No More Learning

I have from that time frequently revolved in my mind, the effects which
the observation of death produces, in those who are not wholly without
the power and use of reflection; for, by far the greater part, it is
wholly unregarded. Their friends and their enemies sink into the grave
without raising any uncommon emotion, or reminding them that they are
themselves on the edge of the precipice, and that they must soon plunge
into a gulf of eternity.

It seems to me remarkable that death increases our veneration for the
good, and extenuates our hatred of the bad. Those virtues which once
we envied, as Horace observes, because they eclipsed our own, can now
no longer obstruct our reputation, and we have therefore no interest to
suppress their praise. That wickedness, which we feared for its malignity,
is now become impotent, and the man whose name filled us with alarm, and
rage, and indignation, can at last be considered only with pity, or
contempt.

When a friend is carried to his grave, we at once find excuses for
every weakness, and palliations of every fault; we recollect a thousand
endearments, which before glided off our minds without impression, a
thousand favours unrepaid, a thousand duties unperformed, and wish,
vainly wish, for his return, not so much that we may receive, as that we
may bestow happiness, and recompense that kindness which before we never
understood.

There is not, perhaps, to a mind well instructed, a more painful
occurrence, than the death of one whom we have injured without
reparation. Our crime seems now irretrievable, it is indelibly recorded,
and the stamp of fate is fixed upon it. We consider, with the most
afflictive anguish, the pain which we have given, and now cannot
alleviate, and the losses which we have caused, and now cannot repair.

Of the same kind are the emotions which the death of an emulator or
competitor produces. Whoever had qualities to alarm our jealousy, had
excellence to deserve our fondness; and to whatever ardour of opposition
interest may inflame us, no man ever outlived an enemy, whom he did not
then wish to have made a friend. Those who are versed in literary history
know, that the elder Scaliger was the redoubted antagonist of Cardan
and Erasmus; yet at the death of each of his great rivals he relented,
and complained that they were snatched away from him before their
reconciliation was completed:

_Tu-ne etiam moreris? Ah! quid me linquis, Erasme,_
_Ante meus quam sit conciliatus amor? _

Art thou too fallen? Ere anger could subside
And love return, has great Erasmus died?

Such are the sentiments with which we finally review the effects of
passion, but which we sometimes delay till we can no longer rectify our
errours. Let us, therefore, make haste to do what we shall certainly at
last wish to have done; let us return the caresses of our friends, and
endeavour by mutual endearments to heighten that tenderness which is
the balm of life. Let us be quick to repent of injuries while repentance
may not be a barren anguish, and let us open our eyes to every rival
excellence, and pay early and willingly those honours which justice will
compel us to pay at last.

ATHANATUS.




No. 55. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1750.


_Maturo propior desine funeri_
_Inter ludere virgines,_
_Et stellis nebulam spargere candidis. _
_Non siquid Pholoen satis,_
_Et te, Chlori, decet. _
HOR. Lib. iii. Ode xv. 4.

Now near to death that comes but slow,
Now thou art stepping down below;
Sport not amongst the blooming maids,
But think on ghosts and empty shades:
What suits with Pholoe in her bloom,
Grey Chloris, will not thee become;
A bed is different from a tomb.
CREECH.


TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

I have been but a little time conversant in the world, yet I have
already had frequent opportunities of observing the little efficacy of
remonstrance and complaint, which, however extorted by oppression, or
supported by reason, are detested by one part of the world as rebellion,
censured by another as peevishness, by some heard with an appearance
of compassion, only to betray any of those sallies of vehemence and
resentment, which are apt to break out upon encouragement, and by others
passed over with indifference and neglect, as matters in which they have
no concern, and which if they should endeavour to examine or regulate,
they might draw mischief upon themselves.

Yet since it is no less natural for those who think themselves injured to
complain, than for others to neglect their complaints, I shall venture to
lay my case before you, in hopes that you will enforce my opinion, if you
think it just, or endeavour to rectify my sentiments, if I am mistaken.
I expect at least, that you will divest yourself of partiality, and that
whatever your age or solemnity may be, you will not, with the dotard's
insolence, pronounce me ignorant and foolish, perverse and refractory,
only because you perceive that I am young.

My father dying when I was but ten years old, left me, and a brother two
years younger than myself, to the care of my mother, a woman of birth
and education, whose prudence or virtue he had no reason to distrust.
She felt, for some time, all the sorrow which nature calls forth, upon
the final separation of persons dear to one another; and as her grief was
exhausted by its own violence, it subsided into tenderness for me and my
brother, and the year of mourning was spent in caresses, consolations,
and instruction, in celebration of my father's virtues, in professions of
perpetual regard to his memory, and hourly instances of such fondness as
gratitude will not easily suffer me to forget.

But when the term of this mournful felicity was expired, and my mother
appeared again without the ensigns of sorrow, the ladies of her
acquaintance began to tell her, upon whatever motives, that it was time
to live like the rest of the world; a powerful argument, which is seldom
used to a woman without effect. Lady Giddy was incessantly relating
the occurrences of the town, and Mrs. Gravely told her privately, with
great tenderness, that it began to be publickly observed how much she
overacted her part, and that most of her acquaintance suspected her hope
of procuring another husband to be the true ground of all that appearance
of tenderness and piety.

All the officiousness of kindness and folly was busied to change her
conduct. She was at one time alarmed with censure, and at another fired
with praise. She was told of balls, where others shone only because
she was absent; of new comedies, to which all the town was crowding;
and of many ingenious ironies, by which domestick diligence was made
contemptible.

It is difficult for virtue to stand alone against fear on one side, and
pleasure on the other; especially when no actual crime is proposed, and
prudence itself can suggest many reasons for relaxation and indulgence.
My mamma was at last persuaded to accompany Miss Giddy to a play. She
was received with a boundless profusion of compliments, and attended
home by a very fine gentleman. Next day she was with less difficulty
prevailed on to play at Mrs. Gravely's, and came home gay and lively;
for the distinctions that had been paid her awakened her vanity, and good
luck had kept her principles of frugality from giving her disturbance.
She now made her second entrance into the world, and her friends were
sufficiently industrious to prevent any return to her former life; every
morning brought messages of invitation, and every evening was passed in
places of diversion, from which she for some time complained that she
had rather be absent. In a short time she began to feel the happiness
of acting without controul, of being unaccountable for her hours, her
expenses, and her company; and learned by degrees to drop an expression
of contempt, or pity, at the mention of ladies whose husbands were
suspected of restraining their pleasures, or their play, and confessed
that she loved to go and come as she pleased.

I was still favoured with some incidental precepts and transient
endearments, and was now and then fondly kissed for smiling like my
papa: but most part of her morning was spent in comparing the opinion of
her maid and milliner, contriving some variation in her dress, visiting
shops, and sending compliments; and the rest of the day was too short for
visits, cards, plays, and concerts.

She now began to discover that it was impossible to educate children
properly at home. Parents could not have them always in their sight; the
society of servants was contagious; company produced boldness and spirit;
emulation excited industry; and a large school was naturally the first
step into the open world. A thousand other reasons she alleged, some of
little force in themselves, but so well seconded by pleasure, vanity, and
idleness, that they soon overcame all the remaining principles of kindness
and piety, and both I and my brother were despatched to boarding schools.

How my mamma spent her time when she was thus disburthened I am not able
to inform you, but I have reason to believe that trifles and amusements
took still faster hold of her heart. At first, she visited me at school,
and afterwards wrote to me; but in a short time, both her visits and her
letters were at an end, and no other notice was taken of me than to remit
money for my support.

When I came home at the vacation, I found myself coldly received, with an
observation, "that this girl will presently be a woman. " I was, after the
usual stay, sent to school again, and overheard my mother say, as I was
a-going, "Well, now I shall recover. "

In six months more I came again, and, with the usual childish alacrity,
was running to my mother's embrace, when she stopt me with exclamations
at the suddenness and enormity of my growth, having, she said, never seen
any body shoot up so much at my age. She was sure no other girls spread
at that rate, and she hated to have children look like women before their
time. I was disconcerted, and retired without hearing any thing more than
"Nay, if you are angry, Madam Steeple, you may walk off. "

When once the forms of civility are violated, there remains little hope
of return to kindness or decency. My mamma made this appearance of
resentment a reason for continuing her malignity; and poor Miss May-pole,
for that was my appellation, was never mentioned or spoken to but, with
some expression of anger or dislike.

