No More Learning

It is generally pleasing,
because it entertains the mind with representations of scenes familiar
to almost every imagination, and of which all can equally judge whether
they are well described. It exhibits a life, to which we have been
always accustomed to associate peace, and leisure, and innocence: and
therefore we readily set open the heart for the admission of its images,
which contribute to drive away cares and perturbations, and suffer
ourselves, without resistance, to be transported to Elysian regions,
where we are to meet with nothing but joy, and plenty, and contentment;
where every gale whispers pleasure, and every shade promises repose.

It has been maintained by some, who love to talk of what they do not
know, that pastoral is the most ancient poetry; and, indeed, since it
is probable that poetry is nearly of the same antiquity with rational
nature, and since the life of the first men was certainly rural, we
may reasonably conjecture, that, as their ideas would necessarily be
borrowed from those objects with which they are acquainted, their
composures, being filled chiefly with such thoughts on the visible
creation as must occur to the first observers, were pastoral hymns, like
those which Milton introduces the original pair singing, in the day of
innocence, to the praise of their Maker.


For the same reason that pastoral poetry was the first employment of the
human imagination, it is generally the first literary amusement of our
minds. We have seen fields, and meadows, and groves, from the time that
our eyes opened upon life; and are pleased with birds, and brooks, and
breezes, much earlier than we engage among the actions and passions of
mankind. We are therefore delighted with rural pictures, because we know
the original at an age when our curiosity can be very little awakened
by descriptions of courts which we never beheld, or representations of
passions which we never felt.

The satisfaction received from this kind of writing not only begins early,
but lasts long; we do not, as we advance into the intellectual world,
throw it away among other childish amusements and pastimes, but willingly
return to it in any hour of indolence and relaxation. The images of true
pastoral have always the power of exciting delight; because the works of
nature, from which they are drawn, have always the same order and beauty,
and continue to force themselves upon our thoughts, being at once obvious
to the most careless regard, and more than adequate to the strongest
reason, and severest contemplation. Our inclination to stillness and
tranquillity is seldom much lessened by long knowledge of the busy and
tumultuary part of the world. In childhood we turn our thoughts to the
country, as to the region of pleasure; we recur to it in old age as a
port of rest, and perhaps with that secondary and adventitious gladness,
which every man feels on reviewing those places, or recollecting those
occurrences, that contributed to his youthful enjoyments, and bring
him back to the prime of life, when the world was gay with the bloom of
novelty, when mirth wantoned at his side, and hope sparkled before him.

The sense of this universal pleasure has invited _numbers without number_
to try their skill in pastoral performances, in which they have generally
succeeded after the manner of other imitators, transmitting the same
images in the same combination from one to another, till he that reads
the title of a poem, may guess at the whole series of the composition;
nor will a man, after the perusal of thousands of these performances,
find his knowledge enlarged with a single view of nature not produced
before, or his imagination amused with any new application of those
views to moral purposes.

The range of pastoral is indeed narrow, for though nature itself,
philosophically considered, be inexhaustible, yet its general effects
on the eye and on the ear are uniform, and incapable of much variety of
description. Poetry cannot dwell upon the minuter distinctions, by which
one species differs from another, without departing from that simplicity
of grandeur which fills the imagination; nor dissect the latent qualities
of things, without losing its general power of gratifying every mind, by
recalling its conceptions. However, as each age makes some discoveries,
and those discoveries are by degrees generally known, as new plants or
modes of culture are introduced, and by little and little become common,
pastoral might receive, from time to time, small augmentations, and
exhibit once in a century a scene somewhat varied.

But pastoral subjects have been often, like others, taken into the hands
of those that were not qualified to adorn them, men to whom the face of
nature was so little known, that they have drawn it only after their own
imagination, and changed or distorted her features, that their portraits
might appear something more than servile copies from their predecessors.

Not only the images of rural life, but the occasions on which they can be
properly produced, are few and general. The state of a man confined to
the employments and pleasures of the country, is so little diversified,
and exposed to so few of those accidents which produce perplexities,
terrours, and surprises, in more complicated transactions, that he can be
shewn but seldom in such circumstances as attract curiosity. His ambition
is without policy, and his love without intrigue. He has no complaints to
make of his rival, but that he is richer than himself; nor any disasters
to lament, but a cruel mistress, or a bad harvest.

The conviction of the necessity of some new source of pleasure induced
Sannazarius to remove the scene from the fields to the sea, to substitute
fishermen for shepherds, and derive his sentiments from the piscatory
life; for which he has been censured by succeeding criticks, because
the sea is an object of terrour, and by no means proper to amuse the
mind, and lay the passions asleep. Against this objection he might be
defended by the established maxim, that the poet has a right to select
his images, and is no more obliged to shew the sea in a storm, than the
land under an inundation; but may display all the pleasures, and conceal
the dangers of the water, as he may lay his shepherd under a shady beech,
without giving him an ague, or letting a wild beast loose upon him.

There are, however, two defects in the piscatory eclogue, which perhaps
cannot be supplied. The sea, though in hot countries it is considered by
those who live, like Sannazarius, upon the coast, as a place of pleasure
and diversion, has notwithstanding much less variety than the land, and
therefore will be sooner exhausted by a descriptive writer. When he has
once shewn the sun rising or setting upon it, curled its waters with the
vernal breeze, rolled the waves in gentle succession to the shore, and
enumerated the fish sporting on the shallows, he has nothing remaining
but what is common to all other poetry, the complaint of a nymph for a
drowned lover, or the indignation of a fisher that his oysters are
refused, and Mycon's accepted.

Another obstacle to the general reception of this kind of poetry, is the
ignorance of maritime pleasures, in which the greater part of mankind
must always live. To all the inland inhabitants of every region, the
sea is only known as an immense diffusion of waters, over which men pass
from one country to another, and in which life is frequently lost. They
have, therefore, no opportunity of tracing, in their own thoughts, the
descriptions of winding shores and calm bays, nor can look on the poem
in which they are mentioned, with other sensations than on a sea chart,
or the metrical geography of Dionysius.

This defect Sannazarius was hindered from perceiving, by writing in
a learned language to readers generally acquainted with the works of
nature; but if he had made his attempt in any vulgar tongue, he would
soon have discovered how vainly he had endeavoured to make that loved,
which was not understood.

I am afraid it will not be found easy to improve the pastorals of
antiquity, by any great additions or diversifications. Our descriptions
may indeed differ from those of Virgil, as an English from an Italian
summer, and, in some respects, as modern from ancient life; but as
nature is in both countries nearly the same, and as poetry has to do
rather with the passions of men, which are uniform, than their customs,
which are changeable, the varieties, which time or place can furnish,
will be inconsiderable; and I shall endeavour to shew, in the next
paper, how little the latter ages have contributed to the improvement
of the rustick muse.





No. 37. TUESDAY, JULY 24, 1750.


_Canto quæ solitus, si quando armenta vocabat,_
_Amphion Dircæus. _
VIRG. Ec. ii. 23.

Such strains I sing as once Amphion play'd,
When list'ning flocks the powerful call obey'd.
ELPHINSTON.


In writing or judging of pastoral poetry, neither the authors nor criticks
of latter times seem to have paid sufficient regard to the originals
left us by antiquity, but have entangled themselves with unnecessary
difficulties, by advancing principles, which, having no foundation
in the nature of things, are wholly to be rejected from a species of
composition, in which, above all others, mere nature is to be regarded.

It is therefore necessary to inquire after some more distinct and exact
idea of this kind of writing. This may, I think, be easily found in the
pastorals of Virgil, from whose opinion it will not appear very safe to
depart, if we consider that every advantage of nature, and of fortune,
concurred to complete his productions; that he was born with great
accuracy and severity of judgment, enlightened with all the learning of
one of the brightest ages, and embellished with the elegance of the Roman
court; that he employed his powers rather in improving, than inventing,
and therefore must have endeavoured to recompense the want of novelty by
exactness; that taking Theocritus for his original, he found pastoral
far advanced towards perfection, and that having so great a rival,
he must have proceeded with uncommon caution.

