
dependance, and poverty of greater numbers. This universal and incessant
competition produces injury and malice by two motives, interest and
envy; the prospect of adding to our possessions what we can take from
others, and the hope of alleviating the sense of our disparity by
lessening others, though we gain nothing to ourselves.

Of these two malignant and destructive powers, it seems probable at the
first view, that interest has the strongest and most extensive
influence. It is easy to conceive that opportunities to seize what has
been long wanted, may excite desires almost irresistible; but surely the
same eagerness cannot be kindled by an accidental power of destroying
that which gives happiness to another. It must be more natural to rob
for gain, than to ravage only for mischief.

Yet I am inclined to believe, that the great law of mutual benevolence
is oftener violated by envy than by interest, and that most of the
misery which the defamation of blameless actions, or the obstruction of
honest endeavours, brings upon the world, is inflicted by men that
propose no advantage to themselves but the satisfaction of poisoning the
banquet which they cannot taste, and blasting the harvest which they
have no right to reap.

Interest can diffuse itself but to a narrow compass. The number is never
large of those who can hope to fill the posts of degraded power, catch
the fragments of shattered fortune, or succeed to the honours of
depreciated beauty. But the empire of envy has no limits, as it requires
to its influence very little help from external circumstances. Envy may
always be produced by idleness and pride, and in what place will they
not be found?

Interest requires some qualities not universally bestowed. The ruin of
another will produce no profit to him who has not discernment to mark
his advantage, courage to seize, and activity to pursue it; but the cold
malignity of envy may be exerted in a torpid and quiescent state, amidst
the gloom of stupidity, in the coverts of cowardice. He that falls by
the attacks of interest, is torn by hungry tigers; he may discover and
resist his enemies. He that perishes in the ambushes of envy, is
destroyed by unknown and invisible assailants, and dies like a man
suffocated by a poisonous vapour, without knowledge of his danger, or
possibility of contest.

Interest is seldom pursued but at some hazard. He that hopes to gain
much, has commonly something to lose, and when he ventures to attack
superiority, if he fails to conquer, is irrecoverably crushed. But envy
may act without expense or danger. To spread suspicion, to invent
calumnies, to propagate scandal, requires neither labour nor courage. It
is easy for the author of a lie, however malignant, to escape detection,
and infamy needs very little industry to assist its circulation.

Envy is almost the only vice which is practicable at all times, and in
every place; the only passion which can never lie quiet for want of
irritation: its effects therefore are every where discoverable, and its
attempts always to be dreaded.

It is impossible to mention a name which any advantageous distinction
has made eminent, but some latent animosity will burst out. The wealthy
trader, however he may abstract himself from publick affairs, will never
want those who hint, with Shylock, that ships are but boards. The
beauty, adorned only with the unambitious graces of innocence and
modesty, provokes, whenever she appears, a thousand murmurs of
detraction. The genius, even when he endeavours only to entertain or
instruct, yet suffers persecution from innumerable criticks, whose
acrimony is excited merely by the pain of seeing others pleased, and of
hearing applauses which another enjoys.

The frequency of envy makes it so familiar, that it escapes our notice;
nor do we often reflect upon its turpitude or malignity, till we happen
to feel its influence. When he that has given no provocation to malice,
but by attempting to excel, finds himself pursued by multitudes whom he
never saw, with all the implacability of personal resentment; when he
perceives clamour and malice let loose upon him as a publick enemy, and
incited by every stratagem of defamation; when he hears the misfortunes
of his family, or the follies of his youth, exposed to the world; and
every failure of conduct, or defect of nature, aggravated and ridiculed;
he then learns to abhor those artifices at which he only laughed before,
and discovers how much the happiness of life would be advanced by the
eradication of envy from the human heart.

Envy is, indeed, a stubborn weed of the mind, and seldom yields to the
culture of philosophy. There are, however, considerations, which, if
carefully implanted and diligently propagated, might in time overpower
and repress it, since no one can nurse it for the sake of pleasure, as
its effects are only shame, anguish, and perturbation. It is above all
other vices inconsistent with the character of a social being, because
it sacrifices truth and kindness to very weak temptations. He that
plunders a wealthy neighbour gains as much as he takes away, and may
improve his own condition in the same proportion as he impairs
another's; but he that blasts a flourishing reputation, must be content
with a small dividend of additional fame, so small as can afford very
little consolation to balance the guilt by which it is obtained.

I have hitherto avoided that dangerous and empirical morality, which
cures one vice by means of another. But envy is so base and detestable,
so vile in its original, and so pernicious in its effects, that the
predominance of almost any other quality is to be preferred. It is one
of those lawless enemies of society, against which poisoned arrows may
honestly be used. Let it therefore be constantly remembered, that
whoever envies another, confesses his superiority, and let those be
reformed by their pride who have lost their virtue.

It is no slight aggravation of the injuries which envy incites, that
they are committed against those who have given no intentional
provocation; and that the sufferer is often marked out for ruin, not
because he has failed in any duty, but because he has dared to do more
than was required.

Almost every other crime is practised by the help of some quality which
might have produced esteem or love, if it had been well employed; but
envy is mere unmixed and genuine evil; it pursues a hateful end by
despicable means, and desires not so much its own happiness as another's
misery. To avoid depravity like this, it is not necessary that any one
should aspire to heroism or sanctity, but only that he should resolve
not to quit the rank which nature assigns him, and wish to maintain the
dignity of a human being.



No. 184. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1751.

_Permittes ipsis expendere numinibus, quid
Conveniat nobis, rebusque sit utile nostris_. JUV. Sat. x. 347.

Intrust thy fortune to the pow'rs above;
Leave them to manage for thee, and to grant
What their unerring wisdom sees thee want. DRYDEN.

As every scheme of life, so every form of writing, has its advantages
and inconveniencies, though not mingled in the same proportions. The
writer of essays escapes many embarrassments to which a large work would
have exposed him; he seldom harasses his reason with long trains of
consequences, dims his eyes with the perusal of antiquated volumes, or
burthens his memory with great accumulations of preparatory knowledge. A
careless glance upon a favourite author, or transient survey of the
varieties of life, is sufficient to supply the first hint or seminal
idea, which, enlarged by the gradual accretion of matter stored in the
mind, is by the warmth of fancy easily expanded into flowers, and
sometimes ripened into fruit.