She had yet the pleasure of dressing me like a child, and I know not when
I should have been thought fit to change my habit, had I not been rescued
by a maiden sister of my father, who could not bear to see women in
hanging-sleeves, and therefore presented me with brocade for a gown, for
which I should have thought myself under great obligations, had she not
accompanied her favour with some hints that my mamma might now consider
her age, and give me her ear-rings, which she had shewn long enough in
publick places.

I now left the school, and came to live with my mamma, who considered me
as an usurper that had seized the rights of a woman before they were due,
and was pushing her down the precipice of age, that I might reign without
a superior. While I am thus beheld with jealousy and suspicion, you will
readily believe that it is difficult to please. Every word and look is an
offence. I never speak, but I pretend to some qualities and excellencies
which it is criminal to possess; if I am gay, she thinks it early enough
to coquette; if I am grave, she hates a prude in bibs; if I venture into
company, I am in haste for a husband; if I retire to my chamber, such
matron-like ladies are lovers of contemplation. I am on one pretence or
other generally excluded from her assemblies, nor am I ever suffered to
visit at the same place with my mamma. Every one wonders why she does
not bring Miss more into the world, and when she comes home in vapours I
am certain that she has heard either of my beauty or my wit, and expect
nothing for the ensuing week but taunts and menaces, contradiction and
reproaches.

Thus I live in a state of continual persecution, only because I was born
ten years too soon, and cannot stop the course of nature or of time, but
am unhappily a woman before my mother can willingly cease to be a girl.
I believe you would contribute to the happiness of many families, if, by
any arguments or persuasions, you could make mothers ashamed of rivalling
their children; if you could shew them, that though they may refuse to
grow wise, they must inevitably grow old; and that the proper solaces of
age are not musick and compliments, but wisdom and devotion; that those
who are so unwilling to quit the world will soon be driven from it; and
that it is therefore their interest to retire while there yet remain a
few hours for nobler employments.

I am, &c.




No. 56. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1750.


_----Valeat res ludicra, si me_
_Palma negata macrum, donata reducit opimum. _
HOR. Lib. ii. Ep. i. 180.

Farewell the stage; for humbly I disclaim
Such fond pursuits of pleasure, or of fame,
If I must sink in shame, or swell with pride,
As the gay palm is granted or denied.
FRANCIS.


Nothing is more unpleasing than to find that offence has been received
when none was intended, and that pain has been given to those who were
not guilty of any provocation. As the great end of society is mutual
beneficence, a good man is always uneasy when he finds himself acting in
opposition to the purposes of life; because, though his conscience may
easily acquit him of _malice prepense_, of settled hatred or contrivances
of mischief, yet he seldom can be certain, that he has not failed by
negligence, or indolence; that he has not been hindered from consulting
the common interest by too much regard to his own ease, or too much
indifference to the happiness of others.

Nor is it necessary, that, to feel this uneasiness, the mind should be
extended to any great diffusion of generosity, or melted by uncommon
warmth of benevolence; for that prudence which the world teaches, and a
quick sensibility of private interest, will direct us to shun needless
enmities; since there is no man whose kindness we may not some time want,
or by whose malice we may not some time suffer.

I have therefore frequently looked with wonder, and now and then with
pity, at the thoughtlessness with which some alienate from themselves
the affections of all whom chance, business, or inclination, brings in
their way. When we see a man pursuing some darling interest, without
much regard to the opinion of the world, we justly consider him as
corrupt and dangerous, but are not long in discovering his motives; we
see him actuated by passions which are hard to be resisted, and deluded
by appearances which have dazzled stronger eyes. But the greater part of
those who set mankind at defiance by hourly irritation, and who live but
to infuse malignity, and multiply enemies, have no hopes to foster, no
designs to promote, nor any expectations of attaining power by insolence,
or of climbing to greatness by trampling on others. They give up all the
sweets of kindness, for the sake of peevishness, petulance, or gloom; and
alienate the world by neglect of the common forms of civility, and breach
of the established laws of conversation.

Every one must, in the walks of life, have met with men of whom all speak
with censure, though they are not chargeable with any crime, and whom
none can be persuaded to love, though a reason can scarcely be assigned
why they should be hated; and who, if their good qualities and actions
sometimes force a commendation, have their panegyrick always concluded
with confessions of disgust; "he is a good man, but I cannot like him. "
Surely such persons have sold the esteem of the world at too low a price,
since they have lost one of the rewards of virtue, without gaining the
profits of wickedness.

This ill economy of fame is sometimes the effect of stupidity. Men whose
perceptions are languid and sluggish, who lament nothing but loss of
money, and feel nothing but a blow, are often at a difficulty to guess
why they are encompassed with enemies, though they neglect all those arts
by which men are endeared to one another. They comfort themselves that
they have lived irreproachably; that none can charge them with having
endangered his life, or diminished his possessions; and therefore conclude
that they suffer by some invincible fatality, or impute the malice of
their neighbours to ignorance or envy. They wrap themselves up in their
innocence, and enjoy the congratulations of their own hearts, without
knowing or suspecting that they are every day deservedly incurring
resentments, by withholding from those with whom they converse, that
regard, or appearance of regard, to which every one is entitled by the
customs of the world.

There are many injuries which almost every man feels, though he does not
complain, and which, upon those whom virtue, elegance, or vanity, have
made delicate and tender, fix deep and lasting impressions; as there are
many arts of graciousness and conciliation, which are to be practised
without expense, and by which those may be made our friends, who have
never received from us any real benefit. Such arts, when they include
neither guilt nor meanness, it is surely reasonable to learn, for who
would want that love which is so easily to be gained? And such injuries
are to be avoided; for who would be hated without profit?

Some, indeed, there are, for whom the excuse of ignorance or negligence
cannot be alleged, because it is apparent that they are not only
careless of pleasing, but studious to offend; that they contrive to make
all approaches to them difficult and vexatious, and imagine that they
aggrandize themselves by wasting the time of others in useless attendance,
by mortifying them with slights, and teazing them with affronts.

Men of this kind are generally to be found among those that have not
mingled much in general conversation, but spent their lives amidst the
obsequiousness of dependants, and the flattery of parasites; and by long
consulting only their own inclination, have forgotten that others have
claim to the same deference.

Tyranny thus avowed, is indeed an exuberance of pride, by which all
mankind is so much enraged, that it is never quietly endured, except
in those who can reward the patience which they exact; and insolence is
generally surrounded only by such whose baseness inclines them to think
nothing insupportable that produces gain, and who can laugh at scurrility
and rudeness with a luxurious table and an open purse.

But though all wanton provocations and contemptuous insolence are to
be diligently avoided, there is no less danger in timid compliance and
tame resignation. It is common for soft and fearful tempers to give
themselves up implicitly to the direction of the bold, the turbulent,
and the overbearing; of those whom they do not believe wiser or better
than themselves; to recede from the best designs where opposition must
be encountered, and to fall off from virtue for fear of censure.

Some firmness and resolution is necessary to the discharge of duty; but it
is a very unhappy state of life in which the necessity of such struggles
frequently occurs; for no man is defeated without some resentment, which
will be continued with obstinacy while he believes himself in the right,
and exerted with bitterness, if even to his own conviction he is detected
in the wrong.

Even though no regard be had to the external consequences of contrariety
and dispute, it must be painful to a worthy mind to put others in pain,
and there will be danger lest the kindest nature may be vitiated by too
long a custom of debate and contest.