If we search the writings of Virgil for the true definition of a pastoral,
it will be found _a poem in which any action or passion is represented by
its effects upon a country life_. Whatsoever therefore may, according to
the common course of things, happen in the country, may afford a subject
for a pastoral poet.

In this definition, it will immediately occur to those who are versed
in the writings of the modern criticks, that there is no mention of the
golden age. I cannot indeed easily discover why it is thought necessary
to refer descriptions of a rural state to remote times, nor can I
perceive that any writer has consistently preserved the Arcadian manners
and sentiments. The only reason, that I have read, on which this rule
has been founded, is, that, according to the customs of modern life, it
is improbable that shepherds should be capable of harmonious numbers,
or delicate sentiments; and therefore the reader must exalt his ideas
of the pastoral character, by carrying his thoughts back to the age in
which the care of herds and flocks was the employment of the wisest and
greatest men.

These reasoners seem to have been led into their hypothesis, by
considering pastoral, not in general, as a representation of rural
nature, and consequently as exhibiting the ideas and sentiments of those,
whoever they are, to whom the country affords pleasure or employment, but
simply as a dialogue, or narrative of men actually tending sheep, and
busied in the lowest and most laborious office; from whence they very
readily concluded, since characters must necessarily be preserved, that
either the sentiments must sink to the level of the speakers, or the
speakers must be raised to the height of the sentiments.

In consequence of these original errours, a thousand precepts have been
given, which have only contributed to perplex and confound. Some have
thought it necessary that the imaginary manners of the golden age should
be universally preserved, and have therefore believed, that nothing more
could be admitted in pastoral, than lilies and roses, and rocks and
streams, among which are heard the gentle whispers of chaste fondness,
or the soft complaints of amorous impatience. In pastoral, as in other
writings, chastity of sentiment ought doubtless to be observed, and
purity of manners to be represented; not because the poet is confined to
the images of the golden age, but because, having the subject in his own
choice, he ought always to consult the interest of virtue.

These advocates for the golden age lay down other principles, not very
consistent with their general plan; for they tell us, that, to support
the character of the shepherd, it is proper that all refinement should
be avoided, and that some slight instances of ignorance should be
interspersed. Thus the shepherd in Virgil is supposed to have forgot
the name of Anaximander, and in Pope the term Zodiack is too hard for a
rustick apprehension. But if we place our shepherds in their primitive
condition, we may give them learning among their other qualifications;
and if we suffer them to allude at all to things of later existence,
which, perhaps, cannot with any great propriety be allowed, there can
be no danger of making them speak with too much accuracy, since they
conversed with divinities, and transmitted to succeeding ages the arts
of life.

Other writers, having the mean and despicable condition of a shepherd
always before them, conceive it necessary to degrade the language of
pastoral by obsolete terms and rustick words, which they very learnedly
call Dorick, without reflecting that they thus became authors of a
mangled dialect, which no human being ever could have spoken, that they
may as well refine the speech as the sentiments of their personages,
and that none of the inconsistencies which they endeavour to avoid,
is greater than that of joining elegance of thought with coarseness
of diction. Spenser begins one of his pastorals with studied barbarity:

Diggon Davie, I bid her good-day:
Or, Diggon her is, or I missay.
_Dig. _ Her was her while it was day-light,
But now her is a most wretched wight.

What will the reader imagine to be the subject on which speakers like
these exercise their eloquence? Will he not be somewhat disappointed,
when he finds them met together to condemn the corruptions of the church
of Rome? Surely, at the same time that a shepherd learns theology, he
may gain some acquaintance with his native language.

Pastoral admits of all ranks of persons, because persons of all ranks
inhabit the country. It excludes not, therefore, on account of the
characters necessary to be introduced, any elevation or delicacy of
sentiment; those ideas only are improper, which, not owing their original
to rural objects, are not pastoral. Such is the exclamation in Virgil,

_Nunc scio quid sit Amor, duris in cotibus illum_
_Ismarus, aut Rhodope, aut extremi Garamantes,_
_Nec generis nostri puerum, nee sanguinis edunt. _
VIRG. Ecl. viii. 44.

I know thee, Love, in deserts thou wert bred,
And at the dugs of savage tygers fed;
Alien of birth, usurper of the plains.
DRYDEN.

which, Pope endeavouring to copy, was carried to still greater impropriety:

I know thee, Love, wild as the raging main,
More fierce than tygers on the Libyan plain;
Thou wert from Ætna's burning entrails torn;
Begot in tempests, and in thunders born!

Sentiments like these, as they have no ground in nature, are indeed of
little value in any poem; but in pastoral they are particularly liable
to censure, because it wants that exaltation above common life, which
in tragick or heroick writings often reconciles us to bold flights and
daring figures.

Pastoral being the _representation of an action or passion, by its
effects upon a country life_, has nothing peculiar but its confinement to
rural imagery, without which it ceases to be pastoral. This is its true
characteristick, and this it cannot lose by any dignity of sentiment,
or beauty of diction. The Pollio of Virgil, with all its elevation, is
a composition truly bucolick, though rejected by the criticks; for all
the images are either taken from the country, or from the religion of
the age common to all parts of the empire.

The Silenus is indeed of a more disputable kind, because, though the
scene lies in the country, the song being religious and historical, had
been no less adapted to any other audience or place. Neither can it well
be defended as a fiction; for the introduction of a god seems to imply
the golden age, and yet he alludes to many subsequent transactions,
and mentions Gallus, the poet's contemporary.

It seems necessary to the perfection of this poem, that the occasion which
is supposed to produce it, be at least not inconsistent with a country
life, or less likely to interest those who have retired into places of
solitude and quiet, than the more busy part of mankind. It is therefore
improper to give the title of a pastoral to verses, in which the
speakers, after the slight mention of their flocks, fall to complaints
of errours in the church, and corruptions in the government, or to
lamentations of the death of some illustrious person, whom, when once the
poet has called a shepherd, he has no longer any labour upon his hands,
but can make the clouds weep, and lilies wither, and the sheep hang their
heads, without art or learning, genius or study.

It is part of Claudian's character of his rustick, that he computes his
time not by the succession of consuls, but of harvests. Those who pass
their days in retreats distant from the theatres of business, are always
least likely to hurry their imagination with publick affairs.

The facility of treating actions or events in the pastoral style, has
incited many writers, from whom more judgment might have been expected,
to put the sorrow or the joy which the occasion required into the mouth
of Daphne or of Thyrsis; and as one absurdity must naturally be expected
to make way for another, they have written with an utter disregard
both of life and nature, and filled their productions with mythological
allusions, with incredible fictions, and with sentiments which neither
passion nor reason could have dictated, since the change which religion
has made in the whole system of the world.




No. 38. SATURDAY, JULY 28, 1750.


_Auream quisquis mediocritatem_
_Diligit, tutus caret obsoleti_
_Sordibus tecti, caret invidendâ_
_Sobrius aulâ. _
HOR. lib. i. Ode iv. 10.

The man within the golden mean
Who can his boldest wish contain,
Securely views the ruin'd cell,
Where sordid want and sorrow dwell;
And in himself serenely great,
Declines an envied room of state.
FRANCIS.


Among many parallels which men of imagination have drawn between the
natural and moral state of the world, it has been observed that happiness,
as well as virtue, consists in mediocrity; that to avoid every extreme
is necessary, even to him who has no other care than to pass through the
present state with ease and safety; and that the middle path is the road
of security, on either side of which are not only the pitfalls of vice,
but the precipices of ruin.


Thus the maxim of Cleobulus the Lindian, μετρον αριστον, _Mediocrity is
best_, has been long considered as an universal principle, extended
through the whole compass of life and nature. The experience of every
age seems to have given it new confirmation, and to shew that nothing,
however specious or alluring, is pursued with propriety, or enjoyed with
safety, beyond certain limits.

