No More Learning

Yet, how should a quality so useful escape promulgation, but by
the obscurity of the language in which it was delivered? Why are footmen
and chambermaids paid on every side for keeping secrets, which no
caution nor expense could secure from the all-penetrating magnet? Or,
why are so many witnesses summoned, and so many artifices practised, to
discover what so easy an experiment would infallibly reveal?

Full of this perplexity, I read the lines of Abraham to a friend, who
advised me not to expose my life by a mad indulgence of the love of
fame: he warned me by the fate of Orpheus, that knowledge or genius
could give no protection to the invader of female prerogatives; assured
me that neither the armour of Achilles, nor the antidote of Mithridates,
would be able to preserve me; and counselled me, if I could not live
without renown, to attempt the acquisition of universal empire, in which
the honour would perhaps be equal, and the danger certainly be less.

I, a solitary student, pretend not to much knowledge of the world, but
am unwilling to think it so generally corrupt, as that a scheme for the
detection of incontinence should bring any danger upon its inventor. My
friend has indeed told me that all the women will be my enemies, and
that, however I flatter myself with hopes of defence from the men, I
shall certainly find myself deserted in the hour of danger. Of the young
men, said he, some will be afraid of sharing the disgrace of their
mothers, and some the danger of their mistresses; of those who are
married, part are already convinced of the falsehood of their wives, and
part shut their eyes to avoid conviction; few ever sought for virtue in
marriage, and therefore few will try whether they have found it. Almost
every man is careless or timorous, and to trust is easier and safer than
to examine.

These observations discouraged me, till I began to consider what
reception I was likely to find among the ladies, whom I have reviewed
under the three classes of maids, wives, and widows, and cannot but hope
that I may obtain some countenance among them. The single ladies I
suppose universally ready to patronise my method, by which connubial
wickedness may be detected, since no woman marries with a previous
design to be unfaithful to her husband. And to keep them steady in my
cause, I promise never to sell one of my magnets to a man who steals a
girl from school; marries a woman of forty years younger than himself;
or employs the authority of parents to obtain a wife without her own
consent.

Among the married ladies, notwithstanding the insinuations of slander,
yet I resolve to believe, that the greater part are my friends, and am
at least convinced, that they who demand the test, and appear on my
side, will supply, by their spirit, the deficiency of their numbers, and
that their enemies will shrink and quake at the sight of a magnet, as
the slaves of Scythia fled from the scourge.

The widows will be confederated in my favour by their curiosity, if not
by their virtue; for it may be observed, that women who have outlived
their husbands, always think themselves entitled to superintend the
conduct of young wives; and as they are themselves in no danger from
this magnetick trial, I shall expect them to be eminently and
unanimously zealous in recommending it.

With these hopes I shall, in a short time, offer to sale magnets armed
with a particular metallick composition, which concentrates their
virtue, and determines their agency. It is known that the efficacy of
the magnet, in common operations, depends much upon its armature, and it
cannot be imagined, that a stone, naked, or cased only in a common
manner, will discover the virtues ascribed to it by Rabbi Abraham. The
secret of this metal I shall carefully conceal, and, therefore, am not
afraid of imitators, nor shall trouble the offices with solicitations
for a patent.

I shall sell them of different sizes, and various degrees of strength. I
have some of a bulk proper to be hung at the bed's head, as scare-crows,
and some so small that they may be easily concealed. Some I have ground
into oval forms to be hung at watches; and some, for the curious, I have
set in wedding rings, that ladies may never want an attestation of their
innocence. Some I can produce so sluggish and inert, that they will not
act before the third failure; and others so vigorous and animated, that
they exert their influence against unlawful wishes, if they have been
willingly and deliberately indulged. As it is my practice honestly to
tell my customers the properties of my magnets, I can judge, by their
choice, of the delicacy of their sentiments. Many have been content to
spare cost by purchasing only the lowest degree of efficacy, and all
have started with terrour from those which operate upon the thoughts.
One young lady only fitted on a ring of the strongest energy, and
declared that she scorned to separate her wishes from her acts, or allow
herself to think what she was forbidden to practise.

I am, &c.

HERMETICUS.

[Footnote l: In the sixth chapter of Rasselas we have an excellent story
of an experimentalist in the art of flying. Dr. Johnson sketched perhaps
from life, for we are informed that he once lodged in the same house
with a man who broke his legs in the daring attempt. ]



No. 200. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1752.

_Nemo petit, modicis quae mittebantur amicis
A Seneca, quae Piso bonus, quae Cotta solebut
Largiri; namque et titulis, et fascibus olim
Major habebatur donandi gloria: solum
Poscimus, ut caenes civiliter. Hoc face, el esto,
Esto, ut nunc multi, dives tibi, pauper amicis_. JUV. Sat. v. 108.

No man expects (for who so much a sot
Who has the times he lives in so forgot? )
What Seneca, what Piso us'd to send,
To raise or to support a sinking friend.
Those godlike men, to wanting virtue kind,
Bounty well plac'd, preferr'd, and well design'd,
To all their titles, all that height of pow'r,
Which turns the brains of fools, and fools alone adore.
When your poor client is condemn'd t' attend,
'Tis all we ask, receive him as a friend:
Descend to this, and then we ask no more;
Rich to yourself, to all beside be poor. BOWLES.

TO THE RAMBLER.

MR. RAMBLER,

Such is the tenderness or infirmity of many minds, that when any
affliction oppresses them, they have immediate recourse to lamentation
and complaint, which, though it can only be allowed reasonable when
evils admit of remedy, and then only when addressed to those from whom
the remedy is expected, yet seems even in hopeless and incurable
distresses to be natural, since those by whom it is not indulged,
imagine that they give a proof of extraordinary fortitude by suppressing
it.

I am one of those who, with the Sancho of Cervantes, leave to higher
characters the merit of suffering in silence, and give vent without
scruple to any sorrow that swells in my heart. It is therefore to me a
severe aggravation of a calamity, when it is such as in the common
opinion will not justify the acerbity of exclamation, or support the
solemnity of vocal grief. Yet many pains are incident to a man of
delicacy, which the unfeeling world cannot be persuaded to pity, and
which, when they are separated from their peculiar and personal
circumstances, will never be considered as important enough to claim
attention, or deserve redress.

Of this kind will appear to gross and vulgar apprehensions, the miseries
which I endured in a morning visit to Prospero, a man lately raised to
wealth by a lucky project, and too much intoxicated by sudden elevation,
or too little polished by thought and conversation, to enjoy his present
fortune with elegance and decency.

We set out in the world together; and for a long time mutually assisted
each other in our exigencies, as either happened to have money or
influence beyond his immediate necessities. You know that nothing
generally endears men so much as participation of dangers and
misfortunes; I therefore always considered Prospero as united with me in
the strongest league of kindness, and imagined that our friendship was
only to be broken by the hand of death. I felt at his sudden shoot of
success an honest and disinterested joy; but as I want no part of his
superfluities, am not willing to descend from that equality in which we
hitherto have lived.

Our intimacy was regarded by me as a dispensation from ceremonial
visits; and it was so long before I saw him at his new house, that he
gently complained of my neglect, and obliged me to come on a day
appointed. I kept my promise, but found that the impatience of my friend
arose not from any desire to communicate his happiness, but to enjoy his
superiority.