The most frequent difficulty by which the authors of these petty
compositions are distressed, arises from the perpetual demand of novelty
and change. The compiler of a system of science lays his invention at
rest, and employs only his judgment, the faculty exerted with least
fatigue. Even the relator of feigned adventures, when once the principal
characters are established, and the great events regularly connected,
finds incidents and episodes crowding upon his mind; every change opens
new views, and the latter part of the story grows without labour out of
the former. But he that attempts to entertain his reader with
unconnected pieces, finds the irksomeness of his task rather increased
than lessened by every production. The day calls afresh upon him for a
new topick, and he is again obliged to choose, without any principle to
regulate his choice.

It is indeed true, that there is seldom any necessity of looking far, or
inquiring long for a proper subject. Every diversity of art or nature,
every publick blessing or calamity, every domestick pain or
gratification, every sally of caprice, blunder of absurdity, or
stratagem of affectation, may supply matter to him whose only rule is to
avoid uniformity. But it often happens, that the judgment is distracted
with boundless multiplicity, the imagination ranges from one design to
another, and the hours pass imperceptibly away, till the composition can
be no longer delayed, and necessity enforces the use of those thoughts
which then happen to be at hand. The mind, rejoicing at deliverance on
any terms from perplexity and suspense, applies herself vigorously to
the work before her, collects embellishments and illustrations, and
sometimes finishes, with great elegance and happiness, what in a state
of ease and leisure she never had begun.

It is not commonly observed, how much, even of actions, considered as
particularly subject to choice, is to be attributed to accident, or some
cause out of our own power, by whatever name it be distinguished. To
close tedious deliberations with hasty resolves, and after long
consultations with reason to refer the question to caprice, is by no
means peculiar to the essayist. Let him that peruses this paper review
the series of his life, and inquire how he was placed in his present
condition. He will find, that of the good or ill which he has
experienced, a great part came unexpected, without any visible
gradations of approach; that every event has been influenced by causes
acting without his intervention; and that whenever he pretended to the
prerogative of foresight, he was mortified with new conviction of the
shortness of his views.

The busy, the ambitious, the inconstant, and the adventurous, may be
said to throw themselves by design into the arms of fortune, and
voluntarily to quit the power of governing themselves; they engage in a
course of life in which little can be ascertained by previous measures;
nor is it any wonder that their time is passed between elation and
despondency, hope and disappointment.

Some there are who appear to walk the road of life with more
circumspection, and make no step till they think themselves secure from
the hazard of a precipice, when neither pleasure nor profit can tempt
them from the beaten path; who refuse to climb lest they should fall, or
to run lest they should stumble, and move slowly forward without any
compliance with those passions by which the heady and vehement are
seduced and betrayed.

Yet even the timorous prudence of this judicious class is far from
exempting them from the dominion of chance, a subtle and insidious
power, who will intrude upon privacy and embarrass caution. No course of
life is so prescribed and limited, but that many actions must result
from arbitrary election. Every one must form the general plan of his
conduct by his own reflections; he must resolve whether he will
endeavour at riches or at content; whether he will exercise private or
publick virtues; whether he will labour for the general benefit of
mankind, or contract his beneficence to his family and dependants.

This question has long exercised the schools of philosophy, but remains
yet undecided; and what hope is there that a young man, unacquainted
with the arguments on either side, should determine his own destiny
otherwise than by chance?

When chance has given him a partner of his bed, whom he prefers to all
other women, without any proof of superior desert, chance must again
direct him in the education of his children; for, who was ever able to
convince himself by arguments, that he had chosen for his son that mode
of instruction to which his understanding was best adapted, or by which
he would most easily be made wise or virtuous?

Whoever shall inquire by what motives he was determined on these
important occasions, will find them such as his pride will scarcely
suffer him to confess; some sudden ardour of desire, some uncertain
glimpse of advantage, some petty competition, some inaccurate
conclusion, or some example implicitly reverenced. Such are often the
first causes of our resolves; for it is necessary to act, but impossible
to know the consequences of action, or to discuss all the reasons which
offer themselves on every part to inquisitiveness and solicitude.

Since life itself is uncertain, nothing which has life for its basis can
boast much stability. Yet this is but a small part of our perplexity. We
set out on a tempestuous sea in quest of some port, where we expect to
find rest, but where we are not sure of admission, we are not only in
danger of sinking in the way, but of being misled by meteors mistaken
for stars, of being driven from our course by the changes of the wind,
and of losing it by unskilful steerage; yet it sometimes happens, that
cross winds blow us to a safer coast, that meteors draw us aside from
whirlpools, and that negligence or errour contributes to our escape from
mischiefs to which a direct course would have exposed us. Of those that,
by precipitate conclusions, involve themselves in calamities without
guilt, very few, however they may reproach themselves, can be certain
that other measures would have been more successful.

In this state of universal uncertainty, where a thousand dangers hover
about us, and none can tell whether the good that he pursues is not evil
in disguise, or whether the next step will lead him to safety or
destruction, nothing can afford any rational tranquillity, but the
conviction that, however we amuse ourselves with unideal sounds, nothing
in reality is governed by chance, but that the universe is under the
perpetual superintendance of Him who created it; that our being is in
the hands of omnipotent Goodness, by whom what appears casual to us, is
directed for ends ultimately kind and merciful; and that nothing can
finally hurt him who debars not himself from the Divine favour.



No. 185. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1751.

_At vindicta bonum vita jucundius ipsa,
Nempe hoc indocti. --
Chrysippus non dicet idem, nec mite Thaletis
Ingenium, dulcique senex vicinus Hymetto,
Qui partem adceptæ sæva inter vincla Cicutæ
Adcusatori nollet dare. --
--Quippe minuti
Semper et infirmi est animi exiguique voluptas
Ultio_. JUV. Sat. xiii. 180.

_But O! revenge is sweet_.
Thus think the crowd; who, eager to engage,
Take quickly fire, and kindle into rage.
Not so mild Thales nor Chrysippus thought,
Nor that good man, who drank the poisonous draught.
With mind serene; and could not wish to see
His vile accuser drink as deep as he:
Exalted Socrates! divinely brave!
Injur'd he fell, and dying he forgave!
Too noble for revenge; which still we find
The weakest frailty of a feeble mind. DRYDEN.