I am afraid that I may be taxed with insensibility by many of my
correspondents, who believe their contributions unjustly neglected.
And, indeed, when I sit before a pile of papers, of which each is the
production of laborious study, and the offspring of a fond parent, I, who
know the passions of an author, cannot remember how long they have lain
in my boxes unregarded, without imagining to myself the various changes
of sorrow, impatience, and resentment, which the writers must have felt
in this tedious interval.

These reflections are still more awakened, when, upon perusal, I find some
of them calling for a place in the next paper, a place which they have
never yet obtained: others writing in a style of superiority and
haughtiness, as secure of deference, and above fear of criticism; others
humbly offering their weak assistance with softness and submission,
which they believe impossible to be resisted; some introducing their
compositions with a menace of the contempt which he that refuses them will
incur; others applying privately to the booksellers for their interest
and solicitation; every one by different ways endeavouring to secure
the bliss of publication. I cannot but consider myself as placed in a
very incommodious situation, where I am forced to repress confidence,
which it is pleasing to indulge, to repay civilities with appearances of
neglect, and so frequently to offend those by whom I never was offended.

I know well how rarely an author, fired with the beauties of his new
composition, contains his raptures in his own bosom, and how naturally
he imparts to his friends his expectations of renown; and as I can easily
conceive the eagerness with which a new paper is snatched up, by one
who expects to find it filled with his own production, and perhaps has
called his companions to share the pleasure of a second perusal, I grieve
for the disappointment which he is to feel at the fatal inspection. His
hopes, however, do not yet forsake him; he is certain of giving lustre
the next day. The next day comes, and again he pants with expectation,
and having dreamed of laurels and Parnassus, casts his eyes upon the
barren page, with which he is doomed never more to be delighted.

For such cruelty what atonement can be made? For such calamities what
alleviation can be found? I am afraid that the mischief already done must
be without reparation, and all that deserves my care is prevention for
the future. Let therefore the next friendly contributor, whoever he be,
observe the cautions of Swift, and write secretly in his own chamber,
without communicating his design to his nearest friend, for the nearest
friend will be pleased with an opportunity of laughing. Let him carry
it to the post himself, and wait in silence for the event. If it is
published and praised, he may then declare himself the author; if it be
suppressed, he may wonder in private without much vexation; and if it be
censured, he may join in the cry, and lament the dulness of the writing
generation.




No. 57. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 2, 1750.


_Non intelligunt homines quam magnum vectigal sit parsimonia. _
TULL. Par. vi.

The world has not yet learned the riches of frugality.


TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

I am always pleased when I see literature made useful, and scholars
descending from that elevation, which, as it raises them above common
life, must likewise hinder them from beholding the ways of men otherwise
than in a cloud of bustle and confusion. Having lived a life of business,
and remarked how seldom any occurrences emerge for which great qualities
are required, I have learned the necessity of regarding little things;
and though I do not pretend to give laws to the legislators of mankind,
or to limit the range of those powerful minds that carry light and heat
through all the regions of knowledge, yet I have long thought, that the
greatest part of those who lose themselves in studies by which I have not
found that they grow much wiser, might, with more advantage both to the
publick and themselves, apply their understandings to domestick arts, and
store their minds with axioms of humble prudence, and private economy.

Your late paper on frugality was very elegant and pleasing, but, in my
opinion, not sufficiently adapted to common readers, who pay little
regard to the musick of periods, the artifice of connection, or the
arrangement of the flowers of rhetorick; but require a few plain and
cogent instructions, which may sink into the mind by their own weight.

Frugality is so necessary to the happiness of the world, so beneficial
in its various forms to every rank of men, from the highest of human
potentates, to the lowest labourer or artificer; and the miseries which
the neglect of it produces are so numerous and so grievous, that it
ought to be recommended with every variation of address, and adapted
to every class of understanding.

Whether those who treat morals as a science will allow frugality to be
numbered among the virtues, I have not thought it necessary to inquire.
For I, who draw my opinions from a careful observation of the world, am
satisfied with knowing what is abundantly sufficient for practice; that
if it be not a virtue, it is, at least, a quality which can seldom exist
without some virtues, and without which few virtues can exist. Frugality
may be termed the daughter of prudence, the sister of temperance, and the
parent of liberty. He that is extravagant will quickly become poor, and
poverty will enforce dependence, and invite corruption; it will almost
always produce a passive compliance with the wickedness of others; and
there are few who do not learn by degrees to practice those crimes which
they cease to censure.

If there are any who do not dread poverty as dangerous to virtue, yet
mankind seem unanimous enough in abhorring it as destructive to happiness;
and all to whom want is terrible, upon whatever principle, ought to
think themselves obliged to learn the sage maxims of our parsimonious
ancestors, and attain the salutary arts of contracting expense; for
without frugality none can be rich, and with it very few would be poor.

To most other acts of virtue or exertions of wisdom, a concurrence of many
circumstances is necessary, some previous knowledge must be attained,
some uncommon gifts of nature possessed, or some opportunity produced
by an extraordinary combination of things; but the mere power of saving
what is already in our hands, must be easy of acquisition to every mind;
and as the example of Bacon may shew, that the highest intellect cannot
safely neglect it, a thousand instances will every day prove, that the
meanest may practise it with success.

Riches cannot be within the reach of great numbers, because to be rich
is to possess more than is commonly placed in a single hand; and, if
many could obtain the sum which now makes a man wealthy, the name of
wealth must then be transferred to still greater accumulation. But I am
not certain that it is equally impossible to exempt the lower classes
of mankind from poverty; because, though whatever be the wealth of the
community, some will always have least, and he that has less than any
other is comparatively poor; yet I do not see any co-active necessity
that many should be without the indispensable conveniencies of life; but
am sometimes inclined to imagine, that, casual calamities excepted, there
might, by universal prudence, be procured an universal exemption from
want; and that he who should happen to have least, might notwithstanding
have enough.

But without entering too far into speculations which I do not remember
that any political calculator has attempted, and in which the most
perspicacious reasoner may be easily bewildered, it is evident that they
to whom Providence has allotted no other care but of their own fortune
and their own virtue, which make far the greater part of mankind, have
sufficient incitements to personal frugality, since, whatever might
be its general effect upon provinces or nations, by which it is never
likely to be tried, we know with certainty, that there is scarcely
any individual entering the world, who, by prudent parsimony, may not
reasonably promise himself a cheerful competence in the decline of life.

The prospect of penury in age is so gloomy and terrifying, that every man
who looks before him must resolve to avoid it; and it must be avoided
generally by the science of sparing. For, though in every age there are
some, who by bold adventures, or by favourable accidents, rise suddenly
to riches, yet it is dangerous to indulge hopes of such rare events:
and the bulk of mankind must owe their affluence to small and gradual
profits, below which their expense must be resolutely reduced.

You must not therefore think me sinking below the dignity of a practical
philosopher, when I recommend to the consideration of your readers,
from the statesman to the apprentice, a position replete with mercantile
wisdom, _A penny saved is two-pence got_; which may, I think, be
accommodated to all conditions, by observing not only that they who
pursue any lucrative employment will save time when they forbear expense,
and that the time may be employed to the increase of profit; but that
they who are above such minute considerations will find, by every victory
over appetite or passion, new strength added to the mind, will gain the
power of refusing those solicitations by which the young and vivacious
are hourly assaulted, and in time set themselves above the reach of
extravagance and folly.

It may, perhaps, be inquired by those who are willing rather to cavil
than to learn, what is the just measure of frugality? and when expense,
not absolutely necessary, degenerates into profusion? To such questions
no general answer can be returned; since the liberty of spending,
or necessity of parsimony, may be varied without end by different
circumstances. It may, however, be laid down as a rule never to be
broken, that a _man's voluntary expense should not exceed his revenue_.
A maxim so obvious and incontrovertible, that the civil law ranks the
prodigal with the madman[46], and debars them equally from the conduct of
their own affairs. Another precept arising from the former, and indeed
included in it, is yet necessary to be distinctly impressed upon the
warm, the fanciful, and the brave; _Let no man anticipate uncertain
profits_. Let no man presume to spend upon hopes, to trust his own
abilities for means of deliverance from penury, to give a loose to his
present desires, and leave the reckoning to fortune or to virtue.