When I told my name at the door, the footman went to see if his master
was at home, and, by the tardiness of his return, gave me reason to
suspect that time was taken to deliberate. He then informed me, that
Prospero desired my company, and shewed the staircase carefully secured
by mats from the pollution of my feet. The best apartments were
ostentatiously set open, that I might have a distant view of the
magnificence which I was not permitted to approach; and my old friend
receiving me with all the insolence of condescension at the top of the
stairs, conducted me to a back room, where he told me he always
breakfasted when he had not great company.

On the floor where we sat lay a carpet covered with a cloth, of which
Prospero ordered his servant to lift up a corner, that I might
contemplate the brightness of the colours, and the elegance of the
texture, and asked me whether I had ever seen any thing so fine before?
I did not gratify his folly with any outcries of admiration, but coldly
bade the footman let down the cloth.

We then sat down, and I began to hope that pride was glutted with
persecution, when Prospero desired that I would give the servant leave
to adjust the cover of my chair, which was slipt a little aside, to shew
the damask; he informed me that he had bespoke ordinary chairs for
common use, but had been disappointed by his tradesman. I put the chair
aside with my foot, and drew another so hastily, that I was entreated
not to rumple the carpet.

Breakfast was at last set, and as I was not willing to indulge the
peevishness that began to seize me, I commended the tea: Prospero then
told me, that another time I should taste his finest sort, but that he
had only a very small quantity remaining, and reserved it for those whom
he thought himself obliged to treat with particular respect.

While we were conversing upon such subjects as imagination happened to
suggest, he frequently digressed into directions to the servant that
waited, or made a slight inquiry after the jeweller or silversmith; and
once, as I was pursuing an argument with some degree of earnestness, he
started from his posture of attention, and ordered, that if lord Lofty
called on him that morning, he should be shown into the best parlour.

My patience was yet not wholly subdued. I was willing to promote his
satisfaction, and therefore observed that the figures on the china were
eminently pretty. Prospero had now an opportunity of calling for his
Dresden china, which, says he, I always associate with my chased
teakettle. The cups were brought; I once resolved not to have looked
upon them, but my curiosity prevailed. When I had examined them a
little, Prospero desired me to set them down, for they who were
accustomed only to common dishes, seldom handled china with much care.
You will, I hope, commend my philosophy, when I tell you that I did not
dash his baubles to the ground.

He was now so much elevated with his own greatness, that he thought some
humility necessary to avert the glance of envy, and therefore told me,
with an air of soft composure, that I was not to estimate life by
external appearance, that all these shining acquisitions had added
little to his happiness, that he still remembered with pleasure the days
in which he and I were upon the level, and had often, in the moment of
reflection, been doubtful, whether he should lose much by changing his
condition for mine.

I began now to be afraid lest his pride should, by silence and
submission be emboldened to insults that could not easily be borne, and
therefore coolly considered, how I should repress it without such
bitterness of reproof as I was yet unwilling to use. But he interrupted
my meditation, by asking leave to be dressed, and told me, that he had
promised to attend some ladies in the park, and, if I was going the same
way, would take me in his chariot. I had no inclination to any other
favours, and therefore left him without any intention of seeing him
again, unless some misfortune should restore his understanding.

I am, &c.

ASPER.

Though I am not wholly insensible of the provocations which my
correspondent has received, I cannot altogether commend the keenness of
his resentment, nor encourage him to persist in his resolution of
breaking off all commerce with his old acquaintance. One of the golden
precepts of Pythagoras directs, that _a friend should not be hated for
little faults_; and surely he, upon whom nothing worse can be charged,
than that he mats his stairs, and covers his carpet, and sets out his
finery to show before those whom he does not admit to use it, has yet
committed nothing that should exclude him from common degrees of
kindness. Such improprieties often proceed rather from stupidity than
malice. Those who thus shine only to dazzle, are influenced merely by
custom and example, and neither examine, nor are qualified to examine,
the motives of their own practice, or to state the nice limits between
elegance and ostentation. They are often innocent of the pain which
their vanity produces, and insult others when they have no worse purpose
than to please themselves.

He that too much refines his delicacy will always endanger his quiet. Of
those with whom nature and virtue oblige us to converse, some are
ignorant of the art of pleasing, and offend when they design to caress;
some are negligent, and gratify themselves without regard to the quiet
of another; some, perhaps, are malicious, and feel no greater
satisfaction in prosperity, than that of raising envy and trampling
inferiority. But, whatever be the motive of insult, it is always best to
overlook it, for folly scarcely can deserve resentment, and malice is
punished by neglect[m].

[Footnote m: Garrick's little vanities are recognized by all in the
character of Prospero. Mr. Boswell informs us, that he never forgave its
pointed satire. On the same authority we are assured, that though
Johnson so dearly loved to ridicule his pupil, yet he so habitually
considered him as his own property, that he would permit no one beside
to hold up his weaknesses to derision. ]



No. 201. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1752.

--_Sanctus haberi
Justitiæque tenat factis dictisque mereris,
Adnosco procerem_. JUV. Sat. Lib. viii. 24.

Convince the world that you're devout and true;
Be just in all you say, and all you do;
Whatever be your birth, you're sure to be
A peer of the first magnitude to me. STEPNEY.

Boyle has observed, that the excellency of manufactures, and the
facility of labour, would be much promoted, if the various expedients
and contrivances which lie concealed in private hands, were by
reciprocal communications made generally known; for there are few
operations that are not performed by one or other with some peculiar
advantages, which, though singly of little importance, would, by
conjunction and concurrence, open new inlets to knowledge, and give new
powers to diligence.

There are, in like manner, several moral excellencies distributed among
the different classes of a community. It was said by Cujacius, that he
never read more than one book by which he was not instructed; and he
that shall inquire after virtue with ardour and attention, will seldom
find a man by whose example or sentiments he may not be improved.

Every profession has some essential and appropriate virtue, without
which there can be no hope of honour or success, and which, as it is
more or less cultivated, confers within its sphere of activity different
degrees of merit and reputation. As the astrologers range the
subdivisions of mankind under the planets which they suppose to
influence their lives, the moralist may distribute them according to the
virtues which they necessarily practise, and consider them as
distinguished by prudence or fortitude, diligence or patience.

So much are the modes of excellence settled by time and place, that men
may be heard boasting in one street of that which they would anxiously
conceal in another. The grounds of scorn and esteem, the topicks of
praise and satire, are varied according to the several virtues or vices
which the course of life has disposed men to admire or abhor; but he who
is solicitous for his own improvement, must not be limited by local
reputation, but select from every tribe of mortals their
characteristical virtues, and constellate in himself the scattered
graces which shine single in other men.

The chief praise to which a trader aspires is that of punctuality, or an
exact and rigorous observance of commercial engagements; nor is there
any vice of which he so much dreads the imputation, as of negligence and
instability. This is a quality which the interest of mankind requires to
be diffused through all the ranks of life, but which many seem to
consider as a vulgar and ignoble virtue, below the ambition of greatness
or attention of wit, scarcely requisite among men of gaiety and spirit,
and sold at its highest rate when it is sacrificed to a frolick or a
jest.

