No More Learning

Whoever purposes, as it is expressed by Milton, _to build the lofty
rhyme_, must acquaint himself with this law of poetical architecture,
and take care that his edifice be solid as well as beautiful; that
nothing stand single or independent, so as that it may be taken away
without injuring the rest; but that, from the foundation to the
pinnacles, one part rest firm upon another.

The regular and consequential distribution is among common authors
frequently neglected; but the failures of those, whose example can have
no influence, may be safely overlooked, nor is it of much use to recall
obscure and unguarded names to memory for the sake of sporting with
their infamy. But if there is any writer whose genius can embellish
impropriety, and whose authority can make errour venerable, his works
are the proper objects of critical inquisition. To expunge faults where
there are no excellencies is a task equally useless with that of the
chymist, who employs the arts of separation and refinement upon ore in
which no precious metal is contained to reward his operations.

The tragedy of Samson Agonistes has been celebrated as the second work
of the great author of Paradise Lost, and opposed, with all the
confidence of triumph, to the dramatick performances of other nations.
It contains, indeed, just sentiments, maxims of wisdom, and oracles of
piety, and many passages written with the ancient spirit of choral
poetry, in which there is a just and pleasing mixture of Seneca's moral
declamation, with the wild enthusiasm of the Greek writers. It is,
therefore, worthy of examination, whether a performance thus illuminated
with genius, and enriched with learning, is composed according to the
indispensable laws of Aristotelian criticism: and, omitting, at present,
all other considerations, whether it exhibits a beginning, a middle, and
an end.

The beginning is undoubtedly beautiful and proper, opening with a
graceful abruptness, and proceeding naturally to a mournful recital of
facts necessary to be known:

_Samson_. A little onward lend thy guiding hand
To these dark steps, a little further on;
For yonder bank hath choice of sun and shade:
There I am wont to sit, when any chance
Relieves me from my task of servile toil,
Daily in the common prison else enjoin'd me. --
O, wherefore was my birth from Heav'n foretold
Twice by an Angel? --
Why was my breeding order'd and prescrib'd,
As of a person separate to God,
Design'd for great exploits; if I must die
Betray'd, captiv'd, and both my eyes put out? --
Whom have I to complain of but myself?
Who this high gift of strength committed to me,
In what part lodg'd, how easily bereft me,
Under the seal of silence could not keep:
But weakly to a woman must reveal it.

His soliloquy is interrupted by a chorus or company of men of his own
tribe, who condole his miseries, extenuate his fault, and conclude with
a solemn vindication of divine justice. So that at the conclusion of the
first act there is no design laid, no discovery made, nor any
disposition formed towards the consequent event.

In the second act, Manoah, the father of Samson, comes to seek his son,
and, being shewn him by the chorus, breaks out into lamentations of his
misery, and comparisons of his present with his former state,
representing to him the ignominy which his religion suffers, by the
festival this day celebrated in honour of Dagon, to whom the idolaters
ascribed his overthrow.

--Thou bear'st
Enough, and more, the burthen of that fault;
Bitterly hast thou paid, and still art paying
That rigid score. A worse thing yet remains,
This day the Philistines a popular feast
Here celebrate in Gaza; and proclaim
Great pomp, and sacrifice, and praises loud
To Dagon, as their God who hath deliver'd
Thee, Samson, bound and blind, into their hands,
Them out of thine, who slew'st them many a slain.

Samson, touched with this reproach, makes a reply equally penitential
and pious, which his father considers as the effusion of prophetick
confidence:

_Samson_. --He, be sure,
Will not connive, or linger, thus provok'd,
But will arise and his great name assert:
Dagon must stoop, and shall ere long receive
Such a discomfit, as shall quite despoil him
Of all these boasted trophies won on me.

_Manoah_. With cause this hope relieves thee, and these words
I as a prophecy receive; for God,
Nothing more certain, will not long defer
To vindicate the glory of his name.

This part of the dialogue, as it might tend to animate or exasperate
Samson, cannot, I think, be censured as wholly superfluous; but the
succeeding dispute, in which Samson contends to die, and which his
father breaks off, that he may go to solicit his release, is only
valuable for its own beauties, and has no tendency to introduce any
thing that follows it.

The next event of the drama is the arrival of Dalila, with all her
graces, artifices, and allurements. This produces a dialogue, in a very
high degree elegant and instructive, from which she retires, after she
has exhausted her persuasions, and is no more seen nor heard of; nor has
her visit any effect but that of raising the character of Samson.

In the fourth act enters Harapha, the giant of Gath, whose name had
never been mentioned before, and who has now no other motive of coming,
than to see the man whose strength and actions are so loudly celebrated:

_Haraph_. --Much I have heard
Of thy prodigious might and feats perform'd,
Incredible to me, in this displeas'd,
That I was never present in the place
Of those encounters, where we might have tried
Each other's force in camp or listed fields;
And now am come to see of whom such noise
Hath walk'd about, and each limb to survey,
If thy appearance answer loud report.

Samson challenges him to the combat; and, after an interchange of
reproaches, elevated by repeated defiance on one side, and imbittered by
contemptuous insults on the other, Harapha retires; we then hear it
determined by Samson, and the chorus, that no consequence good or bad
will proceed from their interview:

_Chorus_. He will directly to the lords, I fear,
And with malicious counsel stir them up
Some way or other yet farther to afflict thee.

_Sams_. He must allege some cause, and offer'd fight
Will not dare mention, lest a question rise
Whether he durst accept the offer or not;
And, that he durst not, plain enough appear'd.

At last, in the fifth act, appears a messenger from the lords assembled
at the festival of Dagon, with a summons by which Samson is required to
come and entertain them with some proof of his strength. Samson, after a
short expostulation, dismisses him with a firm and resolute refusal;
but, during the absence of the messenger, having a while defended the
propriety of his conduct, he at last declares himself moved by a secret
impulse to comply, and utters some dark presages of a great event to be
brought to pass by his agency, under the direction of Providence:

_Sams_. Be of good courage, I begin to feel
Some rousing motions in me, which dispose
To something extraordinary my thoughts.
I with this messenger will go along,
Nothing to do, be sure, that may dishonour
Our Law, or stain my vow of Nazarite.
If there be aught of presage in the mind,
This day will be remarkable in my life
By some great act, or of my days the last.

While Samson is conducted off by the messenger, his father returns with
hopes of success in his solicitation, upon which he confers with the
chorus till their dialogue is interrupted, first by a shout of triumph,
and afterwards by screams of horrour and agony. As they stand
deliberating where they shall be secure, a man who had been present at
the show enters, and relates how Samson, having prevailed on his guide
to suffer him to lean against the main pillars of the theatrical
edifice, tore down the roof upon the spectators and himself:

--Those two massy pillars,
With horrible convulsion, to and fro
He tugg'd, he shook, till down they came, and drew
The whole roof after them, with burst of thunder
Upon the heads of all who sat beneath--
Samson, with these immixt, inevitably
Pull'd down the same destruction on himself.