To these cautions, which, I suppose, are, at least among the graver part
of mankind, undisputed, I will add another, _Let no man squander against
his inclination_. With this precept it may be, perhaps, imagined easy to
comply; yet if those whom profusion has buried in prisons, or driven into
banishment, were examined, it would be found that very few were ruined by
their own choice, or purchased pleasure with the loss of their estates;
but that they suffered themselves to be borne away by the violence of
those with whom they conversed, and yielded reluctantly to a thousand
prodigalities, either from a trivial emulation of wealth and spirit,
or a mean fear of contempt and ridicule; an emulation for the prize of
folly, or the dread of the laugh of fools.

I am, Sir,

Your humble servant,

SOPHRON.

[Footnote 46: Institut. i. 23. 3. De furiosis et prodigis. ]




No. 58. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 6, 1750.


_----Improbæ_
_Crescunt divitiæ; tamen_
_Curtæ nescio quid semper abest rei. _
HOR. Lib. iii. Ode xxiv. 62.

But, while in heaps his wicked wealth ascends,
He is not of his wish possess'd;
There's something wanting still to make him bless'd.
FRANCIS.


As the love of money has been, in all ages, one of the passions that have
given great disturbance to the tranquillity of the world, there is no
topick more copiously treated by the ancient moralists than the folly of
devoting the heart to the accumulation of riches. They who are acquainted
with these authors need not be told how riches excite pity, contempt,
or reproach, whenever they are mentioned; with what numbers of examples
the danger of large possessions is illustrated; and how all the powers
of reason and eloquence have been exhausted in endeavours to eradicate a
desire, which seems to have intrenched itself too strongly in the mind
to be driven out, and which, perhaps, had not lost its power, even over
those who declaimed against it, but would have broken out in the poet or
the sage, if it had been excited by opportunity, and invigorated by the
approximation of its proper object.

Their arguments have been, indeed, so unsuccessful, that I know not
whether it can be shewn, that by all the wit and reason which this
favourite cause has called forth, a single convert was ever made; that
even one man has refused to be rich, when to be rich was in his power,
from the conviction of the greater happiness of a narrow fortune; or
disburthened himself of wealth when he had tried its inquietudes, merely
to enjoy the peace and leisure and security of a mean and unenvied state.

It is true, indeed, that many have neglected opportunities of raising
themselves to honours and to wealth, and rejected the kindest offers of
fortune: but however their moderation may be boasted by themselves, or
admired by such as only view them at a distance, it will be, perhaps,
seldom found that they value riches less, but that they dread labour
or danger more, than others; they are unable to rouse themselves to
action, to strain in the race of competition, or to stand the shock of
contest; but though they, therefore, decline the toil of climbing, they
nevertheless wish themselves aloft, and would willingly enjoy what they
dare not seize.

Others have retired from high stations, and voluntarily condemned
themselves to privacy and obscurity. But even these will not afford
many occasions of triumph to the philosopher; for they have commonly
either quitted that only which they thought themselves unable to hold,
and prevented disgrace by resignation; or they have been induced to try
new measures by general inconstancy, which always dreams of happiness
in novelty, or by a gloomy disposition, which is disgusted in the same
degree with every state, and wishes every scene of life to change as soon
as it is beheld. Such men found high and low stations equally unable to
satisfy the wishes of a distempered mind, and were unable to shelter
themselves in the closest retreat from disappointment, solicitude, and
misery.

Yet though these admonitions have been thus neglected by those who either
enjoyed riches, or were able to procure them, it is not rashly to be
determined that they are altogether without use; for since far the
greatest part of mankind must be confined to conditions comparatively
mean, and placed in situations from which they naturally look up with
envy to the eminences before them, those writers cannot be thought ill
employed that have administered remedies to discontent almost universal,
by shewing, that what we cannot reach may very well be forborne; that the
inequality of distribution, at which we murmur, is for the most part less
than it seems, and that the greatness, which we admire at a distance, has
much fewer advantages, and much less splendour, when we are suffered to
approach it.

It is the business of moralists to detect the frauds of fortune, and to
shew that she imposes upon the careless eye, by a quick succession of
shadows, which will shrink to nothing in the gripe; that she disguises
life in extrinsick ornaments, which serve only for shew, and are laid
aside in the hours of solitude, and of pleasure; and that when greatness
aspires either to felicity or to wisdom, it shakes off those distinctions
which dazzle the gazer, and awe the supplicant.

It may be remarked, that they whose condition has not afforded them the
light of moral or religious instruction, and who collect all their ideas
by their own eyes, and digest them by their own understandings, seem to
consider those who are placed in ranks of remote superiority, as almost
another and higher species of beings. As themselves have known little
other misery than the consequences of want, they are with difficulty
persuaded that where there is wealth there can be sorrow, or that those
who glitter in dignity, and glide along in affluence, can be acquainted
with pains and cares like those which lie heavy upon the rest of mankind.

This prejudice is, indeed, confined to the lowest meanness, and the
darkest ignorance; but it is so confined only because others have been
shewn its folly, and its falsehood, because it has been opposed in its
progress by history and philosophy, and hindered from spreading its
infection by powerful preservatives.

The doctrine of the contempt of wealth, though it has not been able to
extinguish avarice or ambition, or suppress that reluctance with which a
man passes his days in a state of inferiority, must, at least, have made
the lower conditions less grating and wearisome, and has consequently
contributed to the general security of life, by hindering that fraud and
violence, rapine and circumvention, which must have been produced by an
unbounded eagerness of wealth, arising from an unshaken conviction that
to be rich is to be happy.

Whoever finds himself incited, by some violent impulse of passion, to
pursue riches as the chief end of being, must surely be so much alarmed
by the successive admonitions of those whose experience and sagacity
have recommended them as the guides of mankind, as to stop and consider
whether he is about to engage in an undertaking that will reward his
toil, and to examine, before he rushes to wealth, through right and
wrong, what it will confer when he has acquired it; and this examination
will seldom fail to repress his ardour, and retard his violence.

Wealth is nothing in itself, it is not useful but when it departs from
us; its value is found only in that which it can purchase, which, if
we suppose it put to its best use by those that possess it, seems not
much to deserve the desire or envy of a wise man. It is certain that,
with regard to corporal enjoyment, money can neither open new avenues
to pleasure, nor block up the passages of anguish. Disease and infirmity
still continue to torture and enfeeble, perhaps exasperated by luxury,
or promoted by softness. With respect to the mind, it has rarely been
observed, that wealth contributes much to quicken the discernment,
enlarge the capacity, or elevate the imagination; but may, by hiring
flattery, or laying diligence asleep, confirm errour, and harden stupidity.

Wealth cannot confer greatness, for nothing can make that great, which the
decree of nature has ordained to be little. The bramble may be placed in
a hot-bed, but can never become an oak. Even royalty itself is not able
to give that dignity which it happens not to find, but oppresses feeble
minds, though it may elevate the strong. The world has been governed in
the name of kings, whose existence has scarcely been perceived by any
real effects beyond their own palaces.

When therefore the desire of wealth is taking hold of the heart, let us
look round and see how it operates upon those whose industry or fortune
has obtained it. When we find them oppressed with their own abundance,
luxurious without pleasure, idle without ease, impatient and querulous in
themselves, and despised or hated by the rest of mankind, we shall soon
be convinced, that if the real wants of our condition are satisfied, there
remains little to be sought with solicitude, or desired with eagerness.




No. 59. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 9, 1750.
_Est aliquid fatale malum per verba levare,_
_Hoc querulam Prognen Halcyonenque facit:_
_Hoc erat in gelido quare Pæantius antro_
_Voce fatigaret Lemnia saxa sua. _
_Strangulat inclusus dolor, atque exæstuat intus,_
_Cogitur et vires multiplicare suas. _
OVID, Trist. vi. 59.