Every man has daily occasion to remark what vexations arise from this
privilege of deceiving one another. The active and vivacious have so
long disdained the restraints of truth, that promises and appointments
have lost their cogency, and both parties neglect their stipulations,
because each concludes that they will be broken by the other.

Negligence is first admitted in small affairs, and strengthened by petty
indulgences. He that is not yet hardened by custom, ventures not on the
violation of important engagements, but thinks himself bound by his word
in cases of property or danger, though he allows himself to forget at
what time he is to meet ladies in the park, or at what tavern his
friends are expecting him.

This laxity of honour would be more tolerable, if it could be restrained
to the play-house, the ball-room, or the card-table; yet even there it
is sufficiently troublesome, and darkens those moments with expectation,
suspense, and resentment, which are set aside for pleasure, and from
which we naturally hope for unmingled enjoyment, and total relaxation.
But he that suffers the slightest breach in his morality, can seldom
tell what shall enter it, or how wide it shall be made; when a passage
is open, the influx of corruption is every moment wearing down
opposition, and by slow degrees deluges the heart.

Aliger entered the world a youth of lively imagination, extensive views,
and untainted principles. His curiosity incited him to range from place
to place, and try all the varieties of conversation; his elegance of
address and fertility of ideas gained him friends wherever he appeared;
or at least he found the general kindness of reception always shown to a
young man whose birth and fortune give him a claim to notice, and who
has neither by vice nor folly destroyed his privileges. Aliger was
pleased with this general smile of mankind, and was industrious to
preserve it by compliance and officiousness, but did not suffer his
desire of pleasing to vitiate his integrity. It was his established
maxim, that a promise is never to be broken; nor was it without long
reluctance that he once suffered himself to be drawn away from a festal
engagement by the importunity of another company.

He spent the evening, as is usual in the rudiments of vice, in
perturbation and imperfect enjoyment, and met his disappointed friends
in the morning with confusion and excuses. His companions, not
accustomed to such scrupulous anxiety, laughed at his uneasiness,
compounded the offence for a bottle, gave him courage to break his word
again, and again levied the penalty. He ventured the same experiment
upon another society, and found them equally ready to consider it as a
venial fault, always incident to a man of quickness and gaiety; till, by
degrees, he began to think himself at liberty to follow the last
invitation, and was no longer shocked at the turpitude of falsehood. He
made no difficulty to promise his presence at distant places, and if
listlessness happened to creep upon him, would sit at home with great
tranquillity, and has often sunk to sleep in a chair, while he held ten
tables in continual expectations of his entrance.

It was so pleasant to live in perpetual vacancy, that he soon dismissed
his attention as an useless incumbrance, and resigned himself to
carelessness and dissipation, without any regard to the future or the
past, or any other motive of action than the impulse of a sudden desire,
or the attraction of immediate pleasure. The absent were immediately
forgotten, and the hopes or fears felt by others, had no influence upon
his conduct. He was in speculation completely just, but never kept his
promise to a creditor; he was benevolent, but always deceived those
friends whom he undertook to patronise or assist; he was prudent, but
suffered his affairs to be embarrassed for want of regulating his
accounts at stated times. He courted a young lady, and when the
settlements were drawn, took a ramble into the country on the day
appointed to sign them. He resolved to travel, and sent his chests on
shipboard, but delayed to follow them till he lost his passage. He was
summoned as an evidence in a cause of great importance, and loitered on
the way till the trial was past. It is said that when he had, with great
expense, formed an interest in a borough, his opponent contrived, by
some agents who knew his temper, to lure him away on the day of
election.

His benevolence draws him into the commission of a thousand crimes,
which others less kind or civil would escape. His courtesy invites
application; his promises produce dependence; he has his pockets filled
with petitions, which he intends some time to deliver and enforce, and
his table covered with letters of request, with which he purposes to
comply; but time slips imperceptibly away, while he is either idle or
busy; his friends lose their opportunities, and charge upon him their
miscarriages and calamities.

This character, however contemptible, is not peculiar to Aliger. They
whose activity of imagination is often shifting the scenes of
expectation, are frequently subject to such sallies of caprice as make
all their actions fortuitous, destroy the value of their friendship,
obstruct the efficacy of their virtues, and set them below the meanest
of those that persist in their resolutions, execute what they design,
and perform what they have promised.



No. 202. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 1752.

[Greek: Pros apanta deilos estin o penaes pragmata,
Kai pantas autou kataphronein upolambanei
O de metrios pratton periskegesteron
Apanta t aniara, dampria, phepei. ] CALLIMACHUS.

From no affliction is the poor exempt,
He thinks each eye surveys him with contempt;
Unmanly poverty subdues the heart,
Cankers each wound, and sharpen's[1] ev'ry dart. F. LEWIS.
[1] Transcriber's note: sic.

Among those who have endeavoured to promote learning, and rectify
judgment, it has been long customary to complain of the abuse of words,
which are often admitted to signify things so different, that, instead
of assisting the understanding as vehicles of knowledge, they produce
errour, dissention, and perplexity, because what is affirmed in one
sense, is received in another.

If this ambiguity sometimes embarrasses the most solemn controversies,
and obscures the demonstrations of science, it may well be expected to
infest the pompous periods of declaimers, whose purpose is often only to
amuse with fallacies, and change the colours of truth and falsehood; or
the musical compositions of poets, whose style is professedly
figurative, and whose art is imagined to consist in distorting words
from their original meaning.

There are few words of which the reader believes himself better to know
the import, than of _poverty_; yet, whoever studies either the poets or
philosophers, will find such an account of the condition expressed by
that term as his experience or observation will not easily discover to
be true. Instead of the meanness, distress, complaint, anxiety, and
dependance, which have hitherto been combined in his ideas of poverty,
he will read of content, innocence, and cheerfulness, of health and
safety, tranquillity and freedom; of pleasures not known but to men
unencumbered with possessions; and of sleep that sheds his balsamick
anodynes only on the cottage. Such are the blessings to be obtained by
the resignation of riches, that kings might descend from their thrones,
and generals retire from a triumph, only to slumber undisturbed in the
elysium of poverty.

If these authors do not deceive us, nothing can be more absurd than that
perpetual contest for wealth which keeps the world in commotion; nor any
complaints more justly censured than those which proceed from want of
the gifts of fortune, which we are taught by the great masters of moral
wisdom to consider as golden shackles, by which the wearer is at once
disabled and adorned; as luscious poisons which may for a time please
the palate, but soon betray their malignity by languor and by pain. It
is the great privilege of poverty to be happy unenvied, to be healthful
without physick, and secure without a guard; to obtain from the bounty
of nature, what the great and wealthy are compelled to procure by the
help of artists and attendants, of flatterers and spies.

But it will be found upon a nearer view, that they who extol the
happiness of poverty, do not mean the same state with those who deplore
its miseries. Poets have their imaginations filled with ideas of
magnificence; and being accustomed to contemplate the downfall of
empires, or to contrive forms of lamentations, for monarchs in distress,
rank all the classes of mankind in a state of poverty, who make no
approaches to the dignity of crowns. To be poor, in the epick language,
is only not to command the wealth of nations, nor to have fleets and
armies in pay.