Even the gifts of nature, which may truly be considered as the most solid
and durable of all terrestrial advantages, are found, when they exceed
the middle point, to draw the possessor into many calamities, easily
avoided by others that have been less bountifully enriched or adorned. We
see every day women perish with infamy, by having been too willing to set
their beauty to shew; and others, though not with equal guilt or misery,
yet with very sharp remorse, languishing in decay, neglect, and obscurity,
for having rated their youthful charms at too high a price. And, indeed,
if the opinion of Bacon be thought to deserve much regard, very few
sighs would be vented for eminent and superlative elegance of form; "for
beautiful women," says he, "are seldom of any great accomplishments,
because they, for the most part, study behaviour rather than virtue. "

Health and vigour, and a happy constitution of the corporeal frame,
are of absolute necessity to the enjoyment of the comforts, and to the
performance of the duties of life, and requisite in yet a greater measure
to the accomplishment of any thing illustrious or distinguished; yet even
these, if we can judge by their apparent consequences, are sometimes not
very beneficial to those on whom they are most liberally bestowed. They
that frequent the chambers of the sick will generally find the sharpest
pains, and most stubborn maladies, among them whom confidence of the
force of nature formerly betrayed to negligence and irregularity; and
that superfluity of strength, which was at once their boast and their
snare, has often, in the latter part of life, no other effect than that
it continues them long in impotence and anguish.

These gifts of nature are, however, always blessings in themselves, and
to be acknowledged with gratitude to him that gives them; since they
are, in their regular and legitimate effects, productive of happiness, and
prove pernicious only by voluntary corruption or idle negligence. And as
there is little danger of pursuing them with too much ardour or anxiety,
because no skill or diligence can hope to procure them, the uncertainty
of their influence upon our lives is mentioned, not to depreciate their
real value, but to repress the discontent and envy to which the want of
them often gives occasion in those who do not enough suspect their own
frailty, nor consider how much less is the calamity of not possessing
great powers, than of not using them aright.

Of all those things that make us superior to others, there is none so much
within the reach of our endeavours as riches, nor any thing more eagerly
or constantly desired. Poverty is an evil always in our view, an evil
complicated with so many circumstances of uneasiness and vexation, that
every man is studious to avoid it. Some degree of riches is therefore
required, that we may be exempt from the gripe of necessity; when this
purpose is once attained, we naturally wish for more, that the evil which
is regarded with so much horrour, may be yet at a greater distance from
us; as he that has once felt or dreaded the paw of a savage, will not
be at rest till they are parted by some barrier, which may take away all
possibility of a second attack.

To this point, if fear be not unreasonably indulged, Cleobulus would,
perhaps, not refuse to extend his mediocrity. But it almost always
happens, that the man who grows rich, changes his notions of poverty,
states his wants by some new measure, and from flying the enemy that
pursued him, bends his endeavours to overtake those whom he sees before
him. The power of gratifying his appetites increases their demands;
a thousand wishes crowd in upon him, importunate to be satisfied, and
vanity and ambition open prospects to desire, which still grow wider,
as they are more contemplated.

Thus in time want is enlarged without bounds; an eagerness for increase
of possessions deluges the soul, and we sink into the gulphs of
insatiability, only because we do not sufficiently consider, that all
real need is very soon supplied, and all real danger of its invasion
easily precluded; that the claims of vanity, being without limits, must
be denied at last; and that the pain of repressing them is less pungent
before they have been long accustomed to compliance.

Whosoever shall look heedfully upon those who are eminent for their
riches, will not think their condition such as that he should hazard his
quiet, and much less his virtue, to obtain it. For all that great wealth
generally gives above a moderate fortune, is more room for the freaks of
caprice, and more privilege for ignorance and vice, a quicker succession
of flatteries, and a large circle of voluptuousness.

There is one reason, seldom remarked, which makes riches less desirable.
Too much wealth is very frequently the occasion of poverty. He whom the
wantonness of abundance has once softened, easily sinks into neglect of
his affairs; and he that thinks he can afford to be negligent, is not
far from being poor. He will soon be involved in perplexities, which his
inexperience will render unsurmountable; he will fly for help to those
whose interest it is that he should be more distressed, and will be at
last torn to pieces by the vultures that always hover over fortunes in
decay.

When the plains of India were burnt up by a long continuance of drought,
Hamet and Raschid, two neighbouring shepherds, faint with thirst, stood
at the common boundary of their grounds, with their flocks and herds
panting round them, and in extremity of distress prayed for water. On a
sudden the air was becalmed, the birds ceased to chirp, and the flocks
to bleat. They turned their eyes every way, and saw a being of mighty
stature advancing through the valley, whom they knew upon his nearer
approach to be the Genius of Distribution. In one hand he held the sheaves
of plenty, and in the other the sabre of destruction. The shepherds stood
trembling, and would have retired before him; but he called to them with
a voice gentle as the breeze that plays in the evening among the spices
of Sabæa; "Fly not from your benefactor, children of the dust! I am come
to offer you gifts, which only your own folly can make vain. You here
pray for water, and water I will bestow; let me know with how much you
will be satisfied: speak not rashly; consider, that of whatever can be
enjoyed by the body, excess is no less dangerous than scarcity. When you
remember the pain of thirst, do not forget the danger of suffocation. Now,
Hamet, tell me your request. "

"O Being, kind and beneficent," says Hamet, "let thine eye pardon my
confusion, I entreat a little brook, which in summer shall never be dry,
and in winter never overflow. " "It is granted," replies the Genius; and
immediately he opened the ground with his sabre, and a fountain bubbling
up under their feet, scattered its rills over the meadows; the flowers
renewed their fragrance, the trees spread a greener foliage, and the
flocks and herds quenched their thirst.

Then turning to Raschid, the Genius invited him likewise to offer his
petition. "I request," says Raschid, "that thou wilt turn the Ganges
through my grounds, with all his waters, and all their inhabitants. " Hamet
was struck with the greatness of his neighbour's sentiments, and secretly
repined in his heart, that he had not made the same petition before him;
when the Genius spoke, "Rash man, be not insatiable! remember, to thee
that is nothing which thou canst not use; and how are thy wants greater
than the wants of Hamet? " Raschid repeated his desire, and pleased himself
with the mean appearance that Hamet would make in the presence of the
proprietor of the Ganges. The Genius then retired towards the river, and
the two shepherds stood waiting the event. As Raschid was looking with
contempt upon his neighbour, on a sudden was heard the roar of torrents,
and they found by the mighty stream that the mounds of the Ganges were
broken. The flood rolled forward into the lands of Raschid, his plantations
were torn up, his flocks overwhelmed, he was swept away before it, and
a crocodile devoured him.




No. 39. TUESDAY, JULY 31, 1750.


_Infelix----nulli bene nupta marito. _
AUSONIUS, Ep. Her. 30.

Unblest, still doom'd to wed with misery.


The condition of the female sex has been frequently the subject of
compassion to medical writers, because their constitution of body is
such, that every state of life brings its peculiar diseases: they are
placed, according to the proverb, between Scylla and Charybdis, with no
other choice than of dangers equally formidable; and whether they embrace
marriage, or determine upon a single life, are exposed, in consequence of
their choice, to sickness, misery, and death.

It were to be wished that so great a degree of natural infelicity might
not be increased by adventitious and artificial miseries; and that
beings, whose beauty we cannot behold without admiration, and whose
delicacy we cannot contemplate without tenderness, might be suffered to
enjoy every alleviation of their sorrows. But, however it has happened,
the custom of the world seems to have been formed in a kind of conspiracy
against them, though it does not appear but they had themselves an equal
share in its establishment; and prescriptions which, by whomsoever they
were begun, are now of long continuance, and by consequence of great
authority, seem to have almost excluded them from content, in whatsoever
condition they shall pass their lives.