This is undoubtedly a just and regular catastrophe, and the poem,
therefore, has a beginning and an end which Aristotle himself could not
have disapproved; but it must be allowed to want a middle, since nothing
passes between the first act and the last, that either hastens or delays
the death of Samson. The whole drama, if its superfluities were cut off,
would scarcely fill a single act; yet this is the tragedy which
ignorance has admired, and bigotry applauded.



No. 140. SATURDAY, JULY 20, 1751.

--_Quis tam Lucili fautor inepte est,
Ut non hoc fateatur? _ HOR. Lib. i. Sat. x. 2.

What doating bigot, to his faults so blind,
As not to grant me this, can Milton find?

It is common, says Bacon, to desire the end without enduring the means.
Every member of society feels and acknowledges the necessity of
detecting crimes, yet scarce any degree of virtue or reputation is able
to secure an informer from publick hatred. The learned world has always
admitted the usefulness of critical disquisitions, yet he that attempts
to show, however modestly, the failures of a celebrated writer, shall
surely irritate his admirers, and incur the imputation of envy,
captiousness, and malignity.

With this danger full in my view, I shall proceed to examine the
sentiments of Milton's tragedy, which, though much less liable to
censure than the disposition of his plan, are, like those of other
writers, sometimes exposed to just exceptions for want of care, or want
of discernment.

Sentiments are proper and improper as they consist more or less with the
character and circumstances of the person to whom they are attributed,
with the rules of the composition in which they are found, or with the
settled and unalterable nature of things.

It is common among the tragick poets to introduce their persons alluding
to events or opinions, of which they could not possibly have any
knowledge. The barbarians of remote or newly discovered regions often
display their skill in European learning. The god of love is mentioned
in Tamerlane with all the familiarity of a Roman epigrammatist; and a
late writer has put Harvey's doctrine of the circulation of the blood
into the mouth of a Turkish statesman, who lived near two centuries
before it was known even to philosophers or anatomists.

Milton's learning, which acquainted him with the manners of the ancient
eastern nations, and his invention, which required no assistance from
the common cant of poetry, have preserved him from frequent outrages of
local or chronological propriety. Yet he has mentioned Chalybean steel,
of which it is not very likely that his chorus should have heard, and
has made Alp the general name of a mountain, in a region where the Alps
could scarcely be known:

No medicinal liquor can assuage,
Nor breath of cooling air from snowy Alp.

He has taught Samson the tales of Circe, and the Syrens, at which he
apparently hints in his colloquy with Dalila:

--I know thy trains,
Though dearly to my cost, thy gins, and toils;
Thy fair _enchanted cup_, and _warbling charms_
No more on me have pow'r.

But the grossest errour of this kind is the solemn introduction of the
Phoenix in the last scene; which is faulty, not only as it is
incongruous to the personage to whom it is ascribed, but as it is so
evidently contrary to reason and nature, that it ought never to be
mentioned but as a fable in any serious poem:

--Virtue giv'n for lost,
Deprest, and overthrown, as seem'd,
Like that self-begotten bird
In the Arabian woods embost,
That no second knows nor third,
And lay ere while a holocaust,
From out her ashy womb now teem'd,
Revives, reflourishes, then vigorous most
When most unactive deem'd,
And though her body die, her fame survives
A secular bird, ages of lives.

Another species of impropriety is the unsuitableness of thoughts to the
general character of the poem. The seriousness and solemnity of tragedy
necessarily reject all pointed or epigrammatical expressions, all remote
conceits and opposition of ideas. Samson's complaint is therefore too
elaborate to be natural:

As in the land of darkness, yet in light,
To live a life half dead, a living death,
And bury'd; but, O yet more miserable!
Myself, my sepulchre, a moving grave,
Buried, yet not exempt,
By privilege of death and burial,
From worst of other evils, pains and wrongs.

All allusions to low and trivial objects, with which contempt is usually
associated, are doubtless unsuitable to a species of composition which
ought to be always awful, though not always magnificent. The remark
therefore of the chorus on good or bad news seems to want elevation:

_Manoah_. A little stay will bring some notice hither.
_Chor_. Of good _or_ bad so great, of bad the sooner;
For evil news _rides post_, while good news _baits_.

But of all meanness that has least to plead which is produced by mere
verbal conceits, which, depending only upon sounds, lose their existence
by the change of a syllable. Of this kind is the following dialogue:

_Chor_. But had we best retire? I see a _storm_.

_Sams_. Fair days have oft contracted wind and rain.

_Chor_. But this another kind of tempest brings.

_Sams_. Be less abstruse, my riddling days are past.

_Chor_. Look now for no enchanting voice, nor fear
The bait of honied words; a rougher tongue
Draws hitherward; I know him by his stride,
The giant _Harapha_. --

And yet more despicable are the lines in which Manoah's paternal
kindness is commended by the chorus:

Fathers are wont to _lay up_ for their sons,
Thou for thy son art bent to _lay out_ all.

Samson's complaint of the inconveniencies of imprisonment is not wholly
without verbal quaintness:

--I, a prisoner chain'd, scarce freely draw
The air, imprison'd also, close and damp.

From the sentiments we may properly descend to the consideration of the
language, which, in imitation of the ancients, is through the whole
dialogue remarkably simple and unadorned, seldom heightened by epithets,
or varied by figures; yet sometimes metaphors find admission, even where
their consistency is not accurately preserved. Thus Samson confounds
loquacity with a shipwreck:

How could I once look up, or heave the head,
Who, like a foolish _pilot_, have _shipwreck'd_
My _vessel_ trusted to me from above,
Gloriously _rigg'd_; and for a word, a tear,
Fool! have _divulg'd_ the _secret gift_ of God
To a deceitful woman? --

And the chorus talks of adding fuel to flame in a report:

He's gone, and who knows how he may _report_
Thy _words_, by _adding fuel to the flame_?

The versification is in the dialogue much more smooth and harmonious,
than in the parts allotted to the chorus, which are often so harsh and
dissonant, as scarce to preserve, whether the lines end with or without
rhymes, any appearance of metrical regularity:

Or do my eyes misrepresent? Can this be he,
That heroic, that renown'd,
Irresistible Samson? whom unarm'd
No strength of man, or fiercest wild beast, could withstand;
Who tore the lion, as the lion tears the kid.

Since I have thus pointed out the faults of Milton, critical integrity
requires that I should endeavour to display his excellencies, though
they will not easily be discovered in short quotations, because they
consist in the justness of diffuse reasonings, or in the contexture and
method of continued dialogues; this play having none of those
descriptions, similies, or splendid sentences, with which other
tragedies are so lavishly adorned. Yet some passages may be selected
which seem to deserve particular notice, either as containing sentiments
of passion, representations of life, precepts of conduct, or sallies of
imagination. It is not easy to give a stronger representation of the
weariness of despondency, than in the words of Samson to his father:

--I feel my genial spirits droop,
My hopes all flat, Nature within me seems
In all her functions weary of herself,
My race of glory run, and race of shame,
And I shall shortly be with them that rest.