Vanity has perhaps contributed to this impropriety of style. He that
wishes to become a philosopher at a cheap rate, easily gratifies his
ambition by submitting to poverty when he does not feel it, and by
boasting his contempt of riches when he has already more than he enjoys.
He who would shew the extent of his views, and grandeur of his
conceptions, or discover his acquaintance with splendour and
magnificence, may talk like Cowley, of an humble station and quiet
obscurity, of the paucity of nature's wants, and the inconveniencies of
superfluity, and at last, like him, limit his desires to five hundred
pounds a year; a fortune, indeed, not exuberant, when we compare it with
the expenses of pride and luxury, but to which it little becomes a
philosopher to affix the name of poverty, since no man can, with any
propriety, be termed poor, who does not see the greater part of mankind
richer than himself.

As little is the general condition of human life understood by the
panegyrists and historians, who amuse us with accounts of the poverty of
heroes and sages. Riches are of no value in themselves, their use is
discovered only in that which they procure. They are not coveted, unless
by narrow understandings, which confound the means with the end, but for
the sake of power, influence, and esteem; or, by some of less elevated
and refined sentiments, as necessary to sensual enjoyment.

The pleasures of luxury, many have, without uncommon virtue, been able
to despise, even when affluence and idleness have concurred to tempt
them; and therefore he who feels nothing from indigence but the want of
gratifications which he could not in any other condition make consistent
with innocence, has given no proof of eminent patience. Esteem and
influence every man desires, but they are equally pleasing, and equally
valuable, by whatever means they are obtained; and whoever has found the
art of securing them without the help of money, ought, in reality, to be
accounted rich, since he has all that riches can purchase to a wise man.
Cincinnatus, though he lived upon a few acres cultivated by his own
hand, was sufficiently removed from all the evils generally comprehended
under the name of poverty, when his reputation was such, that the voice
of his country called him from his farm to take absolute command into
his hand; nor was Diogenes much mortified by his residence in a tub,
where he was honoured with the visit of Alexander the Great.

The same fallacy has conciliated veneration to the religious orders.
When we behold a man abdicating the hope of terrestrial possessions, and
precluding himself, by an irrevocable vow, from the pursuit and
acquisition of all that his fellow-beings consider as worthy of wishes
and endeavours, we are immediately struck with the purity, abstraction,
and firmness of his mind, and regard him as wholly employed in securing
the interests of futurity, and devoid of any other care than to gain, at
whatever price, the surest passage to eternal rest.

Yet, what can the votary be justly said to have lost of his present
happiness? If he resides in a convent, he converses only with men whose
condition is the same with his own; he has, from the munificence of the
founder, all the necessaries of life, and is safe from that destitution,
which Hooker declares to be "such an impediment to virtue, as, till it
be removed, suffereth not the mind of man to admit any other care. " All
temptations to envy and competition are shut out from his retreat; he is
not pained with the sight of unattainable dignity, nor insulted with the
bluster of insolence, or the smile of forced familiarity. If he wanders
abroad, the sanctity of his character amply compensates all other
distinctions; he is seldom seen but with reverence, nor heard but with
submission.

It has been remarked, that death, though often defied in the field,
seldom fails to terrify when it approaches the bed of sickness in its
natural horrour; so poverty may easily be endured, while associated with
dignity and reputation, but will always be shunned and dreaded, when it
is accompanied with ignominy and contempt.



No. 203. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 1752.

_Cum volet illa dies, quae nil nisi corporis hujus
Jus habet, incerti spatium mihi finiat avi_. OVID. Met. xv. 873.

Come, soon or late, death's undetermin'd day,
This mortal being only can decay. WELSTED.

It seems to be the fate of man to seek all his consolations in futurity.
The time present is seldom able to fill desire or imagination with
immediate enjoyment, and we are forced to supply its deficiencies by
recollection or anticipation.

Every one has so often detected the fallaciousness of hope, and the
inconvenience of teaching himself to expect what a thousand accidents
may preclude, that, when time has abated the confidence with which youth
rushes out to take possession of the world, we endeavour, or wish, to
find entertainment in the review of life, and to repose upon real facts,
and certain experience. This is perhaps one reason, among many, why age
delights in narratives.

But so full is the world of calamity, that every source of pleasure is
polluted, and every retirement of tranquillity disturbed. When time has
supplied us with events sufficient to employ our thoughts, it has
mingled them with so many disasters, that we shrink from their
remembrance, dread their intrusion upon our minds, and fly from them as
from enemies that pursue us with torture.

No man past the middle point of life can sit down to feast upon the
pleasures of youth without finding the banquet embittered by the cup of
sorrow; he may revive lucky accidents, and pleasing extravagancies; many
days of harmless frolick, or nights of honest festivity, will perhaps
recur; or, if he has been engaged in scenes of action, and acquainted
with affairs of difficulty and vicissitudes of fortune, he may enjoy the
nobler pleasure of looking back upon distress firmly supported, dangers
resolutely encountered, and opposition artfully defeated. Aeneas
properly comforts his companions, when, after the horrours of a storm,
they have landed on an unknown and desolate country, with the hope that
their miseries will be at some distant time recounted with delight.
There are few higher gratifications, than that of reflection on
surmounted evils, when they are not incurred nor protracted by our
fault, and neither reproach us with cowardice nor guilt.

But this felicity is almost always abated by the reflection that they
with whom we should be most pleased to share it are now in the grave. A
few years make such havock in human generations, that we soon see
ourselves deprived of those with whom we entered the world, and whom the
participation of pleasures or fatigues had endeared to our remembrance.
The man of enterprise recounts his adventures and expedients, but is
forced, at the close of the relation, to pay a sigh to the names of
those that contributed to his success; he that passes his life among the
gayer part of mankind, has his remembrance stored with remarks and
repartees of wits, whose sprightliness and merriment are now lost in
perpetual silence; the trader, whose industry has supplied the want of
inheritance, repines in solitary plenty at the absence of companions,
with whom he had planned out amusements for his latter years; and the
scholar, whose merit, after a long series of efforts, raises him from
obscurity, looks round in vain from his exaltation for his old friends
or enemies, whose applause or mortification would heighten his triumph.

Among Martial's requisites to happiness is, _Res non parta labore, sed
relicta_, "an estate not gained by industry, but left by inheritance. "
It is necessary to the completion of every good, that it be timely
obtained; for whatever comes at the close of life will come too late to
give much delight; yet all human happiness has its defects. Of what we
do not gain for ourselves we have only a faint and imperfect fruition,
because we cannot compare the difference between want and possession, or
at least can derive from it no conviction of our own abilities, nor any
increase of self-esteem; what we acquire by bravery or science, by
mental or corporeal diligence, comes at last when we cannot communicate,
and, therefore, cannot enjoy it.

Thus every period of life is obliged to borrow its happiness from the
time to come. In youth we have nothing past to entertain us, and in age,
we derive little from retrospect but hopeless sorrow. Yet the future
likewise has its limits, which the imagination dreads to approach, but
which we see to be not far distant. The loss of our friends and
companions impresses hourly upon us the necessity of our own departure;
we know that the schemes of man are quickly at an end, that we must soon
lie down in the grave with the forgotten multitudes of former ages, and
yield our place to others, who, like us, shall be driven awhile by hope
or fear about the surface of the earth, and then like us be lost in the
shades of death.