If they refuse the society of men, and continue in that state which is
reasonably supposed to place happiness most in their own power, they
seldom give those that frequent their conversation any exalted notions
of the blessing of liberty; for whether it be that they are angry to
see with what inconsiderate eagerness other heedless females rush into
slavery, or with what absurd vanity the married ladies boast the change
of their condition, and condemn the heroines who endeavour to assert
the natural dignity of their sex; whether they are conscious that like
barren countries they are free, only because they were never thought to
deserve the trouble of a conquest, or imagine that their sincerity is
not always unsuspected, when they declare their contempt of men; it is
certain, that they generally appear to have some great and incessant
cause of uneasiness, and that many of them have at last been persuaded,
by powerful rhetoricians, to try the life which they had so long
contemned, and put on the bridal ornaments at a time when they least
became them.

What are the real causes of the impatience which the ladies discover in a
virgin state, I shall perhaps take some other occasion to examine. That
it is not to be envied for its happiness, appears from the solicitude
with which it is avoided; from the opinion universally prevalent among
the sex, that no woman continues long in it but because she is not
invited to forsake it; from the disposition always shewn to treat old
maids as the refuse of the world; and from the willingness with which it
is often quitted at last, by those whose experience has enabled them to
judge at leisure, and decide with authority.

Yet such is life, that whatever is proposed, it is much easier to find
reasons for rejecting than embracing. Marriage, though a certain security
from the reproach and solicitude of antiquated virginity, has yet, as it
is usually conducted, many disadvantages, that take away much from the
pleasure which society promises, and might afford, if pleasures and pains
were honestly shared, and mutual confidence inviolably preserved.

The miseries, indeed, which many ladies suffer under conjugal vexations,
are to be considered with great pity, because their husbands are often
not taken by them as objects of affection, but forced upon them by
authority and violence, or by persuasion and importunity, equally
resistless when urged by those whom they have been always accustomed to
reverence and obey; and it very seldom appears that those who are thus
despotick in the disposal of their children, pay any regard to their
domestick and personal felicity, or think it so much to be inquired
whether they will be happy, as whether they will be rich.

It may be urged, in extenuation of this crime, which parents, not in
any other respect to be numbered with robbers and assassins, frequently
commit, that, in their estimation, riches and happiness are equivalent
terms. They have passed their lives with no other wish than of adding
acre to acre, and filling one bag after another, and imagine the
advantage of a daughter sufficiently considered, when they have secured
her a large jointure, and given her reasonable expectations of living
in the midst of those pleasures with which she had seen her father and
mother solacing their age.

There is an œconomical oracle received among the prudential part of the
world, which advises fathers _to marry their daughters, lest they should
marry themselves_; by which I suppose it is implied, that women left to
their own conduct generally unite themselves with such partners as can
contribute very little to their felicity. Who was the author of this
maxim, or with what intention it was originally uttered, I have not yet
discovered; but imagine that however solemnly it may be transmitted,
or however implicitly received, it can confer no authority which nature
has denied; it cannot license Titius to be unjust, lest Caia should be
imprudent; nor give right to imprison for life, lest liberty should be
ill employed.

That the ladies have sometimes incurred imputations which might naturally
produce edicts not much in their favour, must be confessed by their warmest
advocates; and I have indeed seldom observed that when the tenderness or
virtue of their parents has preserved them from forced marriage, and left
them at large to chuse their own path in the labyrinth of life, they
have made any great advantage of their liberty: they commonly take the
opportunity of independance to trifle away youth and lose their bloom in
a hurry of diversions, recurring in a succession too quick to leave room
for any settled reflection; they see the world without gaining experience,
and at last regulate their choice by motives trifling as those of a girl,
or mercenary as those of a miser.

Melanthea came to town upon the death of her father, with a very large
fortune, and with the reputation of a much larger; she was therefore
followed and caressed by many men of rank, and by some of understanding;
but having an insatiable desire of pleasure, she was not at leisure,
from the park, the gardens, the theatres, visits, assemblies, and
masquerades, to attend seriously to any proposal, but was still impatient
for a new flatterer, and neglected marriage as always in her power; till
in time her admirers fell away, wearied with expense, disgusted at her
folly, or offended by her inconstancy; she heard of concerts to which
she was not invited, and was more than once forced to sit still at an
assembly for want of a partner. In this distress, chance threw in her
way Philotryphus, a man vain, glittering, and thoughtless as herself, who
had spent a small fortune in equipage and dress, and was shining in the
last suit for which his tailor would give him credit. He had been long
endeavouring to retrieve his extravagance by marriage, and therefore soon
paid his court to Melanthea, who after some weeks of insensibility saw
him at a ball, and was wholly overcome by his performance in a minuet.
They married; but a man cannot always dance, and Philotryphus had no
other method of pleasing; however, as neither was in any great degree
vicious, they live together with no other unhappiness, than vacuity of
mind, and that tastelessness of life, which proceeds from a satiety of
juvenile pleasures, and an utter inability to fill their place by nobler
employments. As they have known the fashionable world at the same time,
they agree in their notions of all those subjects on which they ever
speak, and being able to add nothing to the ideas of each other, are
not much inclined to conversation, but very often join in one wish,
"That they could sleep more, and think less. "

Argyris, after having refused a thousand offers, at last consented to
marry Cotylus, the younger brother of a duke, a man without elegance of
mien, beauty of person, or force of understanding; who, while he courted
her, could not always forbear allusions to her birth, and hints how
cheaply she would purchase an alliance to so illustrious a family. His
conduct from the hour of his marriage has been insufferably tyrannical,
nor has he any other regard to her than what arises from his desire that
her appearance may not disgrace him. Upon this principle, however, he
always orders that she should be gaily dressed, and splendidly attended;
and she has, among all her mortifications, the happiness to take place of
her eldest sister.




No. 40. SATURDAY, AUGUST 4, 1750.


_----Nec dicet, cur ego amicum_
_Offendam in nugis? Hæ nugæ seria ducent_
_In mala derisum semel. _
HOR. Ars. Poet. 450.

Nor say, for trifles why should I displease
The man I love? For trifles such as these
To serious mischiefs lead the man I love,
If once the flatterer's ridicule he prove.
FRANCIS.


It has been remarked, that authors are _genus irritabile_, a _generation
very easily put out of temper_, and that they seldom fail of giving
proofs of their irascibility upon the slightest attack of criticism, or
the most gentle or modest offer of advice and information.

Writers being best acquainted with one another, have represented this
character as prevailing among men of literature, which a more extensive
view of the world would have shewn them to be diffused through all human
nature, to mingle itself with every species of ambition and desire of
praise, and to discover its effects with greater or less restraint,
and under disguises more or less artful, in all places and all conditions.

The quarrels of writers, indeed, are more observed, because they
necessarily appeal to the decision of the publick. Their enmities are
incited by applauses from their parties, and prolonged by treacherous
encouragement for general diversion; and when the contest happens to
rise high between men of genius and learning, its memory is continued
for the same reason as its vehemence was at first promoted, because it
gratifies the malevolence or curiosity of readers, and relieves the
vacancies of life with amusement and laughter. The personal disputes,
therefore, of rivals in wit are sometimes transmitted to posterity, when
the grudges and heart-burnings of men less conspicuous, though carried
on with equal bitterness, and productive of greater evils, are exposed
to the knowledge of those only whom they nearly affect, and suffered to
pass off and be forgotten among common and casual transactions.

The resentment which the discovery of a fault or folly produces, must
bear a certain proportion to our pride, and will regularly be more
acrimonious as pride is more immediately the principle of action. In
whatever therefore we wish to imagine ourselves to excel, we shall
always be displeased to have our claims to reputation disputed; and more
displeased, if the accomplishment be such as can expect reputation only
for its reward. For this reason it is common to find men break out into
rage at any insinuations to the disadvantage of their wit, who have
borne with great patience reflections on their morals; and of women it
has been always known, that no censure wounds so deeply, or rankles so
long, as that which charges them with want of beauty.