No vicious dispositions of the mind more obstinately resist both the
counsels of philosophy and the injunctions of religion, than those which
are complicated with an opinion of dignity; and which we cannot dismiss
without leaving in the hands of opposition some advantage iniquitously
obtained, or suffering from our own prejudices some imputation of
pusillanimity.

For this reason scarcely any law of our Redeemer is more openly
transgressed, or more industriously evaded, than that by which he
commands his followers to forgive injuries, and prohibits, under the
sanction of eternal misery, the gratification of the desire which every
man feels to return pain upon him that inflicts it. Many who could have
conquered their anger, are unable to combat pride, and pursue offences
to extremity of vengeance, lest they should be insulted by the triumph
of an enemy.

But certainly no precept could better become him, at whose birth _peace_
was proclaimed _to the earth_. For, what would so soon destroy all the
order of society, and deform life with violence and ravage, as a
permission to every one to judge his own cause, and to apportion his own
recompense for imagined injuries?

It is difficult for a man of the strictest justice not to favour himself
too much, in the calmest moments of solitary meditation. Every one
wishes for the distinctions for which thousands are wishing at the same
time, in their own opinion, with better claims. He that, when his reason
operates in its full force, can thus, by the mere prevalence of
self-love, prefer himself to his fellow-beings, is very unlikely to
judge equitably when his passions are agitated by a sense of wrong, and
his attention wholly engrossed by pain, interest, or danger. Whoever
arrogates, to himself the right of vengeance, shews how little he is
qualified to decide his own claims, since he certainly demands what he
would think unfit to be granted to another.

Nothing is more apparent than that, however injured, or however
provoked, some must at last be contented to forgive. For it can never be
hoped, that he who first commits an injury, will contentedly acquiesce
in the penalty required: the same haughtiness of contempt, or vehemence
of desire, that prompt the act of injustice, will more strongly incite
its justification; and resentment can never so exactly balance the
punishment with the fault, but there will remain an overplus of
vengeance which even he who condemns his first action will think himself
entitled to retaliate. What then can ensue but a continual exacerbation
of hatred, an unextinguishable feud, an incessant reciprocation of
mischief, a mutual vigilance to entrap, and eagerness to destroy.

Since then the imaginary right of vengeance must be at last remitted,
because it is impossible to live in perpetual hostility, and equally
impossible that of two enemies, either should first think himself
obliged by justice to submission, it is surely eligible to forgive
early. Every passion is more easily subdued before it has been long
accustomed to possession of the heart; every idea is obliterated with
less difficulty, as it has been more slightly impressed, and less
frequently renewed. He who has often brooded over his wrongs, pleased
himself with schemes of malignity, and glutted his pride with the
fancied supplications of humbled enmity, will not easily open his bosom
to amity and reconciliation, or indulge the gentle sentiments of
benevolence and peace.

It is easiest to forgive, while there is yet little to be forgiven. A
single injury may be soon dismissed from the memory; but a long
succession of ill offices by degrees associates itself with every idea;
a long contest involves so many circumstances, that every place and
action will recall it to the mind, and fresh remembrance of vexation
must still enkindle rage, and irritate revenge.

A wise man will make haste to forgive, because he knows the true value
of time, and will not suffer it to pass away in unnecessary pain. He
that willingly suffers the corrosions of inveterate hatred, and gives up
his days and nights to the gloom of malice, and perturbations of
stratagem, cannot surely be said to consult his ease. Resentment is an
union of sorrow with malignity, a combination of a passion which all
endeavour to avoid, with a passion which all concur to detest. The man
who retires to meditate mischief, and to exasperate his own rage; whose
thoughts are employed only on means of distress and contrivances of
ruin; whose mind never pauses from the remembrance of his own
sufferings, but to indulge some hope of enjoying the calamities of
another, may justly be numbered among the most miserable of human
beings, among those who are guilty without reward, who have neither the
gladness of prosperity, nor the calm of innocence.

Whoever considers the weakness both of himself and others, will not long
want persuasives to forgiveness. We know not to what degree of malignity
any injury is to be imputed; or how much its guilt, if we were to
inspect the mind of him that committed it, would be extenuated by
mistake, precipitance, or negligence; we cannot be certain how much more
we feel than was intended to be inflicted, or how much we increase the
mischief to ourselves by voluntary aggravations. We may charge to design
the effects of accident; we may think the blow violent only because we
have made ourselves delicate and tender; we are on every side in danger
of errour and of guilt; which we are certain to avoid only by speedy
forgiveness.

From this pacifick and harmless temper, thus propitious to others and
ourselves, to domestick tranquillity and to social happiness, no man is
withheld but by pride, by the fear of being insulted by his adversary,
or despised by the world.

It may be laid down as an unfailing and universal axiom, that "all pride
is abject and mean. " It is always an ignorant, lazy, or cowardly
acquiescence in a false appearance of excellence, and proceeds not from
consciousness of our attainments, but insensibility of our wants.

Nothing can be great which is not right. Nothing which reason condemns
can be suitable to the dignity of the human mind. To be driven by
external motives from the path which our own heart approves, to give way
to any thing but conviction, to suffer the opinion of others to rule our
choice, or overpower our resolves, is to submit tamely to the lowest and
most ignominious slavery, and to resign the right of directing our own
lives.

The utmost excellence at which humanity can arrive, is a constant and
determinate pursuit of virtue, without regard to present dangers or
advantage; a continual reference of every action to the divine will; an
habitual appeal to everlasting justice; and an unvaried elevation of the
intellectual eye to the reward which perseverance only can obtain. But
that pride which many, who presume to boast of generous sentiments,
allow to regulate their measures, has nothing nobler in view than the
approbation of men, of beings whose superiority we are under no
obligation to acknowledge, and who, when we have courted them with the
utmost assiduity, can confer no valuable or permanent reward; of beings
who ignorantly judge of what they do not understand, or partially
determine what they never have examined; and whose sentence is therefore
of no weight till it has received the ratification of our own
conscience.