Beyond this termination of our material existence, we are therefore
obliged to extend our hopes; and almost every man indulges his
imagination with something, which is not to happen till he has changed
his manner of being: some amuse themselves with entails and settlements,
provide for the perpetuation of families and honours, or contrive to
obviate the dissipation of the fortunes, which it has been their
business to accumulate; others, more refined or exalted, congratulate
their own hearts upon the future extent of their reputation, the
reverence of distant nations, and the gratitude of unprejudiced
posterity.

They whose souls are so chained down to coffers and tenements, that they
cannot conceive a state in which they shall look upon them with less
solicitude, are seldom attentive or flexible to arguments; but the
votaries of fame are capable of reflection, and therefore may be called
to reconsider the probability of their expectations.

Whether to be remembered in remote times be worthy of a wise man's wish,
has not yet been satisfactorily decided; and, indeed, to be long
remembered, can happen to so small a number, that the bulk of mankind
has very little interest in the question. There is never room in the
world for more than a certain quantity or measure of renown.
The
necessary business of life, the immediate pleasures or pains of every
condition, leave us not leisure beyond a fixed proportion for
contemplations which do not forcibly influence our present welfare. When
this vacuity is filled, no characters can be admitted into the
circulation of fame, but by occupying the place of some that must be
thrust into oblivion. The eye of the mind, like that of the body, can
only extend its view to new objects, by losing sight of those which are
now before it.

Reputation is therefore a meteor, which blazes a while and disappears
for ever; and, if we except a few transcendent and invincible names,
which no revolutions of opinion or length of time is able to suppress;
all those that engage our thoughts, or diversify our conversation, are
every moment hasting to obscurity, as new favourites are adopted by
fashion.

It is not therefore from this world, that any ray of comfort can
proceed, to cheer the gloom of the last hour. But futurity has still its
prospects; there is yet happiness in reserve, which, if we transfer our
attention to it, will support us in the pains of disease, and the
languor of decay. This happiness we may expect with confidence, because
it is out of the power of chance, and may be attained by all that
sincerely desire and earnestly pursue it. On this therefore every mind
ought finally to rest. Hope is the chief blessing of man, and that hope
only is rational, of which we are certain that it cannot deceive us.



No. 204. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 29, 1752

_Nemo tam divos habuit faventes,
Crastinum ut possit sibi polliceit_. SENECA.

Of heaven's protection who can be
So confident to utter this? --
To-morrow I will spend in bliss. F. LEWIS.

Seged, lord of Ethiopia, to the inhabitants of the world: To the sons of
_Presumption_, humility and fear; and to the daughters of _Sorrow_,
content and acquiescence.

Thus, in the twenty-seventh year of his reign, spoke Seged, the monarch
of forty nations, the distributor of the waters of the Nile: "At length,
Seged, thy toils are at an end; thou hast reconciled disaffection, thou
hast suppressed rebellion, thou hast pacified the jealousies of thy
courtiers, thou hast chased war from thy confines, and erected
fortresses in the lands of thine enemies. All who have offended thee
tremble in thy presence, and wherever thy voice is heard, it is obeyed.
Thy throne is surrounded by armies, numerous as the locusts of the
summer, and resistless as the blasts of pestilence. Thy magazines are
stored with ammunition, thy treasures overflow with the tribute of
conquered kingdoms. Plenty waves upon thy fields, and opulence glitters
in thy cities. Thy nod is as the earthquake that shakes the mountains,
and thy smile as the dawn of the vernal day. In thy hand is the strength
of thousands, and thy health is the health of millions. Thy palace is
gladdened by the song of praise, and thy path perfumed by the breath of
benediction. Thy subjects gaze upon thy greatness, and think of danger
or misery no more. Why, Seged, wilt not thou partake the blessings thou
bestowest? Why shouldst thou only forbear to rejoice in this general
felicity? Why should thy face be clouded with anxiety, when the meanest
of those who call thee sovereign, gives the day to festivity, and the
night to peace? At length, Seged, reflect and be wise. What is the gift
of conquest but safety? Why are riches collected but to purchase
happiness? "

Seged then ordered the house of pleasure, built in an island of the lake
of Dambea, to be prepared for his reception. "I will retire," says he,
"for ten days from tumult and care, from counsels and decrees. Long
quiet is not the lot of the governours of nations, but a cessation of
ten days cannot be denied me. This short interval of happiness may
surely be secured from the interruption of fear or perplexity, sorrow or
disappointment. I will exclude all trouble from my abode, and remove
from my thoughts whatever may confuse the harmony of the concert, or
abate the sweetness of the banquet. I will fill the whole capacity of my
soul with enjoyment, and try what it is to live without a wish
unsatisfied. "

In a few days the orders were performed, and Seged hasted to the palace
of Dambea, which stood in an island cultivated only for pleasure,
planted with every flower that spreads its colours to the sun, and every
shrub that sheds fragrance in the air. In one part of this extensive
garden, were open walks for excursions in the morning; in another, thick
groves, and silent arbours, and bubbling fountains for repose at noon.
All that could solace the sense, or flatter the fancy, all that industry
could extort from nature, or wealth furnish to art, all that conquest
could seize, or beneficence attract, was collected together, and every
perception of delight was excited and gratified.

Into this delicious region Seged summoned all the persons of his court,
who seemed eminently qualified to receive or communicate pleasure. His
call was readily obeyed; the young, the fair, the vivacious, and the
witty, were all in haste to be sated with felicity. They sailed jocund
over the lake, which seemed to smooth its surface before them: their
passage was cheered with musick, and their hearts dilated with
expectation.

Seged, landing here with his band of pleasure, determined from that hour
to break off all acquaintance with discontent, to give his heart for ten
days to ease and jollity, and then fall back to the common state of man,
and suffer his life to be diversified, as before, with joy and sorrow.

He immediately entered his chamber, to consider where he should begin
his circle of happiness. He had all the artists of delight before him,
but knew not whom to call, since he could not enjoy one, but by delaying
the performance of another. He chose and rejected, he resolved and
changed his resolution, till his faculties were harassed, and his
thoughts confused; then returned to the apartment where his presence was
expected, with languid eyes and clouded countenance, and spread the
infection of uneasiness over the whole assembly. He observed their
depression, and was offended, for he found his vexation increased by
those whom he expected to dissipate and relieve it. He retired again to
his private chamber, and sought for consolation in his own mind; one
thought flowed in upon another; a long succession of images seized his
attention; the moments crept imperceptibly away through the gloom of
pensiveness, till, having recovered his tranquillity, he lifted his
head, and saw the lake brightened by the setting sun. "Such," said
Seged, sighing, "is the longest day of human existence: before we have
learned to use it, we find it at, an end. "

The regret which he felt for the loss of so great a part of his first
day, took from him all disposition to enjoy the evening; and, after
having endeavoured, for the sake of his attendants, to force an air of
gaiety, and excite that mirth which he could not share, he resolved to
refer his hopes to the next morning, and lay down to partake with the
slaves of labour and poverty the blessing of sleep.