As men frequently fill their imaginations with trifling pursuits, and
please themselves most with things of small importance, I have often
known very severe and lasting malevolence excited by unlucky censures,
which would have fallen without any effect, had they not happened to
wound a part remarkably tender. Gustulus, who valued himself upon the
nicety of his palate, disinherited his eldest son for telling him
that the wine, which he was then commending, was the same which he
had sent away the day before as not fit to be drunk. Proculus withdrew
his kindness from a nephew, whom he had always considered as the most
promising genius of the age, for happening to praise in his presence
the graceful horsemanship of Marius. And Fortunio, when he was privy
counsellor, procured a clerk to be dismissed from one of the publick
offices, in which he was eminent for his skill and assiduity, because
he had been heard to say that there was another man in the kingdom on
whose skill at billiards he would lay his money against Fortunio's.

Felicia and Floretta had been bred up in one house, and shared all the
pleasures and endearments of infancy together. They entered upon life at
the same time, and continued their confidence and friendship; consulted
each other in every change of their dress, and every admission of a new
lover; thought every diversion more entertaining whenever it happened
that both were present, and when separated justified the conduct, and
celebrated the excellencies, of one another. Such was their intimacy,
and such their fidelity; till a birth-night approached, when Floretta
took one morning an opportunity, as they were consulting upon new
clothes, to advise her friend not to dance at the ball, and informed her
that her performance the year before had not answered the expectation
which her other accomplishments had raised. Felicia commended her
sincerity, and thanked her for the caution; but told her that she danced
to please herself, and was in very little concern what the men might
take the liberty of saying, but that if her appearance gave her dear
Floretta any uneasiness, she would stay away. Floretta had now nothing
left but to make new protestations of sincerity and affection, with
which Felicia was so well satisfied, that they parted with more than
usual fondness. They still continued to visit, with this only difference,
that Felicia was more punctual than before, and often declared how
high a value she put upon sincerity, how much she thought that goodness
to be esteemed which would venture to admonish a friend of an errour,
and with what gratitude advice was to be received, even when it might
happen to proceed from mistake.

In a few months Felicia, with great seriousness, told Floretta, that
though her beauty was such as gave charms to whatever she did, and her
qualifications so extensive, that she could not fail of excellence in
any attempt, yet she thought herself obliged by the duties of friendship
to inform her, that if ever she betrayed want of judgment, it was by too
frequent compliance with solicitations to sing, for that her manner was
somewhat ungraceful, and her voice had no great compass. It is true, says
Floretta, when I sung three nights ago at lady Sprightly's, I was hoarse
with a cold; but I sing for my own satisfaction, and am not in the least
pain whether I am liked. However, my dear Felicia's kindness is not the
less, and I shall always think myself happy in so true a friend.

From this time they never saw each other without mutual professions
of esteem, and declarations of confidence, but went soon after into
the country to visit their relations.
When they came back, they were
prevailed on, by the importunity of new acquaintance, to take lodgings in
different parts of the town, and had frequent occasion, when they met, to
bewail the distance at which they were placed, and the uncertainty which
each experienced of finding the other at home.

Thus are the fondest and firmest friendships dissolved, by such openness
and sincerity as interrupt our enjoyment of our own approbation, or
recal us to the remembrance of those failings which we are more willing
to indulge than to correct.

It is by no means necessary to imagine, that he who is offended at advice,
was ignorant of the fault, and resents the admonition as a false charge;
for perhaps it is most natural to be enraged, when there is the strongest
conviction of our own guilt. While we can easily defend our character,
we are no more disturbed at an accusation, than we are alarmed by an
enemy whom we are sure to conquer; and whose attack, therefore, will
bring us honour without danger. But when a man feels the reprehension of
a friend seconded by his own heart, he is easily heated into resentment
and revenge, either because he hoped that the fault of which he was
conscious had escaped the notice of others; or that his friend had looked
upon it with tenderness and extenuation, and excused it for the sake
of his other virtues; or had considered him as too wise to need advice,
or too delicate to be shocked with reproach: or, because we cannot feel
without pain those reflections roused which we have been endeavouring
to lay asleep; and when pain has produced anger, who would not willingly
believe, that it ought to be discharged on others, rather than on himself?

The resentment produced by sincerity, whatever be its immediate cause,
is so certain, and generally so keen, that very few have magnanimity
sufficient for the practice of a duty, which, above most others, exposes
its votaries to hardships and persecutions; yet friendship without it
is of very little value since the great use of so close an intimacy is,
that our virtues may be guarded and encouraged, and our vices repressed
in their first appearance by timely detection and salutary
remonstrances.

It is decreed by Providence, that nothing truly valuable shall be obtained
in our present state, but with difficulty and danger. He that hopes for
that advantage which is to be gained from unrestrained communication,
must sometimes hazard, by unpleasing truths, that friendship which he
aspires to merit. The chief rule to be observed in the exercise of this
dangerous office, is to preserve it pure from all mixture of interest
or vanity; to forbear admonition or reproof, when our consciences tell
us that they are incited, not by the hopes of reforming faults, but the
desire of shewing our discernment, or gratifying our own pride by the
mortification of another. It is not indeed certain, that the most refined
caution will find a proper time for bringing a man to the knowledge
of his own failings, or the most zealous benevolence reconcile him to
that judgment, by which they are detected; but he who endeavours only
the happiness of him whom he reproves, will always have either the
satisfaction of obtaining or deserving kindness; if he succeeds, he
benefits his friend, and if he fails, he has at least the consciousness
that he suffers for only doing well.




No. 41. TUESDAY, AUGUST 7, 1750.


_Nulla recordanti lux est ingrata, gravisque:_
_Nulla subit cujus non meminisse velit. _
_Ampliat ætatis spatium sibi vir bonus: hoc est_
_Vivere bis, vitâ posse priore frui. _
MART. lib. x. Epig. 23.

No day's remembrance shall the good regret,
Nor wish one bitter moment to forget:
They stretch the limits of this narrow span;
And, by enjoying, live past life again.
F. LEWIS.


So few of the hours of life are filled up with objects adequate to the
mind of man, and so frequently are we in want of present pleasure or
employment, that we are forced to have recourse every moment to the past
and future for supplemental satisfactions, and relieve the vacuities of
our being, by recollection of former passages, or anticipation of events
to come.

I cannot but consider this necessity of searching on every side for
matter on which the attention may be employed, as a strong proof of the
superior and celestial nature of the soul of man. We have no reason to
believe that other creatures have higher faculties, or more extensive
capacities, than the preservation of themselves, or their species,
requires; they seem always to be fully employed, or to be completely at
ease without employment, to feel few intellectual miseries or pleasures,
and to have no exuberance of understanding to lay out upon curiosity
or caprice, but to have their minds exactly adapted to their bodies,
with few other ideas than such as corporal pain or pleasure impresses
upon them.

Of memory, which makes so large a part of the excellence of the human
soul, and which has so much influence upon all its other powers, but a
small portion has been allotted to the animal world. We do not find the
grief with which the dams lament the loss of their young, proportionate
to the tenderness with which they caress, the assiduity with which they
feed, or the vehemence with which they defend them. Their regard for
their offspring, when it is before their eyes, is not, in appearance,
less than that of a human parent; but when it is taken away, it is very
soon forgotten, and, after a short absence, if brought again, wholly
disregarded.

That they have very little remembrance of any thing once out of the reach
of their senses, and scarce any power of comparing the present with the
past, and regulating their conclusions from experience, may be gathered
from this, that their intellects are produced in their full perfection.
The sparrow that was hatched last spring makes her first nest the ensuing
season, of the same materials, and with the same art, as in any following
year; and the hen conducts and shelters her first brood of chickens with
all the prudence that she ever attains.