Complaining oft gives respite to our grief;
From hence the wretched Progne sought relief,
Hence the Pæantian chief his fate deplores,
And vents his sorrow to the Lemnian shores:
In vain by secrecy we would assuage
Our cares; conceal'd they gather tenfold rage.
F. LEWIS.


It is common to distinguish men by the names of animals which they are
supposed to resemble. Thus a hero is frequently termed a lion, and a
statesman a fox, an extortioner gains the appellation of vulture, and
a fop the title of monkey. There is also among the various anomalies of
character, which a survey of the world exhibits, a species of beings
in human form, which may be properly marked out as the screech-owls
of mankind.

These screech-owls seem to be settled in an opinion that the great business
of life is to complain, and that they were born for no other purpose than
to disturb the happiness of others, to lessen the little comforts, and
shorten the short pleasures of our condition, by painful remembrances of
the past, or melancholy prognosticks of the future; their only care is
to crush the rising hope, to damp the kindling transport, and allay the
golden hours of gaiety with the hateful dross of grief and suspicion.

To those whose weakness of spirits, or timidity of temper, subjects them
to impressions from others, and who are apt to suffer by fascination,
and catch the contagion of misery, it is extremely unhappy to live within
the compass of a screech-owl's voice; for it will often fill their ears
in the hour of dejection, terrify them with apprehensions, which their
own thoughts would never have produced, and sadden, by intruded sorrows,
the day which might have been passed in amusements or in business; it
will burthen the heart with unnecessary discontents, and weaken for a
time that love of life which is necessary to the vigorous prosecution of
any undertaking.

Though I have, like the rest of mankind, many failings and weaknesses,
I have not yet, by either friends or enemies, been charged with
superstition; I never count the company which I enter, and I look at
the new moon indifferently over either shoulder. I have, like most other
philosophers, often heard the cuckoo without money in my pocket, and
have been sometimes reproached as fool-hardy for not turning down my eyes
when a raven flew over my head. I never go home abruptly because a snake
crosses my way, nor have any particular dread of a climacterical year;
yet I confess that, with all my scorn of old women, and their tales,
I consider it as an unhappy day when I happen to be greeted, in the
morning, by Suspirius the screech-owl.

I have now known Suspirius fifty-eight years and four months, and have
never yet passed an hour with him in which he has not made some attack
upon my quiet. When we were first acquainted, his great topick was the
misery of youth without riches; and whenever we walked out together he
solaced me with a long enumeration of pleasures, which, as they were
beyond the reach of my fortune, were without the verge of my desires, and
which I should never have considered as the objects of a wish, had not
his unseasonable representations placed them in my sight.

Another of his topicks is the neglect of merit, with which he never fails
to amuse every man whom he sees not eminently fortunate. If he meets
with a young officer, he always informs him of gentlemen whose personal
courage is unquestioned, and whose military skill qualifies them to
command armies, that have, notwithstanding all their merit, grown old
with subaltern commissions. For a genius in the church, he is always
provided with a curacy for life. The lawyer he informs of many men of
great parts and deep study, who have never had an opportunity to speak
in the courts: and meeting Serenus the physician, "Ah, doctor," says
he, "what a-foot still, when so many block-heads are rattling in their
chariots? I told you seven years ago that you would never meet with
encouragement, and I hope you will now take more notice, when I tell you
that your Greek, and your diligence, and your honesty, will never enable
you to live like yonder apothecary, who prescribes to his own shop, and
laughs at the physician. "

Suspirius has, in his time, intercepted fifteen authors in their way to
the stage; persuaded nine and thirty merchants to retire from a prosperous
trade for fear of bankruptcy, broke off an hundred and thirteen matches
by prognostications of unhappiness, and enabled the small-pox to kill
nineteen ladies, by perpetual alarms of the loss of beauty.

Whenever my evil stars bring us together, he never fails to represent to
me the folly of my pursuits, and informs me that we are much older than
when we began our acquaintance, that the infirmities of decrepitude are
coming fast upon me, that whatever I now get, I shall enjoy but a little
time, that fame is to a man tottering on the edge of the grave of very
little importance, and that the time is at hand when I ought to look for
no other pleasures than a good dinner and an easy chair.

Thus he goes on in his unharmonious strain, displaying present miseries,
and foreboding more, νυκτικοραξ αει θανατηφορος, every syllable is loaded
with misfortune, and death is always brought nearer to the view. Yet, what
always raises my resentment and indignation, I do not perceive that his
mournful meditations have much effect upon himself. He talks and has long
talked of calamities, without discovering otherwise than by the tone of
his voice, that he feels any of the evils which he bewails or threatens,
but has the same habit of uttering lamentations, as others of telling
stories, and falls into expressions of condolence for past, or
apprehension of future mischiefs, as all men studious of their ease have
recourse to those subjects upon which they can most fluently or copiously
discourse[47].

It is reported of the Sybarites, that they destroyed all their cocks, that
they might dream out their morning dreams without disturbance. Though I
would not so far promote effeminacy as to propose the Sabarites for an
example, yet since there is no man so corrupt or foolish, but something
useful may be learned from him, I could wish that, in imitation of a
people not often to be copied, some regulations might be made to exclude
screech-owls from all company, as the enemies of mankind, and confine
them to some proper receptacle, where they may mingle sighs at leisure,
and thicken the gloom of one another.

_Thou prophet of evil_, says Homer's Agamemnon, _thou never foretellest me
good, but the joy of thy heart is to predict misfortunes_. Whoever is of
the same temper, might there find the means of indulging his thoughts,
and improving his vein of denunciation, and the flock of screech-owls
might hoot together without injury to the rest of the world.

Yet, though I have so little kindness for this dark generation, I am very
far from intending to debar the soft and tender mind from the privilege of
complaining, when the sigh arises from the desire not of giving pain, but
of gaining ease. To hear complaints with patience, even when complaints
are vain, is one of the duties of friendship; and though it must be
allowed that he suffers most like a hero that hides his grief in silence,

_Spem vultu simulat, premit altum corde dolorem;_

His outward smiles conceal'd his inward smart;
DRYDEN.

yet it cannot be denied, that he who complains acts like a man, like a
social being, who looks for help from his fellow-creatures. Pity is to
many of the unhappy a source of comfort in hopeless distresses, as it
contributes to recommend them to themselves, by proving that they have
not lost the regard of others; and heaven seems to indicate the duty even
of barren compassion, by inclining us to weep for evils which we cannot
remedy.

[Footnote 47: Suspirius, the screech-owl, is presumed by some to have
suggested the character of Croaker to Goldsmith, in his Comedy of the
Good-natured Man. ]




No. 60. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1750.


_Quid sit pulchrum, quid turpe, quid utile, quid non,_
_Plenius ac melius Chrysippo et Crantore dicit. _
HOR. Lib. i. Epist. ii. 3.

Whose works the beautiful and base contain,
Of vice and virtue more instructive rules,
Than all the sober sages of the schools.
FRANCIS.


All joy or sorrow for the happiness or calamities of others is produced
by an act of the imagination, that realizes the event however fictitious,
or approximates it however remote, by placing us, for a time, in the
condition of him whose fortune we contemplate; so that we feel, while the
deception lasts, whatever motions would be excited by the same good or
evil happening to ourselves.

Our passions are therefore more strongly moved, in proportion as we
can more readily adopt the pains or pleasure proposed to our minds,
by recognising them as once our own, or considering them as naturally
incident to our state of life. It is not easy for the most artful
writer to give us an interest in happiness or misery, which we think
ourselves never likely to feel, and with which we have never yet been
made acquainted. Histories of the downfal of kingdoms, and revolutions of
empires, are read with great tranquillity; the imperial tragedy pleases
common auditors only by its pomp of ornament, and grandeur of ideas; and
the man whose faculties have been engrossed by business, and whose heart
never fluttered but at the rise or fall of the stocks, wonders how the
attention can be seized, or the affection agitated, by a tale of love.