He rose early the second morning, and resolved now to be happy. He
therefore fixed upon the gate of the palace an edict, importing, that
whoever, during nine days, should appear in the presence of the king
with a dejected countenance, or utter any expression of discontent or
sorrow, should be driven for ever from the palace of Dambea.

This edict was immediately made known in every chamber of the court, and
bower of the gardens. Mirth was frighted away, and they who were before
dancing in the lawns, or singing in the shades, were at once engaged in
the care of regulating their looks, that Seged might find his will
punctually obeyed, and see none among them liable to banishment.

Seged now met every face settled in a smile; but a smile that betrayed
solicitude, timidity, and constraint. He accosted his favourites with
familiarity and softness; but they durst not speak without
premeditation, lest they should be convicted of discontent or sorrow. He
proposed diversions, to which no objection was made, because objection
would have implied uneasiness; but they were regarded with indifference
by the courtiers, who had no other desire than to signalize themselves
by clamorous exultation. He offered various topicks of conversation, but
obtained only forced jests, and laborious laughter; and after many
attempts to animate his train to confidence and alacrity, was obliged to
confess to himself the impotence of command, and resign another day to
grief and disappointment.

He at last relieved his companions from their terrours, and shut himself
up in his chamber to ascertain, by different measures, the felicity of
the succeeding days. At length he threw himself on the bed, and closed
his eyes, but imagined, in his sleep, that his palace and gardens were
overwhelmed by an inundation, and waked with all the terrours of a man
struggling in the water. He composed himself again to rest, but was
affrighted by an imaginary irruption into his kingdom; and striving, as
is usual in dreams, without ability to move, fancied himself betrayed to
his enemies, and again started up with horrour and indignation.

It was now day, and fear was so strongly impressed on his mind, that he
could sleep no more. He rose, but his thoughts were filled with the
deluge and invasion, nor was he able to disengage his attention, or
mingle with vacancy and ease in any amusement. At length his
perturbation gave way to reason, and he resolved no longer to be
harassed by visionary miseries; but, before this resolution could be
completed, half the day had elapsed: he felt a new conviction of the
uncertainty of human schemes, and could not forbear to bewail the
weakness of that being whose quiet was to be interrupted by vapours of
the fancy. Having been first disturbed by a dream, he afterwards grieved
that a dream could disturb him. He at last discovered, that his terrours
and grief were equally vain, and that to lose the present in lamenting
the past, was voluntarily to protract a melancholy vision. The third day
was now declining, and Seged again resolved to be happy on the morrow.



No. 205. TUESDAY, MARCH 3, 1752.

_Volat ambiguis
Mobilis alis hora, nec ulli
Præstat velox Fortuna fidem_. SENECA. Hippol. 1141.

On fickle wings the minutes haste,
And fortune's favours never last. F. LEWIS.

On the fourth morning Seged rose early, refreshed with sleep, vigorous
with health, and eager with expectation. He entered the garden, attended
by the princes and ladies of his court, and seeing nothing about him but
airy cheerfulness, began to say to his heart, "This day shall be a day
of pleasure. " The sun played upon the water, the birds warbled in the
groves, and the gales quivered among the branches. He roved from walk to
walk as chance directed him, and sometimes listened to the songs,
sometimes mingled with the dancers, sometimes let loose his imagination
in flights of merriment; and sometimes uttered grave reflections, and
sententious maxims, and feasted on the admiration with which they were
received.

Thus the day rolled on, without any accident of vexation, or intrusion
of melancholy thoughts. All that beheld him caught gladness from his
looks, and the sight of happiness conferred by himself filled his heart
with satisfaction: but having passed three hours in this harmless
luxury, he was alarmed on a sudden by an universal scream among the
women, and turning back saw the whole assembly flying in confusion. A
young crocodile had risen out of the lake, and was ranging the garden in
wantonness or hunger. Seged beheld him with indignation, as a disturber
of his felicity, and chased him back into the lake, but could not
persuade his retinue to stay, or free their hearts from the terrour
which had seized upon them. The princesses inclosed themselves in the
palace, and could yet scarcely believe themselves in safety. Every
attention was fixed upon the late danger and escape, and no mind was any
longer at leisure for gay sallies or careless prattle.

Seged had now no other employment than to contemplate the innumerable
casualties which lie in ambush on every side to intercept the happiness
of man, and break in upon the hour of delight and tranquillity. He had,
however, the consolation of thinking, that he had not been now
disappointed by his own fault, and that the accident which had blasted
the hopes of the day, might easily be prevented by future caution.

That he might provide for the pleasure of the next morning, he resolved
to repeal his penal edict, since he had already found that discontent
and melancholy were not to be frighted away by the threats of authority,
and that pleasure would only reside where she was exempted from control.
He therefore invited all the companions of his retreat to unbounded
pleasantry, by proposing prizes for those who should, on the following
day, distinguish themselves by any festive performances; the tables of
the antechamber were covered with gold and pearls, and robes and
garlands decreed the rewards of those who could refine elegance or
heighten pleasure.

At this display of riches every eye immediately sparkled, and every
tongue was busied in celebrating the bounty and magnificence of the
emperour. But when Seged entered, in hopes of uncommon entertainment
from universal emulation, he found that any passion too strongly
agitated, puts an end to that tranquillity which is necessary to mirth,
and that the mind, that is to be moved by the gentle ventilations of
gaiety, must be first smoothed by a total calm. Whatever we ardently
wish to gain, we must in the same degree be afraid to lose, and fear and
pleasure cannot dwell together.

All was now care and solicitude. Nothing was done or spoken, but with so
visible an endeavour at perfection, as always failed to delight, though
it sometimes forced admiration: and Seged could not but observe with
sorrow, that his prizes had more influence than himself. As the evening
approached, the contest grew more earnest, and those who were forced to
allow themselves excelled, began to discover the malignity of defeat,
first by angry glances, and at last by contemptuous murmurs. Seged
likewise shared the anxiety of the day, for considering himself as
obliged to distribute with exact justice the prizes which had been so
zealously sought, he durst never remit his attention, but passed his
time upon the rack of doubt, in balancing different kinds of merit, and
adjusting the claims of all the competitors.

At last, knowing that no exactness could satisfy those whose hopes he
should disappoint, and thinking that on a day set apart for happiness,
it would be cruel to oppress any heart with sorrow, he declared that all
had pleased him alike, and dismissed all with presents of equal value.

Seged soon saw that his caution had not been able to avoid offence. They
who had believed themselves secure of the highest prizes, were not
pleased to be levelled with the crowd: and though, by the liberality of
the king, they received more than his promise had entitled them to
expect, they departed unsatisfied, because they were honoured with no
distinction, and wanted an opportunity to triumph in the mortification
of their opponents. "Behold here," said Seged, "the condition of him who
places his happiness in the happiness of others. " He then retired to
meditate, and, while the courtiers were repining at his distributions,
saw the fifth sun go down in discontent.

The next dawn renewed his resolution to be happy. But having learned how
little he could effect by settled schemes or preparatory measures, he
thought it best to give up one day entirely to chance, and left every
one to please and be pleased his own way.