It has been asked by men who love to perplex any thing that is plain to
common understandings, how reason differs from instinct; and Prior has
with no great propriety made Solomon himself declare, that to distinguish
them is _the fool's ignorance, and the pedant's pride_. To give an
accurate answer to a question, of which the terms are not completely
understood, is impossible; we do not know in what either reason or
instinct consists, and therefore cannot tell with exactness how they
differ; but surely he that contemplates a ship and a bird's nest, will
not be long without finding out, that the idea of the one was impressed
at once, and continued through all the progressive descents of the
species, without variation or improvement; and that the other is the
result of experiments, compared with experiments, has grown, by
accumulated observation, from less to greater excellence, and exhibits
the collective knowledge of different ages and various professions.

Memory is the purveyor of reason, the power which places those images
before the mind upon which the judgment is to be exercised, and which
treasures up the determinations that are once passed, as the rules of
future action, or grounds of subsequent conclusions.

It is, indeed, the faculty of remembrance, which may be said to place us
in the class of moral agents. If we were to act only in consequence of
some immediate impulse, and receive no direction from internal motives
of choice, we should be pushed forward by an invincible fatality, without
power or reason for the most part to prefer one thing to another, because
we could make no comparison but of objects which might both happen to
be present.

We owe to memory not only the increase of our knowledge, and our progress
in rational inquiries, but many other intellectual pleasures. Indeed,
almost all that we can be said to enjoy is past or future; the present
is in perpetual motion, leaves us as soon as it arrives, ceases to be
present before its presence is well perceived, and is only known to have
existed by the effects which it leaves behind. The greatest part of our
ideas arises, therefore, from the view before or behind us, and we are
happy or miserable, according as we are affected by the survey of our
life, or our prospect of future existence.

With regard to futurity, when events are at such a distance from us that
we cannot take the whole concatenation into our view, we have generally
power enough over our imagination to turn it upon pleasing scenes, and
can promise ourselves riches, honours, and delights, without intermingling
those vexations and anxieties, with which all human enjoyments are
polluted. If fear breaks in on one side, and alarms us with dangers and
disappointments, we can call in hope on the other, to solace us with
rewards, and escapes, and victories; so that we are seldom without
means of palliating remote evils, and can generally sooth ourselves to
tranquillity, whenever any troublesome presage happens to attack us.

It is, therefore, I believe, much more common for the solitary and
thoughtful to amuse themselves with schemes of the future, than reviews
of the past. For the future is pliant and ductile, and will be easily
moulded by a strong fancy into any form. But the images which memory
presents are of a stubborn and untractable nature, the objects of
remembrance have already existed, and left their signature behind them
impressed upon the mind, so as to defy all attempts of rasure or of
change.

As the satisfactions, therefore, arising from memory are less arbitrary,
they are more solid, and are, indeed, the only joys which we can call
our own. Whatever we have once reposited, as Dryden expresses it, _in
the sacred treasure of the past_, is out of the reach of accident, or
violence, nor can be lost either by our own weakness, or another's malice:

_----Non tamen irritum_
_Quodcunque retro est, efficiet; neque_
_Diffinget, infectumque reddet,_
_Quod fugiens semel hora vexit. _
HOR. lib. iii. Ode 29. 43.

Be fair or foul, or rain or shine,
The joys I have possess'd in spite of fate are mine.
Not Heav'n itself upon the past has pow'r,
But what has been has been, and I have had my hour.
DRYDEN.

There is certainly no greater happiness than to be able to look back
on a life usefully and virtuously employed, to trace our own progress
in existence, by such tokens as excite neither shame nor sorrow. Life,
in which nothing has been done or suffered to distinguish one day from
another, is to him that has passed it, as if it had never been, except
that he is conscious how ill he has husbanded the great deposit of his
Creator. Life, made memorable by crimes, and diversified through its
several periods by wickedness, is indeed easily reviewed, but reviewed
only with horrour and remorse.

The great consideration which ought to influence us in the use of the
present moment, is to arise from the effect, which, as well or ill applied,
it must have upon the time to come; for though its actual existence be
inconceivably short, yet its effects are unlimited; and there is not
the smallest point of time but may extend its consequences, either to
our hurt or our advantage, through all eternity, and give us reason to
remember it for ever, with anguish or exultation.

The time of life, in which memory seems particularly to claim predominance
over the other faculties of the mind, is our declining age. It has been
remarked by former writers, that old men are generally narrative, and
fall easily into recitals of past transactions, and accounts of persons
known to them in their youth. When we approach the verge of the grave it
is more eminently true;

_Vitæ summa brevis spem nos vetat inchoare longam. _
HOR. lib. i. Ode 4. 15.

Life's span forbids thee to extend thy cares,
And stretch thy hopes beyond thy years.
CREECH.

We have no longer any possibility of great vicissitudes in our favour;
the changes which are to happen in the world will come too late for
our accommodation; and those who have no hope before them, and to whom
their present state is painful and irksome, must of necessity turn their
thoughts back to try what retrospect will afford. It ought, therefore, to
be the care of those who wish to pass the last hours with comfort, to lay
up such a treasure of pleasing ideas, as shall support the expenses of
that time, which is to depend wholly upon the fund already acquired.

_----Petite hinc, juvenesque senesque_
_Finem animo certum, miserisque viatica curis. _

Seek here, ye young, the anchor of your mind;
Here, suff'ring age, a bless'd provision find.
ELPHINSTON.

In youth, however unhappy, we solace ourselves with the hope of better
fortune, and however vicious, appease our consciences with intentions
of repentance; but the time comes at last, in which life has no more
to promise, in which happiness can be drawn only from recollection, and
virtue will be all that we can recollect with pleasure.




No. 42. SATURDAY, AUGUST 11, 1750.


_Mihi tarda fluunt ingrataque tempora. _
HOR. lib. i. Epist 1. 15.

How heavily my time revolves along.
ELPHINSTON.


TO THE RAMBLER.

MR. RAMBLER,

I am no great admirer of grave writings, and therefore very frequently
lay your papers aside before I have read them through; yet I cannot
but confess that, by slow degrees, you have raised my opinion of your
understanding, and that, though I believe it will be long before I can be
prevailed upon to regard you with much kindness, you have, however, more
of my esteem than those whom I sometimes make happy with opportunities
to fill my tea-pot, or pick up my fan. I shall therefore chuse you for
the confidant of my distresses, and ask your counsel with regard to
the means of conquering or escaping them, though I never expect from
you any of that softness and pliancy, which constitutes the perfection
of a companion for the ladies: as, in the place where I now am, I have
recourse to the mastiff for protection, though I have no intention of
making him a lap-dog.

My mamma is a very fine lady, who has more numerous and more frequent
assemblies at her house than any other person in the same quarter of
the town. I was bred from my earliest infancy in a perpetual tumult
of pleasure, and remember to have heard of little else than messages,
visits, playhouses, and balls; of the awkwardness of one woman, and the
coquetry of another; the charming convenience of some rising fashion,
the difficulty of playing a new game, the incidents of a masquerade, and
the dresses of a court-night. I knew before I was ten years old all the
rules of paying and receiving visits, and to how much civility every one
of my acquaintance was entitled; and was able to return, with the proper
degree of reserve or of vivacity, the stated and established answer to
every compliment; so that I was very soon celebrated as a wit and a
beauty, and had heard before I was thirteen all that is ever said to
a young lady. My mother was generous to so uncommon a degree as to
be pleased with my advance into life, and allowed me, without envy or
reproof, to enjoy the same happiness with herself; though most women
about her own age were very angry to see young girls so forward, and
many fine gentlemen told her how cruel it was to throw new chains upon
mankind, and to tyrannize over them at the same time with her own charms,
and those of her daughter.

I have now lived two-and-twenty years, and have passed of each year nine
months in town, and three at Richmond; so that my time has been spent
uniformly in the same company, and the same amusements, except as fashion
has introduced new diversions, or the revolutions of the gay world have
afforded new successions of wits and beaux. However, my mother is so good
an economist of pleasure, that I have no spare hours upon my hands; for
every morning brings some new appointment, and every night is hurried
away by the necessity of making our appearance at different places, and
of being with one lady at the opera, and with another at the card-table.