Those parallel circumstances and kindred images, to which we readily
conform our minds, are, above all other writings, to be found in
narratives of the lives of particular persons; and therefore no species
of writing seems more worthy of cultivation than biography, since none
can be more delightful or more useful, none can more certainly enchain
the heart by irresistible interest, or more widely diffuse instruction to
every diversity of condition.

The general and rapid narratives of history, which involve a thousand
fortunes in the business of a day, and complicate innumerable incidents
in one great transaction, afford few lessons applicable to private
life, which derives its comforts and its wretchedness from the right
or wrong management of things, which nothing but their frequency makes
considerable, _Parva si non fiant quotidie_, says Pliny, and which
can have no place in those relations which never descend below the
consultation of senates, the motions of armies, and the schemes of
conspirators.

I have often thought that there has rarely passed a life of which a
judicious and faithful narrative would not be useful. For, not only
every man has, in the mighty mass of the world, great numbers in the same
condition with himself, to whom his mistakes and miscarriages, escapes
and expedients, would be of immediate and apparent use; but there is such
an uniformity in the state of man, considered apart from adventitious and
separable decorations and disguises, that there is scarce any possibility
of good or ill, but is common to human kind. A great part of the time of
those who are placed at the greatest distance by fortune, or by temper,
must unavoidably pass in the same manner; and though, when the claims of
nature are satisfied, caprice, and vanity, and accident, begin to produce
discriminations and peculiarities, yet the eye is not very heedful or
quick, which cannot discover the same causes still terminating their
influence in the same effects, though sometimes accelerated, sometimes
retarded, or perplexed by multiplied combinations. We are all prompted
by the same motives, all deceived by the same fallacies, all animated by
hope, obstructed by danger, entangled by desire, and seduced by pleasure.

It is frequently objected to relations of particular lives, that they are
not distinguished by any striking or wonderful vicissitudes. The scholar
who passed his life among his books, the merchant who conducted only
his own affairs, the priest, whose sphere of action was not extended
beyond that of his duty, are considered as no proper objects of publick
regard, however they might have excelled in their several stations,
whatever might have been their learning, integrity, and piety. But this
notion arises from false measures of excellence and dignity, and must be
eradicated by considering, that in the esteem of uncorrupted reason, what
is of most use is of most value.

It is, indeed, not improper to take honest advantages of prejudice, and
to gain attention by a celebrated name; but the business of a biographer
is often to pass slightly over those performances and incidents, which
produce vulgar greatness, to lead the thoughts into domestick privacies,
and display the minute details of daily life, where exterior appendages
are cast aside, and men excel each other only by prudence and by virtue.
The account of Thuanus is, with great propriety, said by its author to
have been written, that it might lay open to posterity the private and
familiar character of that man, _cujus ingenium et candorem ex ipsius
scriptis sunt olim semper miraturi_, whose candour and genius will to
the end of time be by his writings preserved in admiration.

There are many invisible circumstances which, whether we read as inquirers
after natural and moral knowledge, whether we intend to enlarge our
science, or increase our virtue, are more important than publick
occurrences. Thus Sallust, the great master of nature, has not forgot,
in his account of Cataline, to remark that _his walk was now quick, and
again slow_, as an indication of a mind revolving something with violent
commotion. Thus the story of Melancthon affords a striking lecture on
the value of time, by informing us, that when he made an appointment,
he expected not only the hour, but the minute to be fixed, that the day
might not run out in the idleness of suspense: and all the plans and
enterprizes of De Witt are now of less importance to the world, than that
part of his personal character, which represents him as _careful of his
health, and negligent of his life_.

But biography has often been allotted to writers who seem very little
acquainted with the nature of their task, or very negligent about the
performance. They rarely afford any other account than might be collected
from publick papers, but imagine themselves writing a life when they
exhibit a chronological series of actions or preferments; and so little
regard the manners or behaviour of their heroes, that more knowledge may
be gained of a man's real character, by a short conversation with one of
his servants, than from a formal and studied narrative, begun with his
pedigree, and ended with his funeral.

If now and then they condescend to inform the world of particular facts,
they are not always so happy as to select the most important. I know not
well what advantage posterity can receive from the only circumstance by
which Tickell has distinguished Addison from the rest of mankind, _the
irregularity of his pulse_: nor can I think myself overpaid for the time
spent in reading the life of Malherb by being enabled to relate after
the learned biographer, that Malherb had two predominant opinions;
one, that the looseness of a single woman might destroy all her boast
of ancient descent; the other, that the French beggars made use very
improperly and barbarously of the phrase _noble Gentleman_, because
either word included the sense to both.

There are, indeed, some natural reasons why these narratives are often
written by such as were not likely to give much instruction or delight,
and why most accounts of particular persons are barren and useless. If
a life be delayed till interest and envy are at an end, we may hope for
impartiality, but must expect little intelligence; for the incidents
which give excellence to biography are of a volatile and evanescent kind,
such as soon escape the memory, and are rarely transmitted by tradition.
We know how few can pourtray a living acquaintance, except by his most
prominent and observable particularities, and the grosser features of his
mind; and it may be easily imagined how much of this little knowledge may
be lost in imparting it, and how soon a succession of copies will lose
all resemblance of the original.

If the biographer writes from personal knowledge, and makes haste to
gratify the public curiosity, there is danger lest his interest, his
fear, his gratitude, or his tenderness, overpower his fidelity, and tempt
him to conceal, if not to invent. There are many who think it an act of
piety to hide the faults or failings of their friends, even when they
can no longer suffer by their detection; we therefore see whole ranks of
characters adorned with uniform panegyrick, and not to be known from one
another, but by extrinsick and casual circumstances. "Let me remember,"
says Hale, "when I find myself inclined to pity a criminal, that there
is likewise a pity due to the country. " If we owe regard to the memory of
the dead, there is yet more respect to be paid to knowledge, to virtue,
and to truth.




No. 61. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 16, 1750.


_Falsus honor juvat, et mendax infamia terret,_
_Quem, nisi mendosum et mendacem? _
HOR. Lib. i. Ep. xvi. 39.

False praise can charm, unreal shame controul,
Whom but a vicious or a sickly soul?
FRANCIS.


TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

It is extremely vexatious to a man of eager and thirsty curiosity to be
placed at a great distance from the fountain of intelligence, and not
only never to receive the current of report till it has satiated the
greatest part of the nation, but at last to find it mudded in its course,
and corrupted with taints or mixtures from every channel through which
it flowed.

One of the chief pleasures of my life is to hear what passes in the world;
to know what are the schemes of the politick, the aims of the busy,
and the hopes of the ambitious; what changes of publick measures are
approaching; who is likely to be crushed in the collision of parties; who
is climbing to the top of power, and who is tottering on the precipice
of disgrace. But as it is very common for us to desire most what we
are least qualified to obtain, I have suffered this appetite of news to
outgrow all the gratifications which my present situation can afford it;
for being placed in a remote country, I am condemned always to confound
the future with the past, to form prognostications of events no longer
doubtful, and to consider the expediency of schemes already executed or
defeated. I am perplexed with a perpetual deception in my prospects, like
a man pointing his telescope at a remote star, which before the light
reaches his eye has forsaken the place from which it was emitted.

The mortification of being thus always behind the active world in my
reflections and discoveries, is exceedingly aggravated by the petulance
of those whose health, or business, or pleasure, brings them hither from
London. For, without considering the insuperable disadvantages of my
condition, and the unavoidable ignorance which absence must produce,
they often treat me with the utmost superciliousness of contempt, for
not knowing what no human sagacity can discover; and sometimes seem
to consider me as a wretch scarcely worthy of human converse, when I
happen to talk of the fortune of a bankrupt, or propose the healths of
the dead, when I warn them of mischiefs already incurred, or wish for
measures that have been lately taken. They seem to attribute to the
superiority of their intellects what they only owe to the accident of
their condition, and think themselves indisputably entitled to airs
of insolence and authority, when they find another ignorant of facts,
which, because they echoed in the streets of London, they suppose equally
publick in all other places, and known where they could neither be seen,
related, nor conjectured.