He that can descend to bribe suffrages like these, at the price of his
innocence; he that can suffer the delight of such acclamations to
withhold his attention from the commands of the universal Sovereign, has
little reason to congratulate himself upon the greatness of his mind;
whenever he awakes to seriousness and reflection, he must become
despicable in his own eyes, and shrink with shame from the remembrance
of his cowardice and folly.

Of him that hopes to be forgiven, it is indispensably required that he
forgive. It is therefore superfluous to urge any other motive. On this
great duty eternity is suspended, and to him that refuses to practise
it, the Throne of mercy is inaccessible, and the Saviour of the world
has been born in vain.



No. 186. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 28, 1751.

_Pone me, pigris ubi nulla campis
Arbor æstica recreatur aurâ--
Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
Dulce loquentem_. HOR. Lib. i. Ode xxii. 17.

Place me where never summer breeze
Unbinds the glebe, or warms the trees;
Where ever lowering clouds appear,
And angry Jove deforms th' inclement year:
Love and the nymph shall charm my toils,
The nymph, who sweetly speaks and sweetly smiles. FRANCIS.

Of the happiness and misery of our present state, part arises from our
sensations, and part from our opinions; part is distributed by nature,
and part is in a great measure apportioned by ourselves. Positive
pleasure we cannot always obtain, and positive pain we often cannot
remove. No man can give to his own plantations the fragrance of the
Indian groves; nor will any precepts of philosophy enable him to
withdraw his attention from wounds or diseases. But the negative
infelicity which proceeds, not from the pressure of sufferings, but the
absence of enjoyments, will always yield to the remedies of reason.

One of the great arts of escaping superfluous uneasiness, is to free our
minds from the habit of comparing our condition with that of others on
whom the blessings of life are more bountifully bestowed, or with
imaginary states of delight and security, perhaps unattainable by
mortals. Few are placed in a situation so gloomy and distressful, as not
to see every day beings yet more forlorn and miserable, from whom they
may learn to rejoice in their own lot.

No inconvenience is less superable by art or diligence than the
inclemency of climates, and therefore none affords more proper exercise
for this philosophical abstraction. A native of England, pinched with
the frosts of December, may lessen his affection for his own country by
suffering his imagination to wander in the vales of Asia, and sport
among the woods that are always green, and streams that always murmur;
but if he turns his thought towards the polar regions, and considers the
nations to whom a great portion of the year is darkness, and who are
condemned to pass weeks and months amidst mountains of snow, he will
soon recover his tranquillity, and, while he stirs his fire, or throws
his cloak about him, reflect how much he owes to Providence, that he is
not placed in Greenland or Siberia.

The barrenness of the earth and the severity of the skies in these
dreary countries, are such as might be expected to confine the mind
wholly to the contemplation of necessity and distress, so that the care
of escaping death from cold and hunger, should leave no room for those
passions which, in lands of plenty, influence conduct, or diversify
characters; the summer should be spent only in providing for the winter,
and the winter in longing for the summer.

Yet learned curiosity is known to have found its way into these abodes
of poverty and gloom: Lapland and Iceland have their historians, their
criticks, and their poets; and love, that extends his dominion wherever
humanity can be found, perhaps exerts the same power in the
Greenlander's hut as in the palaces of eastern monarchs.

In one of the large caves to which the families of Greenland retire
together, to pass the cold months, and which may be termed their
villages or cities, a youth and maid, who came from different parts of
the country, were so much distinguished for their beauty, that they were
called by the rest of the inhabitants Anningait and Ajut, from a
supposed resemblance to their ancestors of the same names, who had been
transformed of old into the sun and moon.

Anningait for some time heard the praises of Ajut with little emotion,
but at last, by frequent interviews, became sensible of her charms, and
first made a discovery of his affection, by inviting her with her
parents to a feast, where he placed before Ajut the tail of a whale.
Ajut seemed not much delighted by this gallantry; yet, however, from
that time was observed rarely to appear, but in a vest made of the skin
of a white deer; she used frequently to renew the black dye upon her
hands and forehead, to adorn her sleeves with coral and shells, and to
braid her hair with great exactness.

The elegance of her dress, and the judicious disposition of her
ornaments, had such an effect upon Anningait, that he could no longer be
restrained from a declaration of his love.
He therefore composed a poem
in her praise, in which, among other heroick and tender sentiments, he
protested, that "she was beautiful as the vernal willow, and fragrant as
the thyme upon the mountains; that her fingers were white as the teeth
of the morse, and her smile grateful as the dissolution of the ice; that
he would pursue her, though she should pass the snows of the midland
cliffs, or seek shelter in the caves of the eastern cannibals: that he
would tear her from the embraces of the genius of the rocks, snatch her
from the paws of Amarock, and rescue her from the ravine of Hafgufa. " He
concluded with a wish, that "whoever shall attempt to hinder his union
with Ajut, might be buried without his bow, and that, in the land of
souls, his skull might serve for no other use than to catch the
droppings of the starry lamps. "

This ode being universally applauded, it was expected that Ajut would
soon yield to such fervour and accomplishments; but Ajut, with the
natural haughtiness of beauty, expected all the forms of courtship; and
before she would confess herself conquered, the sun returned, the ice
broke, and the season of labour called all to their employments.

Anningait and Ajut for a time always went out in the same boat, and
divided whatever was caught. Anningait, in the sight of his mistress,
lost no opportunity of signalizing his courage: he attacked the
sea-horses on the ice; pursued the seals into the water, and leaped upon
the back of the whale, while he was yet struggling with the remains of
life. Nor was his diligence less to accumulate all that could be
necessary to make winter comfortable: he dried the roe of fishes and the
flesh of seals; he entrapped deer and foxes, and dressed their skins to
adorn his bride; he feasted her with eggs from the rocks, and strewed her
tent with flowers.