When the time came of settling our schemes of felicity for the summer,
it was determined that I should pay a visit to a rich aunt in a remote
county. As you know the chief conversation of all tea-tables, in the
spring, arises from a communication of the manner in which time is to
be passed till winter, it was a great relief to the barrenness of our
topicks, to relate the pleasures that were in store for me, to describe
my uncle's seat, with the park and gardens, the charming walks and
beautiful waterfalls; and every one told me how much she envied me, and
what satisfaction she had once enjoyed in a situation of the same kind.

As we are all credulous in our own favour, and willing to imagine some
latent satisfaction in any thing which we have not experienced, I will
confess to you, without restraint, that I had suffered my head to be
filled with expectations of some nameless pleasure in a rural life, and
that I hoped for the happy hour that should set me free from noise, and
flutter, and ceremony, dismiss me to the peaceful shade, and lull me in
content and tranquillity. To solace myself under the misery of delay, I
sometimes heard a studious lady of my acquaintance read pastorals, I was
delighted with scarce any talk but of leaving the town, and never went
to bed without dreaming of groves, and meadows, and frisking lambs.

At length I had all my clothes in a trunk, and saw the coach at the door;
I sprung in with ecstasy, quarrelled with my maid for being too long in
taking leave of the other servants, and rejoiced as the ground grew less
which lay between me and the completion of my wishes. A few days brought
me to a large old house, encompassed on three sides with woody hills,
and looking from the front on a gentle river, the sight of which renewed
all my expectations of pleasure, and gave me some regret for having
lived so long without the enjoyment which these delightful scenes were
now to afford me. My aunt came out to receive me, but in a dress so far
removed from the present fashion, that I could scarcely look upon her
without laughter, which would have been no kind requital for the trouble
which she had taken to make herself fine against my arrival. The night
and the next morning were driven along with inquiries about our family;
my aunt then explained our pedigree, and told me stories of my great
grandfather's bravery in the civil wars, nor was it less than three days
before I could persuade her to leave me to myself.

At last economy prevailed; she went in the usual manner about her own
affairs, and I was at liberty to range in the wilderness, and sit by the
cascade. The novelty of the objects about me pleased me for a while, but
after a few days they were new no longer, and I soon began to perceive
that the country was not my element; that shades, and flowers, and lawns,
and waters, had very soon exhausted all their power of pleasing, and that
I had not in myself any fund of satisfaction, with which I could supply
the loss of my customary amusements.

I unhappily told my aunt, in the first warmth of our embraces, that I had
leave to stay with her ten weeks. Six only yet are gone, and how shall I
live through the remaining four? I go out and return; I pluck a flower,
and throw it away; I catch an insect, and when I have examined its
colours set it at liberty; I fling a pebble into the water, and see one
circle spread after another. When it chances to rain, I walk in the great
hall, and watch the minute-hand upon the dial, or play with a litter of
kittens, which the cat happens to have brought in a lucky time.

My aunt is afraid I shall grow melancholy, and therefore encourages the
neighbouring gentry to visit us. They came at first with great eagerness
to see the fine lady from London; but when we met, we had no common
topick on which we could converse; they had no curiosity after plays,
operas, or musick: and I find as little satisfaction from their accounts
of the quarrels or alliances of families, whose names, when once I can
escape, I shall never hear. The women have now seen me, know how my gown
is made, and are satisfied; the men are generally afraid of me, and say
little, because they think themselves not at liberty to talk rudely.

Thus I am condemned to solitude; the day moves slowly forward, and I
see the dawn with uneasiness, because I consider that night is at a
great distance. I have tried to sleep by a brook, but find its murmurs
ineffectual; so that I am forced to be awake at least twelve hours,
without visits, without cards, without laughter, and without flattery. I
walk because I am disgusted with sitting still, and sit down because I am
weary with walking. I have no motive to action, nor any object of love,
or hate, or fear, or inclination. I cannot dress with spirit, for I have
neither rival nor admirer. I cannot dance without a partner; nor be kind
or cruel, without a lover.

Such is the life of Euphelia; and such it is likely to continue for a
month to come. I have not yet declared against existence, nor called
upon the destinies to cut my thread; but I have sincerely resolved not to
condemn myself to such another summer, nor too hastily to flatter myself
with happiness. Yet I have heard, Mr. Rambler, of those who never thought
themselves so much at ease as in solitude, and cannot but suspect it to be
some way or other my own fault, that, without great pain, either of mind
or body, I am thus weary of myself: that the current of youth stagnates,
and that I am languishing in a dead calm, for want of some external
impulse. I shall therefore think you a benefactor to our sex, if you will
teach me the art of living alone; for I am confident that a thousand and
a thousand ladies, who affect to talk with ecstasies of the pleasures of
the country, are in reality, like me, longing for the winter, and wishing
to be delivered from themselves by company and diversion.

I am, Sir, Yours,

EUPHELIA.




No. 43. TUESDAY, AUGUST 14, 1750.


_Flumine perpetuo torrens solet acrius ire. _
_Sed tamen hæc brevis est, illa perennis aqua. _
OVID, Rem. 651.

In course impetuous soon the torrent dries,
The brook a constant peaceful stream supplies.
F. LEWIS.


It is observed by those who have written on the constitution of the human
body, and the original of those diseases by which it is afflicted, that
every man comes into the world morbid, that there is no temperature so
exactly regulated but that some humour is fatally predominant, and that
we are generally impregnated, in our first entrance upon life, with the
seeds of that malady, which, in time, shall bring us to the grave.

This remark has been extended by others to the intellectual faculties.
Some that imagine themselves to have looked with more than common
penetration into human nature, have endeavoured to persuade us that each
man is born with a mind formed peculiarly for certain purposes, and with
desires unalterably determined to particular objects, from which the
attention cannot be long diverted, and which alone, as they are well or
ill pursued, must produce the praise or blame, the happiness or misery of
his future life.

This position has not, indeed, been hitherto proved with strength
proportionate to the assurance with which it has been advanced, and
perhaps will never gain much prevalence by a close examination.

If the doctrine of innate ideas be itself disputable, there seems to
be little hope of establishing an opinion, which supposes that even
complications of ideas have been given us at our birth, and that we are
made by nature ambitious, or covetous, before we know the meaning of
either power or money.

Yet as every step in the progression of existence changes our position
with respect to the things about us, so as to lay us open to new assaults
and particular dangers, and subjects us to inconveniences from which any
other situation is exempt; as a publick or a private life, youth and age,
wealth and poverty, have all some evil closely adherent, which cannot
wholly be escaped but by quitting the state to which it is annexed, and
submitting to the incumbrances of some other condition; so it cannot
be denied that every difference in the structure of the mind has its
advantages and its wants; and that failures and defects being inseparable
from humanity, however the powers of understanding be extended or
contracted, there will on one side or the other always be an avenue to
errour and miscarriage.

There seem to be some souls suited to great, and others to little
employments; some formed to soar aloft, and take in wide views, and
others to grovel on the ground, and confine their regard to a narrow
sphere. Of these the one is always in danger of becoming useless by a
daring negligence, the other by a scrupulous solicitude; the one collects
many ideas, but confused and indistinct; the other is busied in minute
accuracy, but without compass and without dignity.

The general errour of those who possess powerful and elevated
understandings, is, that they form schemes of too great extent, and
flatter themselves too hastily with success; they feel their own force
to be great, and by the complacency with which every man surveys himself,
imagine it still greater: they therefore look out for undertakings worthy
of their abilities, and engage in them with very little precaution, for
they imagine that without premeditated measures, they shall be able to
find expedients in all difficulties. They are naturally apt to consider
all prudential maxims as below their regard, to treat with contempt those
securities and resources which others know themselves obliged to provide,
and disdain to accomplish their purposes by established means, and common
gradations.