To this haughtiness they are indeed too much encouraged by the respect
which they receive amongst us, for no other reason than that they come
from London. For no sooner is the arrival of one of these disseminators
of knowledge known in the country, than we crowd about him from every
quarter, and by innumerable inquiries flatter him into an opinion of his
own importance. He sees himself surrounded by multitudes, who propose
their doubts, and refer their controversies, to him, as to a being
descended from some nobler region, and he grows on a sudden oraculous and
infallible, solves all difficulties, and sets all objections at defiance.

There is, in my opinion, great reason for suspecting, that they sometimes
take advantage of this reverential modesty, and impose upon rustick
understandings, with a false show of universal intelligence; for I do not
find that they are willing to own themselves ignorant of any thing, or
that they dismiss any inquirer with a positive and decisive answer. The
court, the city, the park, and exchange, are those men of unbounded
observation equally familiar, and they are alike ready to tell the hour
at which stocks will rise, or the ministry be changed.

A short residence at London entitles a man to knowledge, to wit, to
politeness, and to a despotick and dictatorial power of prescribing to
the rude multitude, whom he condescends to honour with a biennial visit;
yet, I know not well upon what motives, I have lately found myself
inclined to cavil at this prescription, and to doubt whether it be not,
on some occasions, proper to withhold our veneration, till we are more
authentically convinced of the merits of the claimant.

It is well remembered here, that about seven years ago, one Frolick,
a tall boy, with lank hair, remarkable for stealing eggs, and sucking
them, was taken from the school in this parish, and sent up to London
to study the law. As he had given amongst us no proofs of a genius
designed by nature for extraordinary performances, he was, from the
time of his departure, totally forgotten, nor was there any talk of
his vices or virtues, his good or his ill fortune, till last summer
a report burst upon us, that Mr. Frolick was come down in the first
post-chaise which this village had seen, having travelled with such
rapidity that one of his postillions had broke his leg, and another
narrowly escaped suffocation in a quicksand; but that Mr. Frolick seemed
totally unconcerned, for such things were never heeded at London.

Mr. Frolick next day appeared among the gentlemen at their weekly
meeting on the bowling-green, and now were seen the effects of a London
education. His dress, his language, his ideas, were all new, and he did
not much endeavour to conceal his contempt of every thing that differed
from the opinions, or practice, of the modish world. He showed us the
deformity of our skirts and sleeves, informed us where hats of the proper
size were to be sold, and recommended to us the reformation of a thousand
absurdities in our clothes, our cookery, and our conversation. When any
of his phrases were unintelligible, he could not suppress the joy of
confessed superiority, but frequently delayed the explanation, that he
might enjoy his triumph over our barbarity.

When he is pleased to entertain us with a story, he takes care to crowd
into it names of streets, squares, and buildings, with which he knows we
are unacquainted. The favourite topicks of his discourse are the pranks
of drunkards, and the tricks put upon country gentlemen by porters and
link-boys. When he is with ladies, he tells them of the innumerable
pleasures to which he can introduce them; but never fails to hint how
much they will be deficient, at their first arrival, in the knowledge
of the town. What it is _to know the town_, he has not indeed hitherto
informed us, though there is no phrase so frequent in his mouth, nor any
science which he appears to think of so great a value, or so difficult
attainment.

But my curiosity has been most engaged by the recital of his own
adventures and achievements. I have heard of the union of various
characters in single persons, but never met with such a constellation
of great qualities as this man's narrative affords. Whatever has
distinguished the hero; whatever has elevated the wit; whatever has
endeared the lover, are all concentered in Mr. Frolick, whose life has,
for seven years, been a regular interchange of intrigues, dangers, and
waggeries, and who has distinguished himself in every character that can
be feared, envied, or admired.

I question whether all the officers of the royal navy can bring together,
from all their journals, a collection of so many wonderful escapes as
this man has known upon the Thames, on which he has been a thousand and
a thousand times on the point of perishing, sometimes by the terrours
of foolish women in the same boat, sometimes by his own acknowledged
imprudence in passing the river in the dark, and sometimes by shooting
the bridge under which he has rencountered mountainous waves, and
dreadful cataracts.

Nor less has been his temerity by land, nor fewer his hazards. He has
reeled with giddiness on the top of the monument; he has crossed the
street amidst the rush of coaches; he has been surrounded by robbers
without number; he has headed parties at the playhouse; he has scaled
the windows of every toast, of whatever condition; he has been hunted for
whole winters by his rivals; he has slept upon bulks, he has cut chairs,
he has bilked coachmen; he has rescued his friends from the bailiffs, has
knocked down the constable, has bullied the justice, and performed many
other exploits, that have filled the town with wonder and with merriment.

But yet greater is the fame of his understanding than his bravery; for
he informs us, that he is, at London, the established arbitrator of all
points of honour, and the decisive judge of all performances of genius;
that no musical performer is in reputation till the opinion of Frolick
has ratified his pretensions; that the theatres suspend their sentence
till he begins the clap or hiss, in which all are proud to concur; that
no publick entertainment has failed or succeeded, but because he opposed
or favoured it; that all controversies at the gaming-table are referred
to his determination; that he adjusts the ceremonial at every assembly,
and prescribes every fashion of pleasure or of dress.

With every man whose name occurs in the papers of the day, he his
intimately acquainted; and there are very few posts either in the state
or army, of which he has not more or less influenced the disposal. He has
been very frequently consulted both upon war and peace; but the time is
not yet come when the nation shall know how much it is indebted to the
genius of Frolick.

Yet, notwithstanding all these declarations, I cannot hitherto persuade
myself to see Mr. Frolick has more wit, or knowledge, or courage, than
the rest of mankind, or that any uncommon enlargement of his faculties
has happened in the time of his absence. For when he talks on subjects
known to the rest of the company, he has no advantage over us, but by
catches of interruption, briskness of interrogation, and pertness of
contempt; and therefore if he has stunned the world with his name, and
gained a place in the first ranks of humanity, I cannot but conclude,
that either a little understanding confers eminence at London, or that
Mr. Frolick thinks us unworthy of the exertion of his powers, or that
his faculties are benumbed by rural stupidity, as the magnetick needle
loses its animation in the polar climes.

I would not, however, like many hasty philosophers, search after the cause
till I am certain of the effect; and therefore I desire to be informed,
whether you have yet heard the great name of Mr. Frolick. If he is
celebrated by other tongues than his own, I shall willingly propagate
his praise; but if he has swelled among us with empty boasts, and honours
conferred only by himself, I shall treat him with rustick sincerity, and
drive him as an impostor from this part of the kingdom to some region of
more credulity.

I am, &c.

RURICOLA.




No. 62. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1750.


_Nunc ego Triptolemi cuperem conscendere currus,_
_Misit in ignotam qui rude semen humum:_
_Nunc ego Medeæ vellem frænare dracones,_
_Quos habuit fugiens arce, Corinthe, tua;_
_Nunc ego jactandas optarem sumere pennas,_
_Sive tuas, Perseu; Dædale, sive tuas. _
OVID, Trist. Lib. iii. El. 8. 1.

Now would I mount his car, whose bounteous hand
First sow'd with teeming seed the furrow'd land:
Now to Medæa's dragons fix my reins,
That swiftly bore her from Corinthian plains;
Now on Dædalian waxen pinions stray,
Or those which wafted Perseus on his way.
F. LEWIS.


TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

I am a young woman of very large fortune, which, if my parents would have
been persuaded to comply with the rules and customs of the polite part of
mankind, might long since have raised me to the highest honours of the
female world; but so strangely have they hitherto contrived to waste my
life, that I am now on the borders of twenty, without having ever danced
but at our monthly assembly, or been toasted but among a few gentlemen
of the neighbourhood, or seen in any company in which it was worth a
wish to be distinguished.

My father having impaired his patrimony in soliciting a place at court, at
last grew wise enough to cease his pursuit; and to repair the consequences
of expensive attendance and negligence of his affairs, married a lady
much older than himself, who had lived in the fashionable world till she
was considered as an incumbrance upon parties of pleasure, and as I can
collect from incidental informations, retired from gay assemblies just
time enough to escape the mortifications of universal neglect.