It happened that a tempest drove the fish to a distant part of the
coast, before Anningait had completed his store; he therefore entreated
Ajut, that she would at last grant him her hand, and accompany him to
that part of the country whither he was now summoned by necessity. Ajut
thought him not yet entitled to such condescension, but proposed, as a
trial of his constancy, that he should return at the end of summer to
the cavern where their acquaintance commenced, and there expect the
reward of his assiduities. "O virgin, beautiful as the sun shining on
the water, consider," said Anningait, "what thou hast required. How
easily may my return be precluded by a sudden frost or unexpected fogs!
then must the night be passed without my Ajut. We live not, my fair, in
those fabled countries, which lying strangers so wantonly describe;
where the whole year is divided into short days and nights; where the
same habitation serves for summer and winter; where they raise houses in
rows above the ground, dwell together from year to year, with flocks of
tame animals grazing in the fields about them; can travel at any time
from one place to another, through ways inclosed with trees, or over
walls raised upon the inland waters; and direct their course through
wide countries by the sight of green hills or scattered buildings. Even
in summer we have no means of crossing the mountains, whose snows are
never dissolved; nor can remove to any distant residence, but in our
boats coasting the bays. Consider, Ajut, a few summer-days, and a few
winter-nights, and the life of man is at an end. Night is the time of
ease and festivity, of revels and gaiety; but what will be the flaming
lamp, the delicious seal, or the soft oil, without the smile of Ajut? "

The eloquence of Anningait was vain; the maid continued inexorable, and
they parted with ardent promises to meet again before the night of
winter.



No. 187. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 31, 1751.

_Non illum nostri possunt mutare labores;
Non si frigoribus mediis Hebrunique bibamus,
Sithoniasque nives hyemis subeamus aquosae:--
Ominia vincit amor. Vinc. Ec. x. 64_.

Love alters not for us his hard decrees,
Not though beneath the Thracian clime we freeze,
Or the mild bliss of temperate skies forego,
And in raid winter tread Sithonian snow:--
Love conquers all. --DRYDEN.

Anningait, however discomposed by the dilatory coyness of Ajut, was yet
resolved to omit no tokens of amorous respect; and therefore presented
her at his departure with the skins of seven white fawns, of five swans
and eleven seals, with three marble lamps, ten vessels of seal oil, and
a large kettle of brass, which he had purchased from a ship, at the
price of half a whale, and two horns of sea-unicorns.

Ajut was so much affected by the fondness of her lover, or so much
overpowered by his magnificence, that she followed him to the sea-side;
and, when she saw him enter the boat, wished aloud, that he might return
with plenty of skins and oil; that neither the mermaids might snatch him
into the deeps, nor the spirits of the rocks confine him in their
caverns.

She stood a while to gaze upon the departing vessel, and then returning
to her hut, silent and dejected, laid aside, from that hour, her white
deer skin, suffered her hair to spread unbraided on her shoulders, and
forbore to mix in the dances of the maidens. She endeavoured to divert
her thoughts, by continual application to feminine employments, gathered
moss for the winter lamps, and dried grass to line the boots of
Anningait. Of the skins which he had bestowed upon her, she made a
fishing-coat, a small boat, and tent, all of exquisite manufacture; and
while she was thus busied, solaced her labours with a song, in which she
prayed, "that her lover might have hands stronger than the paws of the
bear, and feet swifter than the feet of the reindeer; that his dart
might never err, and that his boat might never leak; that he might never
stumble on the ice, nor faint in the water; that the seal might rush on
his harpoon, and the wounded whale might dash the waves in vain. "

The large boats in which the Greenlanders transport their families, are
always rowed by women; for a man will not debase himself by work, which
requires neither skill nor courage. Anningait was therefore exposed by
idleness to the ravages of passion. He went thrice to the stern of the
boat, with an intent to leap into the water, and swim back to his
mistress; but, recollecting the misery which they must endure in the
winter, without oil for the lamp, or skins for the bed, he resolved to
employ the weeks of absence in provision for a night of plenty and
felicity. He then composed his emotions as he could, and expressed, in
wild numbers and uncouth images, his hopes, his sorrows, and his fears.
"O life! " says he, "frail and uncertain! where shall wretched man find
thy resemblance, but in ice floating on the ocean? It towers on high, it
sparkles from afar, while the storms drive and the waters beat it, the
sun melts it above, and the rocks shatter it below. What art thou,
deceitful pleasure! but a sudden blaze streaming from the north, which
plays a moment on the eye, mocks the traveller with the hopes of light,
and then vanishes for ever? What, love, art thou but a whirlpool, which
we approach without knowledge of our danger, drawn on by imperceptible
degrees, till we have lost all power of resistance and escape? Till I
fixed my eyes on the graces of Ajut, while I had not yet called her to
the banquet, I was careless as the sleeping morse, was merry as the
singers in the stars. Why, Ajut, did I gaze upon thy graces? why, my
fair, did I call thee to the banquet? Yet, be faithful, my love,
remember Anningait, and meet my return with the smile of virginity. I
will chase the deer, I will subdue the whale, resistless as the frost of
darkness, and unwearied as the summer sun. In a few weeks I shall return
prosperous and wealthy; then shall the roe-fish and the porpoise feast
thy kindred; the fox and hare shall cover thy couch; the tough hide of
the seal shall shelter thee from cold; and the fat of the whale
illuminate thy dwelling. "

Anningait having with these sentiments consoled his grief, and animated
his industry, found that they had now coasted the headland, and saw the
whales spouting at a distance. He therefore placed himself in his
fishing-boat, called his associates to their several employments, plied
his oar and harpoon with incredible courage and dexterity; and, by
dividing his time between the chace and fishery, suspended the miseries
of absence and suspicion.

Ajut, in the mean time, notwithstanding her neglected dress, happened,
as she was drying some skins in the sun, to catch the eye of Norngsuk,
on his return from hunting. Norngsuk was of birth truly illustrious. His
mother had died in child-birth, and his father, the most expert fisher
of Greenland, had perished by too close pursuit of the whale. His
dignity was equalled by his riches; he was master of four men's and two
women's boats, had ninety tubs of oil in his winter habitation, and
five-and-twenty seals buried in the snow against the season of darkness.
When he saw the beauty of Ajut, he immediately threw over her the skin
of a deer that he had taken, and soon after presented her with a branch
of coral. Ajut refused his gifts, and determined to admit no lover in
the place of Anningait.