The reply of Samson to the flattering Dalila affords a just and striking
description of the stratagems and allurements of feminine hypocrisy:

--These are thy wonted arts,
And arts of every woman false like thee,
To break all faith, all vows, deceive, betray,
Then as repentant to submit, beseech,
And reconcilement move with feign'd remorse,
Confess and promise wonders in her change;
Not truly penitent, but chief to try
Her husband, how far urg'd his patience bears,
His virtue or weakness which way to assail:
Then with more cautious and instructed skill
Again transgresses, and again submits.

When Samson has refused to make himself a spectacle at the feast of
Dagon, he first justifies his behaviour to the chorus, who charge him
with having served the Philistines, by a very just distinction: and then
destroys the common excuse of cowardice and servility, which always
confound temptation with compulsion:

_Chor_. Yet with thy strength thou serv'st the Philistines.

_Sams_. Not in their idol worship, but by labour
Honest and lawful to deserve my food
Of those, who have me in their civil power.

_Chor_. Where the heart joins not, outward acts defile not.

_Sams_. Where outward force constrains, the sentence holds.
But who constrains me to the temple of Dagon,
Not dragging? The Philistine lords command.
Commands are no constraints. If I obey them,
I do it freely, venturing to displease
God for the fear of Man, and Man prefer,
Set God behind.

The complaint of blindness which Samson pours out at the beginning of
the tragedy is equally addressed to the passions and the fancy. The
enumeration of his miseries is succeeded by a very pleasing train of
poetical images, and concluded by such expostulation and wishes, as
reason too often submits to learn from despair:

O first created Beam, and thou great Word
"Let there be light, and light was over all;"
Why am I thus bereav'd thy prime decree?
The sun to me is dark
And silent as the moon,
When she deserts the night
Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
Since light so necessary is to life,
And almost life itself, if it be true
That light is in the soul,
She all in every part; why was the sight
To such a tender hall as the eye confin'd,
So obvious and so easy to be quench'd?
And not, as feeling, through all parts diffus'd,
That she may look at will through every pore?

Such are the faults and such the beauties of Samson Agonistes, which I
have shown with no other purpose than to promote the knowledge of true
criticism. The everlasting verdure of Milton's laurels has nothing to
fear from the blasts of malignity; nor can my attempt produce any other
effect, than to strengthen their shoots by lopping their luxuriance[g].
[Footnote g: This is not the language of an accomplice in Lauder's
imposition. --ED. ]



No. 141. TUESDAY, JULY 23, 1751.

_Hilarisque, tamen cum pondere, virtus_. STAT.

Greatness with ease, and gay severity.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Politicians have long observed, that the greatest events may be
often traced back to slender causes. Petty competition or casual
friendship, the prudence of a slave, or the garrulity of a woman, have
hindered or promoted the most important schemes, and hastened or
retarded the revolutions of empire.

Whoever shall review his life will generally find, that the whole tenour
of his conduct has been determined by some accident of no apparent
moment, or by a combination of inconsiderable circumstances, acting when
his imagination was unoccupied, and his judgment unsettled; and that his
principles and actions have taken their colour from some secret
infusion, mingled without design in the current of his ideas. The
desires that predominate in our hearts, are instilled by imperceptible
communications at the time when we look upon the various scenes of the
world, and the different employments of men, with the neutrality of
inexperience; and we come forth from the nursery or the school,
invariably destined to the pursuit of great acquisitions, or petty
accomplishments.

Such was the impulse by which I have been kept in motion from my
earliest years. I was born to an inheritance which gave my childhood a
claim to distinction and caresses, and was accustomed to hear applauses,
before they had much influence on my thoughts. The first praise of which
I remember myself sensible was that of good-humour, which, whether I
deserved it or not when it was bestowed, I have since made it my whole
business to propagate and maintain.

When I was sent to school, the gaiety of my look, and the liveliness of
my loquacity, soon gained me admission to hearts not yet fortified
against affection by artifice or interest. I was entrusted with every
stratagem, and associated in every sport; my company gave alacrity to a
frolick, and gladness to a holiday. I was indeed so much employed in
adjusting or executing schemes of diversion, that I had no leisure for
my tasks, but was furnished with exercises, and instructed in my
lessons, by some kind patron of the higher classes. My master, not
suspecting my deficiency, or unwilling to detect what his kindness would
not punish nor his impartiality excuse, allowed me to escape with a
slight examination, laughed at the pertness of my ignorance, and the
sprightliness of my absurdities, and could not forbear to show that he
regarded me with such tenderness, as genius and learning can seldom
excite.

From school I was dismissed to the university, where I soon drew upon me
the notice of the younger students, and was the constant partner of
their morning walks, and evening compotations. I was not indeed much
celebrated for literature, but was looked on with indulgence as a man of
parts, who wanted nothing but the dulness of a scholar, and might become
eminent whenever he should condescend to labour and attention. My tutor
a while reproached me with negligence, and repressed my sallies with
supercilious gravity; yet, having natural good-humour lurking in his
heart, he could not long hold out against the power of hilarity, but
after a few months began to relax the muscles of disciplinarian
moroseness, received me with smiles after an elopement, and, that he
might not betray his trust to his fondness, was content to spare my
diligence by increasing his own.

Thus I continued to dissipate the gloom of collegiate austerity, to
waste my own life in idleness, and lure others from their studies, till
the happy hour arrived, when I was sent to London. I soon discovered the
town to be the proper element of youth and gaiety, and was quickly
distinguished as a wit by the ladies, a species of beings only heard of
at the university, whom I had no sooner the happiness of approaching
than I devoted all my faculties to the ambition of pleasing them.

A wit, Mr. Rambler, in the dialect of ladies, is not always a man who,
by the action of a vigorous fancy upon comprehensive knowledge, brings
distant ideas unexpectedly together, who, by some peculiar acuteness,
discovers resemblance in objects dissimilar to common eyes, or, by
mixing heterogeneous notions, dazzles the attention with sudden
scintillations of conceit. A lady's wit is a man who can make ladies
laugh, to which, however easy it may seem, many gifts of nature, and
attainments of art, must commonly concur. He that hopes to be received
as a wit in female assemblies, should have a form neither so amiable as
to strike with admiration, nor so coarse as to raise disgust, with an
understanding too feeble to be dreaded, and too forcible to be despised.
The other parts of the character are more subject to variation; it was
formerly essential to a wit, that half his back should be covered with a
snowy fleece, and, at a time yet more remote, no man was a wit without
his boots. In the days of the _Spectator_ a snuff-box seems to have been
indispensable; but in my time an embroidered coat was sufficient,
without any precise regulation of the rest of his dress.