She was, however, still rich, and not yet wrinkled; my father was too
distressfully embarrassed to think much on any thing but the means of
extrication, and though it is not likely that he wanted the delicacy which
polite conversation will always produce in understandings not remarkably
defective, yet he was contented with a match, by which he might be set
free from inconveniencies, that would have destroyed all the pleasures of
imagination, and taken from softness and beauty the power of delighting.

As they were both somewhat disgusted with their treatment in the world,
and married, though without any dislike of each other, yet principally
for the sake of setting themselves free from dependance on caprice or
fashion, they soon retired into the country, and devoted their lives to
rural business and diversions.

They had not much reason to regret the change of their situation;
for their vanity, which had so long been tormented by neglect and
disappointment, was here gratified with every honour that could be paid
them. Their long familiarity with publick life made them the oracles of
all those who aspired to intelligence, or politeness. My father dictated
politicks, my mother prescribed the mode, and it was sufficient to entitle
any family to some consideration, that they were known to visit at Mrs.
Courtly's.

In this state they were, to speak in the style of novelists, made happy
by the birth of your correspondent. My parents had no other child, I was
therefore not brow-beaten by a saucy brother, or lost in a multitude of
coheiresses, whose fortunes being equal, would probably have conferred
equal merit, and procured equal regard; and as my mother was now old, my
understanding and my person had fair play, my inquiries were not checked,
my advances towards importance were not repressed, and I was soon suffered
to tell my own opinions, and early accustomed to hear my own praises.

By these accidental advantages I was much exalted above the young ladies
with whom I conversed, and was treated by them with great deference. I
saw none who did not seem to confess my superiority, and to be held in
awe by the splendour of my appearance; for the fondness of my father made
him pleased to see me dressed, and my mother had no vanity nor expenses
to hinder her from concurring with his inclination.

Thus, Mr. Rambler, I lived without much desire after any thing beyond
the circle of our visits; and here I should have quietly continued to
portion out my time among my books, and my needle, and my company, had
not my curiosity been every moment excited by the conversation of my
parents, who, whenever they sit down to familiar prattle, and endeavour
the entertainment of each other, immediately transport themselves to
London, and relate some adventure in a hackney-coach, some frolick
at a masquerade, some conversation in the park, or some quarrel at
an assembly, display the magnificence of a birth-night, relate the
conquests of maids of honour, or give a history of diversions, shows,
and entertainments, which I had never known but from their accounts.

I am so well versed in the history of the gay world, that I can relate,
with great punctuality, the lives of all the last race of wits and
beauties; can enumerate with exact chronology, the whole succession of
celebrated singers, musicians, tragedians, comedians, and harlequins;
can tell to the last twenty years all the changes of fashions; and am,
indeed, a complete antiquary with respect to head-dresses, dances, and
operas.

You will easily imagine, Mr. Rambler, that I could not hear these
narratives, for sixteen years together, without suffering some
impression, and wishing myself nearer to those places where every hour
brings some new pleasure, and life is diversified with an unexhausted
succession of felicity.

I indeed often asked my mother why she left a place which she recollected
with so much delight, and why she did not visit London once a year,
like some other ladies, and initiate me in the world by showing me its
amusements, its grandeur, and its variety. But she always told me that
the days which she had seen were such as will never come again; that all
diversion is now degenerated, that the conversation of the present age
is insipid, that their fashions are unbecoming, their customs absurd,
and their morals corrupt; that there is no ray left of the genius which
enlightened the times that she remembers; that no one who had seen, or
heard, the ancient performers, would be able to bear the bunglers of this
despicable age: and that there is now neither politeness, nor pleasure,
nor virtue, in the world. She therefore assures me that she consults
my happiness by keeping me at home, for I should now find nothing but
vexation and disgust, and she should be ashamed to see me pleased with
such fopperies and trifles, as take up the thoughts of the present set of
young people.

With this answer I was kept quiet for several years, and thought it no
great inconvenience to be confined to the country, till last summer a
young gentleman and his sister came down to pass a few months with one
of our neighbours. They had generally no great regard for the country
ladies, but distinguished me by a particular complaisance, and, as we
grew intimate, gave me such a detail of the elegance, the splendour,
the mirth, the happiness of the town, that I am resolved to be no longer
buried in ignorance and obscurity, but to share with other wits the joy
of being admired, and divide with other beauties the empire of the world.

I do not find, Mr. Rambler, upon a deliberate and impartial comparison,
that I am excelled by Belinda in beauty, in wit, in judgment, in
knowledge, or in any thing, but a kind of gay, lively familiarity,
by which she mingles with strangers as with persons long acquainted,
and which enables her to display her powers without any obstruction,
hesitation, or confusion. Yet she can relate a thousand civilities paid
to her in publick, can produce, from a hundred lovers, letters filled
with praises, protestations, ecstacies, and despair; has been handed
by dukes to her chair; has been the occasion of innumerable quarrels;
has paid twenty visits in an afternoon; been invited to six balls in an
evening, and been forced to retire to lodgings in the country from the
importunity of courtship, and the fatigue of pleasure.

I tell you, Mr. Rambler, I will stay here no longer. I have at last
prevailed upon my mother to send me to town, and shall set out in three
weeks on the grand expedition. I intend to live in publick, and to crowd
into the winter every pleasure which money can purchase, and every honour
which beauty can obtain.

But this tedious interval how shall I endure? Cannot you alleviate the
misery of delay by some pleasing description of the entertainments of
the town? I can read, I can talk, I can think of nothing else; and if you
will not sooth my impatience, heighten my ideas, and animate my hopes,
you may write for those who have more leisure, but are not to expect any
longer the honour of being read by those eyes which are now intent only
on conquest and destruction.

RHODOCLIA.




No. 63. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 23, 1750.


_----Habebat sæpe ducentos,_
_Sæpe decem servos: modo Reges, atque Tetrarchus,_
_Omnia magna loquens; modo, Sit mihi mensa tripes, et_
_Concha salis puri, et toga, quæ defendere frigus,_
_Quamvis crassa, queat. _
HOR. Lib. i. Sat. iii. 11.

Now with two hundred slaves he crowds his train;
Now walks with ten. In high and haughty strain
At morn, of kings and governors he prates;
At night--"A frugal table, O ye fates,
"A little shell the sacred salt to hold,
"And clothes, tho' coarse, to keep me from the cold. "
FRANCIS.


It has been remarked, perhaps, by every writer who has left behind him
observations upon life, that no man is pleased with his present state;
which proves equally unsatisfactory, says Horace, whether fallen upon by
chance, or chosen with deliberation; we are always disgusted with some
circumstance or other of our situation, and imagine the condition of
others more abundant in blessings, or less exposed to calamities.

This universal discontent has been generally mentioned with great severity
of censure, as unreasonable in itself, since of two, equally envious of
each other, both cannot have the larger share of happiness, and as tending
to darken life with unnecessary gloom, by withdrawing our minds from the
contemplation and enjoyment of that happiness which our state affords us,
and fixing our attention upon foreign objects, which we only behold to
depress ourselves, and increase our misery by injurious comparisons.

When this opinion of the felicity of others predominates in the heart, so
as to excite resolutions of obtaining, at whatever price, the condition
to which such transcendent privileges are supposed to be annexed; when it
bursts into action, and produces fraud, violence, and injustice, it is to
be pursued with all the rigour of legal punishments. But while operating
only upon the thoughts it disturbs none but him who has happened to admit
it, and, however it may interrupt content, makes no attack on piety or
virtue, I cannot think it so far criminal or ridiculous, but that it may
deserve some pity, and admit some excuse.

That all are equally happy, or miserable, I suppose none is sufficiently
enthusiastical to maintain; because though we cannot judge of the
condition of others, yet every man has found frequent vicissitudes in
his own state, and must therefore be convinced that life is susceptible
of more or less felicity.