Norngsuk, thus rejected, had recourse to stratagem. He knew that Ajut
would consult an Angekkok, or diviner, concerning the fate of her lover,
and the felicity of her future life. He therefore applied himself to the
most celebrated Angekkok of that part of the country, and, by a present
of two seals and a marble kettle, obtained a promise, that when Ajut
should consult him, he would declare that her lover was in the land of
souls. Ajut, in a short time, brought him a coat made by herself, and
inquired what events were to befall her, with assurances of a much
larger reward at the return of Anningait, if the prediction should
flatter her desires. The Angekkok knew the way to riches, and foretold
that Anningait, having already caught two whales, would soon return home
with a large boat laden with provisions.

This prognostication she was ordered to keep secret; and Norngsuk
depending upon his artifice, renewed his addresses with greater
confidence; but finding his suit still unsuccessful, applied himself to
her parents with gifts and promises. The wealth of Greenland is too
powerful for the virtue of a Greenlander; they forgot the merit and the
presents of Anningait, and decreed Ajut to the embraces of Norngsuk. She
entreated; she remonstrated; she wept, and raved; but finding riches
irresistible, fled away into the uplands, and lived in a cave upon such
berries as she could gather, and the birds or hares which she had the
fortune to ensnare, taking care, at an hour when she was not likely to
be found, to view the sea every day, that her lover might not miss her
at his return.

At last she saw the great boat in which Anningait had departed, stealing
slow and heavy laden along the coast. She ran with all the impatience of
affection to catch her lover in her arms, and relate her constancy and
sufferings. When the company reached the land, they informed her that
Anningait, after the fishery was ended, being unable to support the slow
passage of the vessel of carriage, had set out before them in his
fishing-boat, and they expected at their arrival to have found him on
shore.

Ajut, distracted at this intelligence, was about to fly into the hills,
without knowing why, though she was now in the hands of her parents, who
forced her back to their own hut, and endeavoured to comfort her; but
when at last they retired to rest, Ajut went down to the beach; where,
finding a fishing-boat, she entered it without hesitation, and telling
those who wondered at her rashness, that she was going in search of
Anningait, rowed away with great swiftness, and was seen no more.

The fate of these lovers gave occasion to various fictions and
conjectures. Some are of opinion, that they were changed into stars;
others imagine, that Anningait was seized in his passage by the genius
of the rocks, and that Ajut was transformed into a mermaid, and still
continues to seek her lover in the deserts of the sea. But the general
persuasion is, that they are both in that part of the land of souls
where the sun never sets, where oil is always fresh, and provisions
always warm. The virgins sometimes throw a thimble and a needle into the
bay, from which the hapless maid departed; and when a Greenlander would
praise any couple for virtuous affection, he declares that they love
like Anningait and Ajut.



No. 188. SATURDAY, JANUARY 4, 1751.

--_Si te colo, Sexte, non amabo_. MART. Lib. ii. Ep. lv. 33.

The more I honour thee, the less I love.

None of the desires dictated by vanity is more general, or less
blamable, than that of being distinguished for the arts of conversation.
Other accomplishments may be possessed without opportunity of exerting
them, or wanted without danger that the defect can often be remarked;
but as no man can live, otherwise than in an hermitage, without hourly
pleasure or vexation, from the fondness or neglect of those about him,
the faculty of giving pleasure is of continual use. Few are more
frequently envied than those who have the power of forcing attention
wherever they come, whose entrance is considered as a promise of
felicity, and whose departure is lamented, like the recess of the sun
from northern climates, as a privation of all that enlivens fancy, or
inspirits gaiety.

It is apparent, that to excellence in this valuable art, some peculiar
qualifications are necessary; for every one's experience will inform
him, that the pleasure which men are able to give in conversation, holds
no stated proportion to their knowledge or their virtue. Many find their
way to the tables and the parties of those who never consider them as of
the least importance in any other place; we have all, at one time or
other, been content to love those whom we could not esteem, and been
persuaded to try the dangerous experiment of admitting him for a
companion, whom we knew to be too ignorant for a counsellor, and too
treacherous for a friend.

I question whether some abatement of character is not necessary to
general acceptance. Few spend their time with much satisfaction under
the eye of uncontestable superiority; and therefore, among those whose
presence is courted at assemblies of jollity, there are seldom found men
eminently distinguished for powers or acquisitions. The wit whose
vivacity condemns slower tongues to silence, the scholar whose knowledge
allows no man to fancy that he instructs him, the critick who suffers no
fallacy to pass undetected, and the reasoner who condemns the idle to
thought, and the negligent to attention, are generally praised and
feared, reverenced and avoided.

He that would please must rarely aim at such excellence as depresses his
hearers in their own opinion, or debars them from the hope of
contributing reciprocally to the entertainment of the company.
Merriment, extorted by sallies of imagination, sprightliness of remark,
or quickness of reply, is too often what the Latins call, the Sardinian
laughter, a distortion of the face without gladness of heart.

For this reason, no style of conversation is more extensively acceptable
than the narrative. He who has stored his memory with slight anecdotes,
private incidents, and personal peculiarities, seldom fails to find his
audience favourable. Almost every man listens with eagerness to
contemporary history; for almost every man has some real or imaginary
connexion with a celebrated character, some desire to advance or oppose
a rising name. Vanity often co-operates with curiosity. He that is a
hearer in one place, qualifies himself to become a speaker in another;
for though he cannot comprehend a series of argument, or transport the
volatile spirit of wit without evaporation, he yet thinks himself able
to treasure up the various incidents of a story, and please his hopes
with the information which he shall give to some inferior society.

Narratives are for the most part heard without envy, because they are
not supposed to imply any intellectual qualities above the common rate.
To be acquainted with facts not yet echoed by plebeian mouths, may
happen to one man as well as to another; and to relate them when they
are known, has in appearance so little difficulty, that every one
concludes himself equal to the task.

But it is not easy, and in some situations of life not possible, to
accumulate such a stock of materials as may support the expense of
continual narration; and it frequently happens, that they who attempt
this method of ingratiating themselves, please only at the first
interview; and, for want of new supplies of intelligence, wear out their
stories by continual repetition.

There would be, therefore, little hope of obtaining the praise of a good
companion, were it not to be gained by more compendious methods; but
such is the kindness of mankind to all, except those who aspire to real
merit and rational dignity, that every understanding may find some way
to excite benevolence; and whoever is not envied may learn the art of
procuring love. We are willing to be pleased, but are not willing to
admire: we favour the mirth or officiousness that solicits our regard,
but oppose the worth or spirit that enforces it.