But wigs and boots and snuff-boxes are vain, without a perpetual
resolution to be merry, and who can always find supplies of mirth?
Juvenal indeed, in his comparison of the two opposite philosophers,
wonders only whence an unexhausted fountain of tears could be
discharged: but had Juvenal, with all his spirit, undertaken my
province, he would have found constant gaiety equally difficult to be
supported. Consider, Mr. Rambler, and compassionate the condition of a
man, who has taught every company to expect from him a continual feast
of laughter, an unintermitted stream of jocularity. The task of every
other slave has an end. The rower in time reaches the port; the
lexicographer at last finds the conclusion of his alphabet; only the
hapless wit has his labour always to begin, the call for novelty is
never satisfied, and one jest only raises expectation of another.

I know that among men of learning and asperity the retainers to the
female world are not much regarded: yet I cannot but hope that if you
knew at how dear a rate our honours are purchased, you would look with
some gratulation on our success, and with some pity on our miscarriages.
Think on the misery of him who is condemned to cultivate barrenness and
ransack vacuity; who is obliged to continue his talk when his meaning is
spent, to raise merriment without images, to harass his imagination in
quest of thoughts which he cannot start, and his memory in pursuit of
narratives which he cannot overtake; observe the effort with which he
strains to conceal despondency by a smile, and the distress in which he
sits while the eyes of the company are fixed upon him as the last refuge
from silence and dejection.

It were endless to recount the shifts to which I have been reduced, or
to enumerate the different species of artificial wit. I regularly
frequented coffee-houses, and have often lived a week upon an
expression, of which he who dropped it did not know the value. When
fortune did not favour my erratick industry, I gleaned jests at home
from obsolete farces. To collect wit was indeed safe, for I consorted
with none that looked much into books, but to disperse it was the
difficulty. A seeming negligence was often useful, and I have very
successfully made a reply not to what the lady had said, but to what it
was convenient for me to hear; for very few were so perverse as to
rectify a mistake which had given occasion to a burst of merriment.
Sometimes I drew the conversation up by degrees to a proper point, and
produced a conceit which I had treasured up, like sportsmen who boast of
killing the foxes which they lodge in the covert. Eminence is, however,
in some happy moments, gained at less expense; I have delighted a whole
circle at one time with a series of quibbles, and made myself good
company at another, by scalding my fingers, or mistaking a lady's lap
for my own chair.

These are artful deceits and useful expedients; but expedients are at
length exhausted, and deceits detected. Time itself, among other
injuries, diminishes the power of pleasing, and I now find, in my
forty-fifth year, many pranks and pleasantries very coldly received,
which had formerly filled a whole room with jollity and acclamation.
I am under the melancholy necessity of supporting that character by study,
which I gained by levity, having learned too late that gaiety must be
recommended by higher qualities, and that mirth can never please long
but as the efflorescence of a mind loved for its luxuriance, but
esteemed for its usefulness.

I am, &c.

PAPILIUS.



No. 142. SATURDAY, JULY 27, 1751.

[Greek: Entha d aner eniaue pelorios--
--oude, met allous
Poleit, all apaneuthen eon athemistia ede.
Kai gar Oaum etetukto pelorion oude epskei
Andri ge sitophagps. ] HOMER. Od. [Greek: I'. ] 187.

A giant shepherd here his flock maintains
Far from the rest, and solitary reigns,
In shelter thick of horrid shade reclin'd;
And gloomy mischiefs labour in the mind.
A form enormous! far unlike the race
Of human birth, in stature or in face. POPE.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Having been accustomed to retire annually from the town, I lately
accepted the invitation of Eugenio, who has an estate and seat in a
distant county. As we were unwilling to travel without improvement, we
turned often from the direct road to please ourselves with the view of
nature or of art; we examined every wild mountain and medicinal spring,
criticised every edifice, contemplated every ruin, and compared every
scene of action with the narratives of historians. By this succession of
amusements we enjoyed the exercise of a journey without suffering the
fatigue, and had nothing to regret but that, by a progress so leisurely
and gentle, we missed the adventures of a post-chaise, and the pleasure
of alarming villages with the tumult of our passage, and of disguising
our insignificancy by the dignity of hurry.

The first week after our arrival at Eugenio's house was passed in
receiving visits from his neighbours, who crowded about him with all the
eagerness of benevolence; some impatient to learn the news of the court
and town, that they might be qualified by authentick information to
dictate to the rural politicians on the next bowling day; others
desirous of his interest to accommodate disputes, or his advice in the
settlement of their fortunes and the marriage of their children.

The civilities which he had received were soon to be returned; and I
passed sometime with great satisfaction in roving through the country,
and viewing the seats, gardens, and plantations, which are scattered
over it. My pleasure would indeed have been greater had I been sometimes
allowed to wander in a park or wilderness alone; but to appear as a
friend of Eugenio was an honour not to be enjoyed without some
inconveniencies: so much was every one solicitous for my regard, that I
could seldom escape to solitude, or steal a moment from the emulation of
complaisance, and the vigilance of officiousness.

In these rambles of good neighbourhood, we frequently passed by a house
of unusual magnificence. While I had my curiosity yet distracted among
many novelties, it did not much attract my observation; but in a short
time I could not forbear surveying it with particular notice; for the
length of the wall which inclosed the gardens, the disposition of the
shades that waved over it, and the canals of which I could obtain some
glimpses through the trees from our own windows, gave me reason to
expect more grandeur and beauty than I had yet seen in that province. I
therefore inquired, as we rode by it, why we never, amongst our
excursions, spent an hour where there was such an appearance of
splendour and affluence? Eugenio told me that the seat which I so much
admired, was commonly called in the country the _haunted house_, and
that no visits were paid there by any of the gentlemen whom I had yet
seen. As the haunts of incorporeal beings are generally ruinous,
neglected, and desolate, I easily conceived that there was something to
be explained, and told him that I supposed it only fairy ground, on
which we might venture by day-light without danger. The danger, says he,
is indeed only that of appearing to solicit the acquaintance of a man,
with whom it is not possible to converse without infamy, and who has
driven from him, by his insolence or malignity, every human being who
can live without him.

Our conversation was then accidentally interrupted; but my inquisitive
humour being now in motion, could not rest without a full account of
this newly discovered prodigy. I was soon informed that the fine house
and spacious gardens were haunted by squire Bluster, of whom it was very
easy to learn the character, since nobody had regard for him sufficient
to hinder them from telling whatever they could discover.

