No More Learning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




No. 8. SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 1750.


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




No. 9. TUESDAY, APRIL 17, 1750.


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




No. 10. SATURDAY, APRIL 21, 1750.


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

For trifling sports I quitted grave affairs.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




No. 11. TUESDAY, APRIL 24, 1750.


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

Yet O! remember, nor the god of wine,
Nor Pythian Phœbus from his inmost shrine,
Nor Dindymene, nor her priests possest,
Can with their sounding cymbals shake the breast,
Like furious anger.
FRANCIS.
The maxim which Periander of Corinth, one of the seven sages of Greece,
left as a memorial of his knowledge and benevolence, was χολου κρατει,
_Be master of thy anger_. He considered anger as the great disturber
of human life, the chief enemy both of publick happiness and private
tranquillity, and thought that he could not lay on posterity a stronger
obligation to reverence his memory, than by leaving them a salutary
caution against this outrageous passion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




No. 12. SATURDAY, APRIL 28, 1750.


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

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


TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

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

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

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

With these cautions I waited on madam Bombasine, of whom the first
sight gave me no ravishing ideas. She was two yards round the waist,
her voice was at once loud and squeaking, and her face brought to my
mind the picture of the full moon. Are you the young woman, says she,
that are come to offer yourself? It is strange when people of substance
want a servant, how soon it is the town-talk. But they know they shall
have a belly-full that live with me. Not like people at the other end of
the town, we dine at one o'clock. But I never take any body without a
character; what friends do you come of? I then told her that my father
was a gentleman, and that we had been unfortunate. --A great misfortune
indeed, to come to me, and have three meals a-day! --So your father was a
gentleman, and you are a gentlewoman I suppose--such gentlewomen! --Madam,
I did not mean to claim any exemptions, I only answered your inquiry--Such
gentlewomen! people should set their children to good trades, and keep
them off the parish. Pray go to the other end of the town, there are
gentlewomen, if they would pay their debts: I am sure we have lost enough
by gentlewomen. Upon this, her broad face grew broader with triumph, and
I was afraid she would have taken me for the pleasure of continuing
her insult; but happily the next word was, Pray, Mrs. gentlewoman,
troop down stairs. --You may believe I obeyed her.

I returned and met with a better reception from my cousin than I expected;
for while I was out, she had heard that Mrs. Standish, whose husband had
lately been raised from a clerk in an office, to be commissioner of the
excise, had taken a fine house, and wanted a maid.

To Mrs. Standish I went, and, after having waited six hours, was at
last admitted to the top of the stairs, when she came out of her room,
with two of her company. There was a smell of punch. So, young woman,
you want a place; whence do you come? --From the country, madam. --Yes,
they all come out of the country. And what brought you to town, a
bastard? Where do you lodge? At the Seven-Dials? What, you never heard
of the Foundling-house! Upon this, they all laughed so obtreperously,
that I took the opportunity of sneaking off in the tumult.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ZOSIMA.




No. 13. TUESDAY, MAY 1, 1750.


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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