The first place among those that please, because they desire only to
please, is due to the _merry fellow_, whose laugh is loud, and whose
voice is strong; who is ready to echo every jest with obstreperous
approbation, and countenance every frolick with vociferations of
applause. It is not necessary to a merry fellow to have in himself any
fund of jocularity, or force of conception; it is sufficient that he
always appears in the highest exaltation of gladness, for the greater
part of mankind are gay or serious by infection, and follow without
resistance the attraction of example.

Next to the merry fellow is the _good-natured man_, a being generally
without benevolence, or any other virtue, than such as indolence and
insensibility confer. The characteristick of a good-natured man is to
bear a joke; to sit unmoved and unaffected amidst noise and turbulence,
profaneness and obscenity; to hear every tale without contradiction; to
endure insult without reply; and to follow the stream of folly, whatever
course it shall happen to take. The good-natured man is commonly the
darling of the petty wits, with whom they exercise themselves in the
rudiments of raillery; for he never takes advantage of failings, nor
disconcerts a puny satirist with unexpected sarcasms; but while the
glass continues to circulate, contentedly bears the expense of an
uninterrupted laughter, and retires rejoicing at his own importance.

The _modest man_ is a companion of a yet lower rank, whose only power of
giving pleasure is not to interrupt it. The modest man satisfies himself
with peaceful silence, which all his companions are candid enough to
consider as proceeding not from inability to speak, but willingness to
hear.

Many, without being able to attain any general character of excellence,
have some single art of entertainment which serves them as a passport
through the world. One I have known for fifteen years the darling of a
weekly club, because every night, precisely at eleven, he begins his
favourite song, and during the vocal performance, by corresponding
motions of his hand, chalks out a giant upon the wall. Another has
endeared himself to a long succession of acquaintances by sitting among
them with his wig reversed; another by contriving to smut the nose of
any stranger who was to be initiated in the club; another by purring
like a cat, and then pretending to be frighted; and another by yelping
like a hound, and calling to the drawers to drive out the dog[k].

Such are the arts by which cheerfulness is promoted, and sometimes
friendship established; arts, which those who despise them should not
rigorously blame, except when they are practised at the expense of
innocence; for it is always necessary to be loved, but not always
necessary to be reverenced.



No. 189. TUESDAY, JANUARY 7, 1752.

_Quod tam grande Sophos clamat tibi turba togata;
Non tu, Pomponi; caena diserta tua est_. MART. Lib. vi. Ep. xlviii.

Resounding plaudits though the crowd have rung;
Thy treat is eloquent, and not thy tongue. F. LEWIS.

The world scarcely affords opportunities of making any
observation more frequently, than on false claims to commendation.
Almost every man wastes part of his life in attempts to display
qualities which he does not possess, and to gain applause which he
cannot keep; so that scarcely can two persons casually meet, but one is
offended or diverted by the ostentation of the other.

Of these pretenders it is fit to distinguish those who endeavour to
deceive from them who are deceived; those who by designed impostures
promote their interest, or gratify their pride, from them who mean only
to force into regard their latent excellencies and neglected virtues;
who believe themselves qualified to instruct or please, and therefore
invite the notice of mankind.

The artful and fraudulent usurpers of distinction deserve greater
severities than ridicule and contempt, since they are seldom content
with empty praise, but are instigated by passions more pernicious than
vanity. They consider the reputation which they endeavour to establish
as necessary to the accomplishment of some subsequent design, and value
praise only as it may conduce to the success of avarice or ambition.

The commercial world is very frequently put into confusion by the
bankruptcy of merchants, that assumed the splendour of wealth only to
obtain the privilege of trading with the stock of other men, and of
contracting debts which nothing but lucky casualties could enable them
to pay; till after having supported their appearance a while by
tumultuous magnificence of boundless traffick, they sink at once, and
drag down into poverty those whom their equipages had induced to trust
them.

Among wretches that place their happiness in the favour of the great, of
beings whom only high titles or large estates set above themselves,
nothing is more common than to boast of confidence which they do not
enjoy; to sell promises which they know their interest unable to
perform; and to reimburse the tribute which they pay to an imperious
master, from the contributions of meaner dependants, whom they can amuse
with tales of their influence, and hopes of their solicitation.

Even among some, too thoughtless and volatile for avarice or ambition,
may be found a species of falsehood more detestable than the levee or
exchange can shew. There are men that boast of debaucheries, of which
they never had address to be guilty; ruin, by lewd tales, the characters
of women to whom they are scarcely known, or by whom they have been
rejected; destroy in a drunken frolick the happiness of families; blast
the bloom of beauty, and intercept the reward of virtue.

Other artifices of falsehood, though utterly unworthy of an ingenuous
mind, are not yet to be ranked with flagitious enormities, nor is it
necessary to incite sanguinary justice against them, since they may be
adequately punished by detection and laughter. The traveller who
describes cities which he has never seen; the squire, who, at his return
from London, tells of his intimacy with nobles to whom he has only bowed
in the park or coffee-house; the author who entertains his admirers with
stories of the assistance which he gives to wits of a higher rank; the
city dame who talks of her visits at great houses, where she happens to
know the cook-maid, are surely such harmless animals as truth herself
may be content to despise without desiring to hurt them.

But of the multitudes who struggle in vain for distinction, and display
their own merits only to feel more acutely the sting of neglect, a great
part are wholly innocent of deceit, and are betrayed, by infatuation and
credulity, to that scorn with which the universal love of praise incites
us all to drive feeble competitors out of our way.

Few men survey themselves with so much severity, as not to admit
prejudices in their own favour, which an artful flatterer may gradually
strengthen, till wishes for a particular qualification are improved to
hopes of attainment, and hopes of attainment to belief of possession.
Such flatterers every one will find, who has power to reward their
assiduities. Wherever there is wealth there will be dependance and
expectation, and wherever there is dependance, there will be an
emulation of servility.

Many of the follies which provoke general censure, are the effects of
such vanity as, however it might have wantoned in the imagination, would
scarcely have dared the publick eye, had it not been animated and
emboldened by flattery. Whatever difficulty there may be in the
knowledge of ourselves, scarcely any one fails to suspect his own
imperfections, till he is elevated by others to confidence. We are
almost all naturally modest and timorous; but fear and shame are uneasy
sensations, and whosoever helps to remove them is received with
kindness.