Squire Bluster is descended of an ancient family. The estate which his
ancestors had immemorially possessed was much augmented by captain
Bluster, who served under Drake in the reign of Elizabeth; and the
Blusters, who were before only petty gentlemen, have from that time
frequently represented the shire in parliament, been chosen to present
addresses, and given laws at hunting-matches and races. They were
eminently hospitable and popular, till the father of this gentleman died
of an election. His lady went to the grave soon after him, and left the
heir, then only ten years old, to the care of his grandmother, who would
not suffer him to be controlled, because she could not bear to hear him
cry; and never sent him to school, because she was not able to live
without his company. She taught him however very early to inspect the
steward's accounts, to dog the butler from the cellar, and to catch the
servants at a junket; so that he was at the age of eighteen a complete
master of all the lower arts of domestick policy, had often on the road
detected combinations between the coachman and the ostler, and procured
the discharge of nineteen maids for illicit correspondence with
cottagers and charwomen.
By the opportunities of parsimony which minority affords, and which the
probity of his guardians had diligently improved, a very large sum of
money was accumulated, and he found himself, when he took his affairs
into his own hands, the richest man in the county. It has been long the
custom of this family to celebrate the heir's completion of his
twenty-first year, by an entertainment, at which the house is thrown
open to all that are inclined to enter it, and the whole province flocks
together as to a general festivity. On this occasion young Bluster
exhibited the first tokens of his future eminence, by shaking his purse
at an old gentleman who had been the intimate friend of his father, and
offering to wager a greater sum than he could afford to venture; a
practice with which he has, at one time or other, insulted every
freeholder within ten miles round him.

His next acts of offence were committed in a contentious and spiteful
vindication of the privileges of his manours, and a rigorous and
relentless prosecution of every man that presumed to violate his game.
As he happens to have no estate adjoining equal to his own, his
oppressions are often borne without resistance, for fear of a long suit,
of which he delights to count the expenses without the least solicitude
about the event; for he knows, that where nothing but an honorary right
is contested, the poorer antagonist must always suffer, whatever shall
be the last decision of the law.

By the success of some of these disputes, he has so elated his
insolence, and, by reflection upon the general hatred which they have
brought upon him, so irritated his virulence, that his whole life is
spent in meditating or executing mischief. It is his common practice to
procure his hedges to be broken in the night, and then to demand
satisfaction for damages which his grounds have suffered from his
neighbour's cattle. An old widow was yesterday soliciting Eugenio to
enable her to replevin her only cow, then in the pound by squire
Bluster's order, who had sent one of his agents to take advantage of her
calamity, and persuade her to sell the cow at an under rate. He has
driven a day-labourer from his cottage, for gathering blackberries in a
hedge for his children, and has now an old woman in the county-gaol for
a trespass which she committed, by coming into his ground to pick up
acorns for her hog.

Money, in whatever hands, will confer power. Distress will fly to
immediate refuge, without much consideration of remote consequences.
Bluster has therefore a despotick authority in many families, whom he
has assisted, on pressing occasions, with larger sums than they can
easily repay. The only visits that he makes are to these houses of
misfortune, where he enters with the insolence of absolute command,
enjoys the terrours of the family, exacts their obedience, riots at
their charge, and in the height of his joy insults the father with
menaces, and the daughters with obscenity.

He is of late somewhat less offensive; for one of his debtors, after
gentle expostulations, by which he was only irritated to grosser
outrage, seized him by the sleeve, led him trembling into the
court-yard, and closed the door upon him in a stormy night. He took his
usual revenge next morning by a writ; but the debt was discharged by the
assistance of Eugenio.

It is his rule to suffer his tenants to owe him rent, because by this
indulgence he secures to himself the power of seizure whenever he has an
inclination to amuse himself with calamity, and feast his ears with
entreaties and lamentations. Yet as he is sometimes capriciously liberal
to those whom he happens to adopt as favourites, and lets his lands at a
cheap rate, his farms are never long unoccupied; and when one is ruined
by oppression, the possibility of better fortune quickly lures another
to supply his place.

Such is the life of squire Bluster; a man in whose power fortune has
liberally placed the means of happiness, but who has defeated all her
gifts of their end by the depravity of his mind. He is wealthy without
followers; he is magnificent without witnesses; he has birth without
alliance, and influence without dignity. His neighbours scorn him as a
brute; his dependants dread him as an oppressor; and he has only the
gloomy comfort of reflecting, that if he is hated, he is likewise
feared.

I am, Sir, &c.

VAGULUS.



No. 143. TUESDAY, JULY 30, 1751.

_--Moveat cornicula risum
Furtivis nudata coloribus. --_ HOR. Lib. i. Ep. i. 19.

Lest when the birds their various colours claim,
Stripp'd of his stolen pride, the crow forlorn
Should stand the laughter of the publick scorn. FRANCIS.

Among the innumerable practices by which interest or envy have taught
those who live upon literary fame to disturb each other at their airy
banquets, one of the most common is the charge of plagiarism. When the
excellence of a new composition can no longer be contested, and malice
is compelled to give way to the unanimity of applause, there is yet this
one expedient to be tried, by which the author may be degraded, though
his work be reverenced; and the excellence which we cannot obscure, may
be set at such a distance as not to overpower our fainter lustre.

This accusation is dangerous, because, even when it is false, it may be
sometimes urged with probability. Bruyere declares, that we are come
into the world too late to produce any thing new, that nature and life
are preoccupied, and that description and sentiment have been long
exhausted. It is indeed certain, that whoever attempts any common
topick, will find unexpected coincidences of his thoughts with those of
other writers; nor can the nicest judgment always distinguish accidental
similitude from artful imitation. There is likewise a common stock of
images, a settled mode of arrangement, and a beaten track of transition,
which all authors suppose themselves at liberty to use, and which
produce the resemblance generally observable among contemporaries. So
that in books which best deserve the name of originals, there is little
new beyond the disposition of materials already provided; the same ideas
and combinations of ideas have been long in the possession of other
hands; and, by restoring to every man his own, as the Romans must have
returned to their cots from the possession of the world, so the most
inventive and fertile genius would reduce his folios to a few pages. Yet
the author who imitates his predecessors only by furnishing himself with
thoughts and elegancies out of the same general magazine of literature,
can with little more propriety be reproached as a plagiary, than the
architect can be censured as a mean copier of Angelo or Wren, because he
digs his marble from the same quarry, squares his stones by the same
art, and unites them in the columns of the same orders.

Many subjects fall under the consideration of an author, which, being
limited by nature, can admit only of slight and accidental diversities.
All definitions of the same thing must be nearly the same; and
descriptions, which are definitions of a more lax and fanciful kind,
must always have in some degree that resemblance to each other which
they all have to their object. Different poets describing the spring or
the sea would mention the zephyrs and the flowers, the billows and the
rocks; reflecting on human life, they would, without any communication
of opinions, lament the deceitfulness of hope, the fugacity of pleasure,
the fragility of beauty, and the frequency of calamity; and for
palliatives of these incurable miseries, they would concur in
recommending kindness, temperance, caution, and fortitude.