This relaxation of regularity diffused a general complacence through the
whole court, and the emperour imagined that he had at last found the
secret of obtaining an interval of felicity. But as he was roving in
this careless assembly with equal carelessness, he overheard one of his
courtiers in a close arbour murmuring alone: "What merit has Seged above
us, that we should thus fear and obey him, a man, whom, whatever he may
have formerly performed, his luxury now shows to have the same weakness
with ourselves. " This charge affected him the more, as it was uttered by
one whom he had always observed among the most abject of his flatterers.
At first his indignation prompted him to severity; but reflecting, that
what was spoken without intention to be heard, was to be considered as
only thought, and was perhaps but the sudden burst of casual and
temporary vexation, he invented some decent pretence to send him away,
that his retreat might not be tainted with the breath of envy, and,
after the struggle of deliberation was past, and all desire of revenge
utterly suppressed, passed the evening not only with tranquillity, but
triumph, though none but himself was conscious of the victory.

The remembrance of his clemency cheered the beginning of the seventh
day, and nothing happened to disturb the pleasure of Seged, till,
looking on the tree that shaded him, he recollected, that, under a tree
of the same kind he had passed the night after his defeat in the kingdom
of Goiama. The reflection on his loss, his dishonour, and the miseries
which his subjects suffered from the invader, filled him with sadness.
At last he shook off the weight of sorrow, and began to solace himself
with his usual pleasures, when his tranquillity was again disturbed by
jealousies which the late contest for the prizes had produced, and
which, having in vain tried to pacify them by persuasion, he was forced
to silence by command.

On the eighth morning Seged was awakened early by an unusual hurry in
the apartments, and inquiring the cause, was told that the princess
Balkis was seized with sickness. He rose, and calling the physicians,
found that they had little hope of her recovery. Here was an end of
jollity: all his thoughts were now upon his daughter, whose eyes he
closed on the tenth day.

Such were the days which Seged of Ethiopia had appropriated to a short
respiration from the fatigues of war and the cares of government. This
narrative he has bequeathed to future generations, that no man hereafter
may presume to say, "This day shall be a day of happiness. "



No. 206. SATURDAY, MARCH 7, 1752.

_--Propositi nondum pudet, atque eadem est mens,
Ut bona summa putes, alienâ vivere quadrâ_. JUV. Sat. v. 1.

But harden'd by affronts, and still the same,
Lost to all sense of honour and of fame,
Thou yet canst love to haunt the great man's board,
And think no supper good but with a lord. BOWLES.

When Diogenes was once asked, what kind of wine he liked best? he
answered, "That which is drunk at the cost of others. "

Though the character of Diogenes has never excited any general zeal of
imitation, there are many who resemble him in his taste of wine; many
who are frugal, though not abstemious; whose appetites, though too
powerful for reason, are kept under restraint by avarice; and to whom
all delicacies lose their flavour, when they cannot be obtained but at
their own expense.

Nothing produces more singularity of manners and inconstancy of life,
than the conflict of opposite vices in the same mind. He that uniformly
pursues any purpose, whether good or bad, has a settled principle of
action; and as he may always find associates who are travelling the same
way, is countenanced by example, and sheltered in the multitude; but a
man, actuated at once by different desires, must move in a direction
peculiar to himself, and suffer that reproach which we are naturally
inclined to bestow on those who deviate from the rest of the world, even
without inquiring whether they are worse or better.

Yet this conflict of desires sometimes produces wonderful efforts. To
riot in far-fetched dishes, or surfeit with unexhausted variety, and yet
practise the most rigid economy, is surely an art which may justly draw
the eyes of mankind upon them whose industry or judgment has enabled
them to attain it. To him, indeed, who is content to break open the
chests, or mortgage the manours, of his ancestors, that he may hire the
ministers of excess at the highest price, gluttony is an easy science;
yet we often hear the votaries of luxury boasting of the elegance which
they owe to the taste of others, relating with rapture the succession of
dishes with which their cooks and caterers supply them; and expecting
their share of praise with the discoverers of arts and the civilizers of
nations. But to shorten the way to convivial happiness, by eating
without cost, is a secret hitherto in few hands, but which certainly
deserves the curiosity of those whose principal enjoyment is their
dinner, and who see the sun rise with no other hope than that they shall
fill their bellies before it sets.

Of them that have within my knowledge attempted this scheme of
happiness, the greater part have been immediately obliged to desist; and
some, whom their first attempts flattered with success, were reduced by
degrees to a few tables, from which they were at last chased to make way
for others; and having long habituated themselves to superfluous plenty,
growled away their latter years in discontented competence.

None enter the regions of luxury with higher expectations than men of
wit, who imagine, that they shall never want a welcome to that company
whose ideas they can enlarge, or whose imaginations they can elevate,
and believe themselves able to pay for their wine with the mirth which
it qualifies them to produce. Full of this opinion, they crowd with
little invitation, wherever the smell of a feast allures them, but are
seldom encouraged to repeat their visits, being dreaded by the pert as
rivals, and hated by the dull as disturbers of the company.

No man has been so happy in gaining and keeping the privilege of living
at luxurious houses as Gulosulus, who, after thirty years of continual
revelry, has now established, by uncontroverted prescription, his claim
to partake of every entertainment, and whose presence they who aspire to
the praise of a sumptuous table are careful to procure on a day of
importance, by sending the invitation a fortnight before.

Gulosulus entered the world without any eminent degree of merit; but was
careful to frequent houses where persons of rank resorted. By being
often seen, he became in time known; and, from sitting in the same room,
was suffered to mix in idle conversation, or assisted to fill up a
vacant hour, when better amusement was not readily to be had. From the
coffee-house he was sometimes taken away to dinner; and as no man
refuses the acquaintance of him whom he sees admitted to familiarity by
others of equal dignity, when he had been met at a few tables, he with
less difficulty found the way to more, till at last he was regularly
expected to appear wherever preparations are made for a feast, within
the circuit of his acquaintance.

When he was thus by accident initiated in luxury, he felt in himself no
inclination to retire from a life of so much pleasure, and therefore
very seriously considered how he might continue it. Great qualities, or
uncommon accomplishments, he did not find necessary; for he had already
seen that merit rather enforces respect than attracts fondness; and as
he thought no folly greater than that of losing a dinner for any other
gratification, he often congratulated himself, that he had none of that
disgusting excellence which impresses awe upon greatness, and condemns
its possessors to the society of those who are wise or brave, and
indigent as themselves.

Gulosulus, having never allotted much of his time to books or
meditation, had no opinion in philosophy or politicks, and was not in
danger of injuring his interest by dogmatical positions or violent
contradiction. If a dispute arose, he took care to listen with earnest
attention; and, when either speaker grew vehement and loud, turned
towards him with eager quickness, and uttered a short phrase of
admiration, as if surprised by such cogency of argument as he had never
known before. By this silent concession, he generally preserved in
either controvertist such a conviction of his own superiority, as
inclined him rather to pity than irritate his adversary, and prevented
those outrages which are sometimes produced by the rage of defeat, or
petulance of triumph.

Gulosulus was never embarrassed but when he was required to declare his
sentiments before he had been able to discover to which side the master
of the house inclined, for it was his invariable rule to adopt the
notions of those that invited him.