Turpicula was the heiress of a large estate, and having lost her mother
in her infancy, was committed to a governess, whom misfortunes had
reduced to suppleness and humility. The fondness of Turpicula's father
would not suffer him to trust her at a publick school, but he hired
domestick teachers, and bestowed on her all the accomplishments that
wealth could purchase. But how many things are necessary to happiness
which money cannot obtain! Thus secluded from all with whom she might
converse on terms of equality, she heard none of those intimations of
her defects, which envy, petulance, or anger, produce among children,
where they are not afraid of telling what they think.

Turpicula saw nothing but obsequiousness, and heard nothing but
commendations. None are so little acquainted with the heart, as not to
know that woman's first wish is to be handsome, and that consequently
the readiest method of obtaining her kindness is to praise her beauty.
Turpicula had a distorted shape and a dark complexion; yet, when the
impudence of adulation had ventured to tell her of the commanding
dignity of her motion, and the soft enchantment of her smile, she was
easily convinced, that she was the delight or torment of every eye, and
that all who gazed upon her felt the fire of envy or love. She therefore
neglected the culture of an understanding which might have supplied the
defects of her form, and applied all her care to the decoration of her
person; for she considered that more could judge of beauty than of wit,
and was, like the rest of human beings, in haste to be admired. The
desire of conquest naturally led her to the lists in which beauty
signalizes her power. She glittered at court, fluttered in the park, and
talked aloud in the front box; but after a thousand experiments of her
charms, was at last convinced that she had been flattered, and that her
glass was honester than her maid.

[Footnote k: Mrs. Piozzi, in her Anecdotes, informs us, that the man who
sung, and, by corresponding motions of his arm, chalked out a giant on
the wall, was one Richardson, an attorney: the ingenious imitator of a
cat, was one Busby, a proctor in the Commons: and the father of Dr.
Salter, of the Charter-House, a friend of Johnson's, and a member of the
Ivy-Lane Club, was the person who yelped like a hound, and perplexed the
distracted waiters. --Mr. Chalmers, in his preface to the Rambler,
observes, that the above-quoted lively writer was the only authority for
these assignments. She is certainly far too hasty and negligent to be
relied on, when unsupported by other testimony. --See Preface. ]



No. 190. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 11, 1752.

_Ploravere suis non respondere favorem
Speratum meritis_. --HOR. Lib. ii. Ep. i. 9.

Henry and Alfred--
Clos'd their long glories with a sigh, to find
Th' unwilling gratitude of base mankind. POPE.

Among the emirs and visiers, the sons of valour and of wisdom, that
stand at the corners of the Indian throne, to assist the counsels or
conduct the wars of the posterity of Timur, the first place was long
held by Morad the son of Hanuth. Morad, having signalized himself in
many battles and sieges, was rewarded with the government of a province,
from which the fame of his wisdom and moderation was wafted to the
pinnacles of Agra, by the prayers of those whom his administration made
happy. The emperour called him into his presence, and gave into his hand
the keys of riches, and the sabre of command. The voice of Morad was
heard from the cliffs of Taurus to the Indian ocean, every tongue
faultered in his presence, and every eye was cast down before him.

Morad lived many years in prosperity; every day increased his wealth,
and extended his influence. The sages repeated his maxims, the captains
of thousands waited his commands. Competition withdrew into the cavern
of envy, and discontent trembled at his own murmurs. But human greatness
is short and transitory, as the odour of incense in the fire. The sun
grew weary of gilding the palaces of Morad, the clouds of sorrow
gathered round his head, and the tempest of hatred roared about his
dwelling.

Morad saw ruin hastily approaching. The first that forsook him were his
poets; their example was followed by all those whom he had rewarded for
contributing to his pleasures, and only a few, whose virtue had entitled
them to favour, were now to be seen in his hall or chambers. He felt his
danger, and prostrated himself at the foot of the throne. His accusers
were confident and loud, his friends stood contented with frigid
neutrality, and the voice of truth was overborne by clamour. He was
divested of his power, deprived of his acquisitions, and condemned to
pass the rest of his life on his hereditary estate.

Morad had been so long-accustomed to crowds and business, supplicants
and flattery, that he knew not how to fill up his hours in solitude; he
saw with regret the sun rise to force on his eye a new day for which he
had no use; and envied the savage that wanders in the desert, because he
has no time vacant from the calls of nature, but is always chasing his
prey, or sleeping in his den.

His discontent in time vitiated his constitution, and a slow disease
seized upon him. He refused physick, neglected exercise, and lay down on
his couch peevish and restless, rather afraid to die than desirous to
live. His domesticks, for a time, redoubled their assiduities; but
finding that no officiousness could soothe, nor exactness satisfy, they
soon gave way to negligence and sloth; and he that once commanded
nations, often languished in his chamber without an attendant.

In this melancholy state, he commanded messengers to recall his eldest
son Abouzaid from the army. Abouzaid was alarmed at the account of his
father's sickness, and hasted by long journeys to his place of
residence. Morad was yet living, and felt his strength return at the
embraces of his son; then commanding him to sit down at his bedside,
"Abouzaid," says he, "thy father has no more to hope or fear from the
inhabitants of the earth; the cold hand of the angel of death is now
upon him, and the voracious grave is howling for his prey. Hear,
therefore, the precepts of ancient experience, let not my last
instructions issue forth in vain. Thou hast seen me happy and
calamitous, thou hast beheld my exaltation and my fall. My power is in
the hands of my enemies, my treasures have rewarded my accusers; but my
inheritance, the clemency of the emperour has spared, and my wisdom his
anger could not take away. Cast thine eyes around thee; whatever thou
beholdest will, in a few hours, be thine: apply thine ear to my
dictates, and these possessions will promote thy happiness. Aspire not
to public honours, enter not the palaces of kings; thy wealth will set
thee above insult, let thy moderation keep thee below envy. Content
thyself with private dignity, diffuse thy riches among thy friends, let
every day extend thy beneficence, and suffer not thy heart to be at rest
till thou art loved by all to whom thou art known. In the height of my
power, I said to defamation, Who will hear thee?