When therefore there are found in Virgil and Horace two similar
passages--

_Hæ tibi erunt artes--
Parcere subjectis, et debellare superbos_. VIRG.

To tame the proud, the fetter'd slave to free:
These are imperial arts, and worthy thee. DRYDEN.

_Imperet bellante prior, jacentem
Lenis in hostem_. HOR.

Let Cæsar spread his conquests far,
Less pleas'd to triumph than to spare--

it is surely not necessary to suppose with a late critick, that one is
copied from the other, since neither Virgil nor Horace can be supposed
ignorant of the common duties of humanity, and the virtue of moderation
in success.

Cicero and Ovid have on very different occasions remarked how little of
the honour of a victory belongs to the general, when his soldiers and
his fortune have made their deductions; yet why should Ovid be suspected
to have owed to Tully an observation which perhaps occurs to every man
that sees or hears of military glories?

Tully observes of Achilles, that had not Homer written, his valour had
been without praise:

_Nisi Ilias illa extitisset, idem tumulus qui corpus ejus contexerat,
nomen ejus obruisset_.

Unless the Iliad had been published, his name had been lost in the
tomb that covered his body.

Horace tells us with more energy that there were brave men before the
wars of Troy, but they were lost in oblivion for want of a poet:

_Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona
Multi; sed omnes illachrymabiles
Urgentur, ignotique longá
Nocte, carent quia vate sacro_.

Before great Agamemnon reign'd,
Reign'd kings as great as he, and brave,
Whose huge ambition's now contain'd
In the small compass of a grave:
In endless night they sleep, unwept, unknown:
No bard had they to make all time their own. FRANCIS.

Tully inquires, in the same oration, why, but for fame, we disturb a
short life with so many fatigues?

_Quid est quod in hoc tam exiguo vitae curriculo et tam brevi, tantis
nos in laboribus exerceamus? _

Why in so small a circuit of life should we employ ourselves in so
many fatigues?

Horace inquires in the same manner,

_Quid brevi fortes jaculamur aevo
Multa? _

Why do we aim, with eager strife,
At things beyond the mark of life? FRANCIS.

when our life is of so short duration, why we form such numerous
designs? But Horace, as well as Tully, might discover that records are
needful to preserve the memory of actions, and that no records were so
durable as poems; either of them might find out that life is short, and
that we consume it in unnecessary labour.

There are other flowers of fiction so widely scattered and so easily
cropped, that it is scarcely just to tax the use of them as an act by
which any particular writer is despoiled of his garland; for they may be
said to have been planted by the ancients in the open road of poetry for
the accommodation of their successors, and to be the right of every one
that has art to pluck them without injuring their colours or their
fragrance. The passage of Orpheus to hell, with the recovery and second
loss of Eurydice, have been described after Boetius by Pope, in such a
manner as might justly leave him suspected of imitation, were not the
images such as they might both have derived from more ancient writers.

_Quae sontes agitant metu,
Ultrices scelerum deæ
Jam masta: lacrymis madent,
Non Ixionium caput
Velox præcipitat rota_.

The pow'rs of vengeance, while they hear,
Touch'd with compassion, drop a tear:
Ixion's rapid wheel is bound,
Fix'd in attention to the sound. F. LEWIS.

Thy stone, O Sysiphus, stands still,
Ixion rests upon the wheel,
And the pale spectres dance!
The furies sink upon their iron beds. POPE

_Tandem, vincimur, arbiter
Umbrarum, miserans, ait--
Donemus, comitem viro,
Emtam carmine, conjugem_.

Subdu'd at length, Hell's pitying monarch cry'd,
The song rewarding, let us yield the bride. F. LEWIS.

He sung; and hell consented
To hear the poet's prayer;
Stern Proserpine relented,
And gave him back the fair. POPE

_Heu, noctis prope terminos
Orpheus Eurydicen suam
Vidit, perdidit, occidit_.

Nor yet the golden verge of day begun,
When Orpheus, her unhappy lord,
Eurydice to life restor'd,
At once beheld, and lost, and was undone. F. LEWIS.

But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes:
Again she falls, again she dies, she dies! POPE.

No writer can be fully convicted of imitation, except there is a
concurrence of more resemblance than can be imagined to have happened by
chance; as where the same ideas are conjoined without any natural series
or necessary coherence, or where not only the thought but the words are
copied. Thus it can scarcely be doubted, that in the first of the
following passages Pope remembered Ovid, and that in the second he
copied Crashaw:

_Saepe pater dixit, studium quid inutile tentas?
Maeonides nullas ipse reliquit opes--
Sponte suâ carmen numeros veniebat ad aptos,
Et quod conabar scribere, versus erat_. OVID.

Quit, quit this barren trade, my father cry'd:
Ev'n Homer left no riches when he dy'd--
In verse spontaneous flow'd my native strain,
Forc'd by no sweat or labour of the brain. F. LEWIS.

I left no calling for this idle trade;
No duty broke, no father disobey'd;
While yet a child, ere yet a fool to fame,
I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. POPE.

--This plain floor,
Believe me, reader, can say more
Than many a braver marble can,
Here lies a truly honest man. CRASHAW.

This modest stone, what few vain marbles can,
May truly say, Here lies an honest man. POPE.

Conceits, or thoughts not immediately impressed by sensible objects, or
necessarily arising from the coalition or comparison of common
sentiments, may be with great justice suspected whenever they are found
a second time. Thus Wallar probably owed to Grotius an elegant
compliment:

Here lies the learned Savil's heir,
So early wise, and lasting fair,
That none, except her years they told,
Thought her a child, or thought her old. WALLER.

[Transcriber's note: Inconsistency in spelling Waller/Wallar in
original]

_Unica lux saecli, genitoris gloria, nemo
Quem puerum, nemo credidit esse senem_. GROT.

The age's miracle, his father's joy!
Nor old you would pronounce him, nor a boy. F. LEWIS.

And Prior was indebted for a pretty illustration to Alleyne's poetical
history of Henry the Seventh:

For nought but light itself, itself can shew,
And only kings can write, what kings can do. ALLEYNE.

Your musick's pow'r, your musick must disclose,
For what light is, 'tis only light that shews. PRIOR.

And with yet more certainty may the same writer be censured, for
endeavouring the clandestine appropriation of a thought which he
borrowed, surely without thinking himself disgraced, from an epigram of
Plato:

[Greek: Tae Paphiae to katoptron, epei toiae men orasthai
Ouk ethelo, oiae d' aen paros, ou dunamai. ]

Venus, take my votive glass,
Since I am not what I was;
What from this day I shall be,
Venus, let me never see.

As not every instance of similitude can be considered as a proof of
imitation, so not every imitation ought to be stigmatized as plagiarism.
The adoption of a noble sentiment, or the insertion of a borrowed
ornament, may sometimes display so much judgment as will almost
compensate for invention: and an inferior genius may, without any
imputation of servility, pursue the path of the ancients, provided he
declines to tread in their footsteps.