Precipitation thus incited by the pride of intellectual superiority,
is very fatal to great designs. The resolution of the combat is seldom
equal to the vehemence of the charge. He that meets with an opposition
which he did not expect, loses his courage. The violence of his first
onset is succeeded by a lasting and unconquerable languor; miscarriage
makes him fearful of giving way to new hopes; and the contemplation of an
attempt in which he has fallen below his own expectations is painful and
vexatious; he therefore naturally turns his attention to more pleasing
objects, and habituates his imagination to other entertainments, till, by
slow degrees, he quits his first pursuit, and suffers some other project
to take possession of his thoughts, in which the same ardour of mind
promises him again certain success, and which disappointments of the same
kind compel him to abandon.

Thus too much vigour in the beginning of an undertaking, often intercepts
and prevents the steadiness and perseverance always necessary in the
conduct of a complicated scheme, where many interests are to be connected,
many movements to be adjusted, and the joint effort of distinct and
independent powers to be directed to a single point. In all important
events which have been suddenly brought to pass, chance has been the
agent rather than reason; and, therefore, however those who seemed to
preside in the transaction, may have been celebrated by such as loved or
feared them, succeeding times have commonly considered them as fortunate
rather than prudent. Every design in which the connexion is regularly
traced from the first motion to the last, must be formed and executed by
calm intrepidity, and requires not only courage which danger cannot turn
aside, but constancy which fatigues cannot weary, and contrivance which
impediments cannot exhaust.

All the performances of human art, at which we look with praise or wonder,
are instances of the resistless force of perseverance: it is by this
that the quarry becomes a pyramid, and that distant countries are united
with canals. If a man was to compare the effect of a single stroke of the
pick-axe, or of one impression of the spade, with the general design and
last result, he would be overwhelmed by the sense of their disproportion;
yet those petty operations, incessantly continued, in time surmount the
greatest difficulties, and mountains are levelled, and oceans bounded, by
the slender force of human beings.

It is therefore of the utmost importance that those, who have any intention
of deviating from the beaten roads of life, and acquiring a reputation
superior to names hourly swept away by time among the refuse of fame,
should add to their reason, and their spirit, the power of persisting in
their purposes; acquire the art of sapping what they cannot batter, and
the habit of vanquishing obstinate resistance by obstinate attacks.

The student who would build his knowledge on solid foundations, and
proceed by just degrees to the pinnacles of truth, is directed by the
great philosopher of France to begin by doubting of his own existence.
In like manner, whoever would complete any arduous and intricate
enterprise, should, as soon as his imagination can cool after the first
blaze of hope, place before his own eyes every possible embarrassment
that may retard or defeat him. He should first question the probability
of success, and then endeavour to remove the objections that he has
raised. It is proper, says old Markham[43], to exercise your horse on the
more inconvenient side of the course, that if he should, in the race,
be forced upon it, he may not be discouraged; and Horace advises his
poetical friend to consider every day as the last which he shall enjoy,
because that will always give pleasure which we receive beyond our hopes.
If we alarm ourselves beforehand with more difficulties than we really
find, we shall be animated by unexpected facility with double spirit;
and if we find our cautions and fears justified by the consequence, there
will however happen nothing against which provision has not been made, no
sudden shock will be received, nor will the main scheme be disconcerted.

There is, indeed, some danger lest he that too scrupulously balances
probabilities, and too perspicaciously foresees obstacles, should
remain always in a state of inaction, without venturing upon attempts
on which he may perhaps spend his labour without advantage. But previous
despondence is not the fault of those for whom this essay is designed;
they who require to be warned against precipitation, will not suffer more
fear to intrude into their contemplations than is necessary to allay the
effervescence of an agitated fancy. As Des Cartes has kindly shewn how a
man may prove to himself his own existence, if once he can be prevailed
upon to question it, so the ardent and adventurous will not be long
without finding some plausible extenuation of the greatest difficulties.
Such, indeed, is the uncertainty of all human affairs, that security
and despair are equal follies; and as it is presumption and arrogance
to anticipate triumphs, it is weakness and cowardice to prognosticate
miscarriages. The numbers that have been stopped in their career of
happiness are sufficient to shew the uncertainty of human foresight; but
there are not wanting contrary instances of such success obtained against
all appearances, as may warrant the boldest flights of genius, if they
are supported by unshaken perseverance.

[Footnote 43: Gervase Markham, in his book entitled "Perfect Horsemanship,"
12mo. 1671. He was a dramatic poet, and a voluminous writer on various
subjects. ]




No. 44. SATURDAY, AUGUST 18, 1750.


Ὁναρ εκ Διος εστιν.
HOMER, Il. lib. i. 63.

----Dreams descend from Jove.
POPE.


TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

I had lately a very remarkable dream, which made so strong an impression
on me, that I remember it every word; and if you are not better employed,
you may read the relation of it as follows:

Methought I was in the midst of a very entertaining set of company,
and extremely delighted in attending to a lively conversation, when
on a sudden I perceived one of the most shocking figures imagination
can frame, advancing towards me. She was drest in black, her skin was
contracted into a thousand wrinkles, her eyes sunk deep in her head,
and her complexion pale and livid as the countenance of death. Her looks
were filled with terrour and unrelenting severity, and her hands armed
with whips and scorpions. As soon as she came near, with a horrid frown,
and a voice that chilled my very blood, she bid me follow her. I obeyed,
and she led me through rugged paths, beset with briars and thorns,
into a deep solitary valley. Wherever she passed, the fading verdure
withered beneath her steps; her pestilential breath infected the air with
malignant vapours, obscured the lustre of the sun, and involved the fair
face of Heaven in universal gloom. Dismal howlings resounded through the
forest, from every baleful tree the night raven uttered his dreadful note,
and the prospect was filled with desolation and horrour. In the midst of
this tremendous scene my execrable guide addressed me in the following
manner:

"Retire with me, O rash unthinking mortal, from the vain allurements of
a deceitful world, and learn that pleasure was not designed the portion
of human life. Man was born to mourn and to be wretched; this is the
condition of all below the stars, and whoever endeavours to oppose
it, acts in contradiction to the will of Heaven. Fly then from the
fatal enchantments of youth, and social delight, and here consecrate
the solitary hours to lamentation and woe. Misery is the duty of all
sublunary beings, and every enjoyment is an offence to the Deity, who is
to be worshipped only by the mortification of every sense of pleasure,
and the everlasting exercise of sighs and tears. "

This melancholy picture of life quite sunk my spirits, and seemed to
annihilate every principle of joy within me. I threw myself beneath a
blasted yew, where the winds blew cold and dismal round my head, and
dreadful apprehensions chilled my heart. Here I resolved to lie till
the hand of death, which I impatiently invoked, should put an end to
the miseries of a life so deplorably wretched. In this sad situation I
espied on one hand of me a deep muddy river, whose heavy waves rolled on
in slow sullen murmurs. Here I determined to plunge, and was just upon
the brink, when I found myself suddenly drawn back. I turned about, and
was surprised by the sight of the loveliest object I had ever beheld.
The most engaging charms of youth and beauty appeared in all her form;
effulgent glories sparkled in her eyes, and their awful splendours were
softened by the gentlest looks of compassion and peace. At her approach
the frightful spectre who had before tormented me, vanished away, and
with her all the horrours she had caused. The gloomy clouds brightened
into cheerful sunshine, the groves recovered their verdure, and the
whole region looked gay and blooming as the garden of Eden. I was quite
transported at this unexpected change, and reviving pleasure began to glad
my thoughts, when, with a look of inexpressible sweetness my beauteous
deliverer thus uttered her divine instructions:

"My name is Religion. I am the offspring of Truth and Love, and the parent
of Benevolence, Hope, and Joy. That monster from whose power I have
freed you is called Superstition; she is the child of Discontent, and her
followers are Fear and Sorrow.