It will sometimes happen that the insolence of wealth breaks into
contemptuousness, or the turbulence of wine requires a vent; and
Gulosulus seldom fails of being singled out on such emergencies, as one
on whom any experiment of ribaldry may be safely tried. Sometimes his
lordship finds himself inclined to exhibit a specimen of raillery for
the diversion of his guests, and Gulosulus always supplies him with a
subject of merriment. But he has learned to consider rudeness and
indignities as familiarities that entitle him to greater freedom: he
comforts himself, that those who treat and insult him pay for their
laughter, and that he keeps his money while they enjoy their jest.

His chief policy consists in selecting some dish from every course, and
recommending it to the company, with an air so decisive, that no one
ventures to contradict him. By this practice he acquires at a feast a
kind of dictatorial authority; his taste becomes the standard of pickles
and seasoning, and he is venerated by the professors of epicurism, as
the only man who understands the niceties of cookery.

Whenever a new sauce is imported, or any innovation made in the culinary
system, he procures the earliest intelligence, and the most authentick
receipt; and, by communicating his knowledge under proper injunctions of
secrecy, gains a right of tasting his own dish whenever it is prepared,
that he may tell whether his directions have been fully understood.

By this method of life Gulosulus has so impressed on his imagination the
dignity of feasting, that he has no other topick of talk, or subject of
meditation. His calendar is a bill of fare; he measures the year by
successive dainties. The only common-places of his memory are his meals;
and if you ask him at what time an event happened, he considers whether
he heard it after a dinner of turbot or venison. He knows, indeed, that
those who value themselves upon sense, learning, or piety, speak of him
with contempt; but he considers them as wretches, envious or ignorant,
who do not know his happiness, or wish to supplant him; and declares to
his friends, that he is fully satisfied with his own conduct, since he
has fed every day on twenty dishes, and yet doubled his estate.



No. 207. TUESDAY, MARCH 10, 1752.

_Solve senescentem mature sanus equum, ne
Peccet ad extremum ridendus. --_ HOR. Lib. i. Ep. i. 8.

The voice of reason cries with winning force,
Loose from the rapid car your aged horse,
Lest, in the race derided, left behind,
He drag his jaded limbs, and burst his wind. FRANCIS.

Such is the emptiness of human enjoyment, that we are always impatient
of the present. Attainment is followed by neglect, and possession by
disgust; and the malicious remark of the Greek epigrammatist on marriage
may be applied to every other course of life, that its two days of
happiness are the first and the last.

Few moments are more pleasing than those in which the mind is concerting
measures for a new undertaking. From the first hint that wakens the
fancy, till the hour of actual execution, all is improvement and
progress, triumph and felicity. Every hour brings additions to the
original scheme, suggests some new expedient to secure success, or
discovers consequential advantages not hitherto foreseen. While
preparations are made, and materials accumulated, day glides after day
through elysian prospects, and the heart dances to the song of hope.

Such is the pleasure of projecting, that many content themselves with a
succession of visionary schemes, and wear out their allotted time in the
calm amusement of contriving what they never attempt or hope to execute.

Others, not able to feast their imagination with pure ideas, advance
somewhat nearer to the grossness of action, with great diligence collect
whatever is requisite to their design, and, after a thousand researches
and consultations, are snatched away by death, as they stand _in
procinctu_, waiting for a proper opportunity to begin.

If there were no other end of life, than to find some adequate solace
for every day, I know not whether any condition could be preferred to
that of the man who involves himself in his own thoughts, and never
suffers experience to show him the vanity of speculation; for no sooner
are notions reduced to practice, than tranquillity and confidence
forsake the breast; every day brings its task, and often without
bringing abilities to perform it: difficulties embarrass, uncertainty
perplexes, opposition retards, censure exasperates, or neglect
depresses. We proceed because we have begun; we complete our design,
that the labour already spent may not be vain; but as expectation
gradually dies away, the gay smile of alacrity disappears, we are
compelled to implore severer powers, and trust the event to patience and
constancy.

When once our labour has begun, the comfort that enables us to endure it
is the prospect of its end; for though in every long work there are some
joyous intervals of self-applause, when the attention is recreated by
unexpected facility, and the imagination soothed by incidental
excellencies; yet the toil with which performance struggles after idea,
is so irksome and disgusting, and so frequent is the necessity of
resting below that perfection which we imagined within our reach, that
seldom any man obtains more from his endeavours than a painful
conviction of his defects, and a continual resuscitation of desires
which he feels himself unable to gratify.

So certainly is weariness the concomitant of our undertakings, that
every man, in whatever he is engaged, consoles himself with the hope of
change; if he has made his way by assiduity to publick employment, he
talks among his friends of the delight of retreat; if by the necessity
of solitary application he is secluded from the world, he listens with a
beating heart to distant noises, longs to mingle with living beings, and
resolves to take hereafter his fill of diversions, or display his
abilities on the universal theatre, and enjoy the pleasure of
distinction and applause.

Every desire, however innocent, grows dangerous, as by long indulgence
it becomes ascendant in the mind. When we have been much accustomed to
consider any thing as capable of giving happiness, it is not easy to
restrain our ardour, or to forbear some precipitation in our advances,
and irregularity in our pursuits. He that has cultivated the tree,
watched the swelling bud and opening blossom, and pleased himself with
computing how much every sun and shower add to its growth, scarcely
stays till the fruit has obtained its maturity, but defeats his own
cares by eagerness to reward them. When we have diligently laboured for
any purpose, we are willing to believe that we have attained it, and,
because we have already done much, too suddenly conclude that no more is
to be done.

All attraction is increased by the approach of the attracting body. We
never find ourselves so desirous to finish as in the latter part of our
work, or so impatient of delay, as when we know that delay cannot be
long. This unseasonable importunity of discontent may be partly imputed
to languor and weariness, which must always oppress those more whose
toil has been longer continued; but the greater part usually proceeds
from frequent contemplation of that ease which is now considered as
within reach, and which, when it has once flattered our hopes, we cannot
suffer to be withheld.

In some of the noblest compositions of wit, the conclusion falls below
the vigour and spirit of the first books; and as a genius is not to be
degraded by the imputation of human failings, the cause of this
declension is commonly sought in the structure of the work, and
plausible reasons are given why, in the defective part, less ornament
was necessary, or less could be admitted. But, perhaps, the author would
have confessed, that his fancy was tired, and his perseverance broken;
that he knew his design to be unfinished, but that, when he saw the end
so near, he could no longer refuse to be at rest.

Against the instillations of this frigid opiate, the heart should be
secured by all the considerations which once concurred to kindle the
ardour of enterprise. Whatever motive first incited action, has still
greater force to stimulate perseverance; since he that might have lain
still at first in blameless obscurity, cannot afterwards desist but with
infamy and reproach. He, whom a doubtful promise of distant good could
encourage to set difficulties at defiance, ought not to remit his
vigour, when he has almost obtained his recompense. To faint or loiter,
when only the last efforts are required, is to steer the ship through
tempests, and abandon it to the winds in sight of land; it is to break
the ground and scatter the seed, and at last to neglect the harvest.

The masters of rhetorick direct, that the most forcible arguments be
produced in the latter part of an oration, lest they should be effaced
or perplexed by supervenient images. This precept may be justly extended
to the series of life: nothing is ended with honour, which does not
conclude better than it began.