No. 144. SATURDAY, AUGUST 3, 1751.

--_Daphnidis arcum
Fregisti et calamos: quae tu, perverse Menalea,
Et quum vidisti puero donata, dolebas;
Et si non aliqua nocuisses, mortuus esses. _ VIRG. EC. iii. 12.

The bow of Daphnis and the shafts you broke;
When the fair boy receiv'd the gift of right;
And but for mischief, you had dy'd for spite. DRYDEN.

It is impossible to mingle in conversation without observing the
difficulty with which a new name makes its way into the world. The first
appearance of excellence unites multitudes against it; unexpected
opposition rises up on every side; the celebrated and the obscure join
in the confederacy; subtlety furnishes arms to impudence, and invention
leads on credulity.

The strength and unanimity of this alliance is not easily conceived. It
might be expected that no man should suffer his heart to be inflamed
with malice, but by injuries; that none should busy himself in
contesting the pretensions of another, but when some right of his own
was involved in the question; that at least hostilities, commenced
without cause, should quickly cease; that the armies of malignity should
soon disperse, when no common interest could be found to hold them
together; and that the attack upon a rising character should be left to
those who had something to hope or fear from the event.

The hazards of those that aspire to eminence, would be much diminished
if they had none but acknowledged rivals to encounter. Their enemies
would then be few, and, what is yet of greater importance, would be
known. But what caution is sufficient to ward off the blows of invisible
assailants, or what force can stand against uninterrupted attacks, and a
continual succession of enemies? Yet such is the state of the world,
that no sooner can any man emerge from the crowd, and fix the eyes of
the publick upon him, than he stands as a mark to the arrows of lurking
calumny, and receives in the tumult of hostility, from distant and from
nameless hands, wounds not always easy to be cured.

It is probable that the onset against the candidates for renown, is
originally incited by those who imagine themselves in danger of
suffering by their success; but, when war is once declared, volunteers
flock to the standard, multitudes follow the camp only for want of
employment, and flying squadrons are dispersed to every part, so pleased
with an opportunity of mischief, that they toil without prospect of
praise, and pillage without hope of profit.

When any man has endeavoured to deserve distinction, he will be
surprised to hear himself censured where he could not expect to have
been named; he will find the utmost acrimony of malice among those whom
he never could have offended.

As there are to be found in the service of envy men of every diversity
of temper and degree of understanding, calumny is diffused by all arts
and methods of propagation. Nothing is too gross or too refined, too
cruel or too trifling, to be practised; very little regard is had to the
rules of honourable hostility, but every weapon is accounted lawful, and
those that cannot make a thrust at life are content to keep themselves
in play with petty malevolence, to tease with feeble blows and impotent
disturbance.

But as the industry of observation has divided the most miscellaneous
and confused assemblages into proper classes, and ranged the insects of
the summer, that torment us with their drones or stings, by their
several tribes; the persecutors of merit, notwithstanding their numbers,
may be likewise commodiously distinguished into Roarers, Whisperers, and
Moderators.

The Roarer is an enemy rather terrible than dangerous. He has no other
qualification for a champion of controversy than a hardened front and
strong voice. Having seldom so much desire to confute as to silence, he
depends rather upon vociferation than argument, and has very little care
to adjust one part of his accusation to another, to preserve decency in
his language, or probability in his narratives.

He has always a store of reproachful epithets and contemptuous
appellations, ready to be produced as occasion may require, which by
constant use he pours out with resistless volubility. If the wealth of a
trader is mentioned, he without hesitation devotes him to bankruptcy; if
the beauty and elegance of a lady be commended, he wonders how the town
can fall in love with rustick deformity; if a new performance of genius
happens to be celebrated, he pronounces the writer a hopeless idiot,
without knowledge of books or life, and without the understanding by
which it must be acquired. His exaggerations are generally without
effect upon those whom he compels to hear them; and though it will
sometimes happen that the timorous are awed by his violence, and the
credulous mistake his confidence for knowledge, yet the opinions which
he endeavours to suppress soon recover their former strength, as the
trees that bend to the tempest erect themselves again when its force is
past.

The Whisperer is more dangerous. He easily gains attention by a soft
address, and excites curiosity by an air of importance. As secrets are
not to be made cheap by promiscuous publication, he calls a select
audience about him, and gratifies their vanity with an appearance of
trust by communicating his intelligence in a low voice. Of the trader he
can tell that, though he seems to manage an extensive commerce, and
talks in high terms of the funds, yet his wealth is not equal to his
reputation; he has lately suffered much by an expensive project, and had
a greater share than is acknowledged in the rich ship that perished by
the storm. Of the beauty he has little to say, but that they who see her
in a morning do not discover all those graces which are admired in the
Park. Of the writer he affirms with great certainty, that though the
excellence of the work be incontestible, he can claim but a small part
of the reputation; that he owed most of the images and sentiments to a
secret friend; and that the accuracy and equality of the style was
produced by the successive correction of the chief criticks of the age.

As every one is pleased with imagining that he knows something not yet
commonly divulged, secret history easily gains credit; but it is for the
most part believed only while it circulates in whispers; and when once
it is openly told, is openly confuted.

The most pernicious enemy is the man of Moderation. Without interest in
the question, or any motive but honest curiosity, this impartial and
zealous inquirer after truth is ready to hear either side, and always
disposed to kind interpretations and favourable opinions. He hath heard
the trader's affairs reported with great variation, and, after a
diligent comparison of the evidence, concludes it probable that the
splendid superstructure of business being originally built upon a narrow
basis, has lately been found to totter; but between dilatory payment and
bankruptcy there is a great distance; many merchants have supported
themselves by expedients for a time, without any final injury to their
creditors; and what is lost by one adventure may be recovered by
another. He believes that a young lady pleased with admiration, and
desirous to make perfect what is already excellent, may heighten her
charms by artificial improvements, but surely most of her beauties must
be genuine, and who can say that he is wholly what he endeavours to
appear? The author he knows to be a man of diligence, who perhaps does
not sparkle with the fire of Homer, but has the judgment to discover his
own deficiencies, and to supply them by the help of others; and, in his
opinion, modesty is a quality so amiable and rare, that it ought to find
a patron wherever it appears, and may justly be preferred by the publick
suffrage to petulant wit and ostentatious literature.

He who thus discovers failings with unwillingness, and extenuates the
faults which cannot be denied, puts an end at once to doubt or
vindication; his hearers repose upon his candour and veracity, and admit
the charge without allowing the excuse.

Such are the arts by which the envious, the idle, the peevish, and the
thoughtless, obstruct that worth which they cannot equal, and, by
artifices thus easy, sordid, and detestable, is industry defeated,
beauty blasted, and genius depressed.



No. 145. TUESDAY, AUGUST 6, 1751.

_Non, si priores Maeonius tenet
Sedes Homerus, Pindaricae latent,
Ceaeque, et Alcaei minaces,
Stesichorique graves Camoenae_. HOR. Lib. iv. Od. ix. 5.

What though the muse her Homer thrones
High above all the immortal quire;
Nor Pindar's raptures she disowns,
Nor hides the plaintive Caean lyre;
Alcaeus strikes the tyrant soul with dread,
Nor yet is grave Stesichorus unread. FRANCIS.

It is allowed that vocations and employments of least dignity are of the
most apparent use; that the meanest artizan or manufacturer contributes
more to the accommodation of life, than the profound scholar and
argumentative theorist; and that the publick would suffer less present
inconvenience from the banishment of philosophers than from the
extinction of any common trade.

Some have been so forcibly struck with this observation, that they have,
in the first warmth of their discovery, thought it reasonable to alter
the common distribution of dignity, and ventured to condemn mankind of
universal ingratitude. For justice exacts, that those by whom we are
most benefited should be most honoured. And what labour can be more
useful than that which procures to families and communities those
necessaries which supply the wants of nature, or those conveniencies by
which ease, security, and elegance, are conferred?

This is one of the innumerable theories which the first attempt to
reduce them into practice certainly destroys. If we estimate dignity by
immediate usefulness, agriculture is undoubtedly the first and noblest
science; yet we see the plough driven, the clod broken, the manure
spread, the seeds scattered, and the harvest reaped, by men whom those
that feed upon their industry will never be persuaded to admit into the
same rank with heroes, or with sages; and who, after all the confessions
which truth may extort in favour of their occupation, must be content to
fill up the lowest class of the commonwealth, to form the base of the
pyramid of subordination, and lie buried in obscurity themselves, while
they support all that is splendid, conspicuous, or exalted.

It will be found upon a closer inspection, that this part of the conduct
of mankind is by no means contrary to reason or equity. Remuneratory
honours are proportioned at once to the usefulness and difficulty of
performances, and are properly adjusted by comparison of the mental and
corporeal abilities, which they appear to employ. That work, however
necessary, which is carried on only by muscular strength and manual
dexterity, is not of equal esteem, in the consideration of rational
beings, with the tasks that exercise the intellectual powers, and
require the active vigour of imagination or the gradual and laborious
investigations of reason.

The merit of all manual occupations seems to terminate in the inventor;
and surely the first ages cannot be charged with ingratitude; since
those who civilized barbarians, and taught them how to secure themselves
from cold and hunger, were numbered amongst their deities. But these
arts once discovered by philosophy, and facilitated by experience, are
afterwards practised with very little assistance from the faculties of
the soul; nor is any thing necessary to the regular discharge of these
inferior duties, beyond that rude observation which the most sluggish
intellect may practise, and that industry which the stimulations of
necessity naturally enforce.

Yet though the refusal of statues and panegyrick to those who employ
only their hands and feet in the service of mankind may be easily
justified, I am far from intending to incite the petulance of pride, to
justify the superciliousness of grandeur, or to intercept any part of
that tenderness and benevolence which, by the privilege of their common
nature, one may claim from another.

That it would be neither wise nor equitable to discourage the
husbandman, the labourer, the miner, or the smith, is generally granted;
but there is another race of beings equally obscure and equally
indigent, who, because their usefulness is less obvious to vulgar
apprehensions, live unrewarded and die unpitied, and who have been long
exposed to insult without a defender, and to censure without an
apologist.

The authors of London were formerly computed by Swift at several
thousands, and there is not any reason for suspecting that their number
has decreased. Of these only a very few can be said to produce, or
endeavour to produce, new ideas, to extend any principle of science, or
gratify the imagination with any uncommon train of images or contexture
of events; the rest, however laborious, however arrogant, can only be
considered as the drudges of the pen, the manufacturers of literature,
who have set up for authors, either with or without a regular
initiation, and, like other artificers, have no other care than to
deliver their tale of wares at the stated time.

It has been formerly imagined, that he who intends the entertainment or
instruction of others, must feel in himself some peculiar impulse of
genius; that he must watch the happy minute in which his natural fire is
excited, in which his mind is elevated with nobler sentiments,
enlightened with clearer views, and invigorated with stronger
comprehension; that he must carefully select his thoughts and polish his
expressions; and animate his efforts with the hope of raising a monument
of learning, which neither time nor envy shall be able to destroy.

But the authors whom I am now endeavouring to recommend have been too
long _hackneyed in the ways of men_ to indulge the chimerical ambition
of immortality; they have seldom any claim to the trade of writing, but
that they have tried some other without success; they perceive no
particular summons to composition, except the sound of the clock; they
have no other rule than the law or the fashion for admitting their
thoughts or rejecting them; and about the opinion of posterity they have
little solicitude, for their productions are seldom intended to remain
in the world longer than a week.

That such authors are not to be rewarded with praise is evident, since
nothing can be admired when it ceases to exist; but surely, though they
cannot aspire to honour, they may be exempted from ignominy, and adopted
in that order of men which deserves our kindness, though not our
reverence. These papers of the day, the _Ephemerae_ of learning, have
uses more adequate to the purposes of common life than more pompous and
durable volumes. If it is necessary for every man to be more acquainted
with his contemporaries than with past generations, and to rather know
the events which may immediately affect his fortune or quiet, than the
revolutions of ancient kingdoms, in which he has neither possessions nor
expectations; if it be pleasing to hear of the preferment and dismission
of statesmen, the birth of heirs, and the marriage of beauties, the
humble author of journals and gazettes must be considered as a liberal
dispenser of beneficial knowledge.

Even the abridger, compiler, and translator, though their labours cannot
be ranked with those of the diurnal historiographer, yet must not be
rashly doomed to annihilation. Every size of readers requires a genius
of correspondent capacity; some delight in abstracts and epitomes,
because they want room in their memory for long details, and content
themselves with effects, without inquiry after causes; some minds are
overpowered by splendour of sentiment, as some eyes are offended by a
glaring light; such will gladly contemplate an author in an humble
imitation, as we look without pain upon the sun in the water.

As every writer has his use, every writer ought to have his patrons; and
since no man, however high he may now stand, can be certain that he
shall not be soon thrown down from his elevation by criticism or
caprice, the common interest of learning requires that her sons should
cease from intestine hostilities, and, instead of sacrificing each other
to malice and contempt, endeavour to avert persecution from the meanest
of their fraternity.



No. 146. SATURDAY, AUGUST 10, 1751.

_Sunt illic duo, tresve, qui revolvant
Nostrarum tineas ineptiarum;
Sed cum sponsio, fabultaeque lassae
De scarpo fuerint incitato_. MART.

'Tis possible that one or two
These fooleries of mine may view;
But then the bettings must be o'er,
Nor Crab or Childers talk'd of more. F. LEWIS.