No More Learning

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. It is not sufficient to maintain the
first vigour; for excellence loses its effect upon the mind by custom,
as light after a time ceases to dazzle. Admiration must be continued by
that novelty which first produced it, and how much soever is given,
there must always be reason to imagine that more remains.

We not only are most sensible of the last impressions, but such is the
unwillingness of mankind to admit transcendant merit, that, though it be
difficult to obliterate the reproach of miscarriages by any subsequent
achievement, however illustrious, yet the reputation raised by a long
train of success may be finally ruined by a single failure; for weakness
or errour will be always remembered by that malice and envy which it
gratifies.

For the prevention of that disgrace, which lassitude and negligence may
bring at last upon the greatest performances, it is necessary to
proportion carefully our labour to our strength. If the design comprises
many parts, equally essential, and, therefore, not to be separated, the
only time for caution is before we engage; the powers of the mind must
be then impartially estimated, and it must be remembered that, not to
complete the plan, is not to have begun it; and that nothing is done
while any thing is omitted.

But, if the task consists in the repetition of single acts, no one of
which derives its efficacy from the rest, it may be attempted with less
scruple, because there is always opportunity to retreat with honour. The
danger is only, lest we expect from the world the indulgence with which
most are disposed to treat themselves; and in the hour of listlessness
imagine, that the diligence of one day will atone for the idleness of
another, and that applause begun by approbation will be continued by
habit.

He that is himself weary will soon weary the publick. Let him therefore
lay down his employment, whatever it be, who can no longer exert his
former activity or attention; let him not endeavour to struggle with
censure, or obstinately infest the stage till a general hiss commands
him to depart.



No. 208. SATURDAY, MARCH 14, 1752.

[Greek: Aerakleitos ego ti me o kato helket amousoi,
Ouch hymin eponoun, tois de m' episgamenoi;
Eis emoi anthropos trismurioi; oi d' anarithmoi
Oudeis; taut audo kai para Persephonae] DIOG. LAERT.

Begone, ye blockheads, Heraclitus cries,
And leave my labours to the learn'd and wise;
By wit, by knowledge, studious to be read,
I scorn the multitude, alive and dead.

Time, which puts an end to all human pleasures and sorrows, has
likewise concluded the labours of the Rambler. Having supported, for two
years, the anxious employment of a periodical writer, and multiplied my
essays to upwards of two hundred, I have now determined to desist.

The reasons of this resolution it is of little importance to declare,
since justification is unnecessary when no objection is made. I am far
from supposing, that the cessation of my performances will raise any
inquiry, for I have never been much a favourite of the publick, nor can
boast that, in the progress of my undertaking, I have been animated by
the rewards of the liberal, the caresses of the great, or the praises of
the eminent.

But I have no design to gratify pride by submission, or malice by
lamentation; nor think it reasonable to complain of neglect from those
whose regard I never solicited. If I have not been distinguished by the
distributors of literary honours, I have seldom descended to the arts by
which favour is obtained. I have seen the meteors of fashions rise and
fall, without any attempt to add a moment to their duration. I have
never complied with temporary curiosity, nor enabled my readers to
discuss the topick of the day; I have rarely exemplified my assertions
by living characters; in my papers, no man could look for censures of
his enemies, or praises of himself; and they only were expected to
peruse them, whose passions left them leisure for abstracted truth, and
whom virtue could please by its naked dignity.

To some, however, I am indebted for encouragement, and to others for
assistance. The number of my friends was never great, but they have been
such as would not suffer me to think that I was writing in vain, and I
did not feel much dejection from the want of popularity.

My obligations having not been frequent, my acknowledgments may be soon
despatched. I can restore to all my correspondents their productions,
with little diminution of the bulk of my volumes, though not without the
loss of some pieces to which particular honours have been paid.

The parts from which I claim no other praise than that of having given
them an opportunity of appearing, are the four billets in the tenth
paper, the second letter in the fifteenth, the thirtieth, the
forty-fourth, the ninety-seventh, and the hundredth papers, and the
second letter in the hundred and seventh.

Having thus deprived myself of many excuses which candour might have
admitted for the inequality of my compositions, being no longer able to
allege the necessity of gratifying correspondents, the importunity with
which publication was solicited, or obstinacy with which correction was
rejected, I must remain accountable for all my faults, and submit,
without subterfuge, to the censures of criticism, which, however, I
shall not endeavour to soften by a formal deprecation, or to overbear by
the influence of a patron. The supplications of an author never yet
reprieved him a moment from oblivion; and, though greatness has
sometimes sheltered guilt, it can afford no protection to ignorance or
dulness. Having hitherto attempted only the propagation of truth, I will
not at last violate it by the confession of terrours which I do not
feel; having laboured to maintain the dignity of virtue, I will not now
degrade it by the meanness of dedication.

The seeming vanity with which I have sometimes spoken of myself, would
perhaps require an apology, were it not extenuated by the example of
those who have published essays before me, and by the privilege which
every nameless writer has been hitherto allowed. "A mask," says
Castiglione, "confers a right of acting and speaking with less
restraint, even when the wearer happens to be known. " He that is
discovered without his own consent, may claim some indulgence, and
cannot be rigorously called to justify those sallies or frolicks which
his disguise must prove him desirous to conceal.

But I have been cautious lest this offence should be frequently or
grossly committed; for, as one of the philosophers directs us to live
with a friend, as with one that is some time to become an enemy, I have
always thought it the duty of an anonymous author to write, as if he
expected to be hereafter known.

I am willing to flatter myself with hopes, that, by collecting these
papers, I am not preparing, for my future life, either shame or
repentance. That all are happily imagined, or accurately polished, that
the same sentiments have not sometimes recurred, or the same expressions
been too frequently repeated, I have not confidence in my abilities
sufficient to warrant. He that condemns himself to compose on a stated
day, will often bring to his task an attention dissipated, a memory
embarrassed, an imagination overwhelmed, a mind distracted with
anxieties, a body languishing with disease: he will labour on a barren
topick, till it is too late to change it; or, in the ardour of
invention, diffuse his thoughts into wild exuberance, which the pressing
hour of publication cannot suffer judgment to examine or reduce.

Whatever shall be the final sentence of mankind, I have at least
endeavoured to deserve their kindness. I have laboured to refine our
language to grammatical purity, and to clear it from colloquial
barbarisms, licentious idioms, and irregular combinations. Something,
perhaps, I have added to the elegance of its construction, and something
to the harmony of its cadence. When common words were less pleasing to
the ear, or less distinct in their signification, I have familiarized
the terms of philosophy, by applying them to popular ideas, but have
rarely admitted any words not authorized by former writers; for I
believe that whoever knows the English tongue in its present extent,
will be able to express his thoughts without further help from other
nations.

As it has been my principal design to inculcate wisdom or piety, I have
allotted few papers to the idle sports of imagination. Some, perhaps,
may be found, of which the highest excellence is harmless merriment; but
scarcely any man is so steadily serious as not to complain, that the
severity of dictatorial instruction has been too seldom relieved, and
that he is driven by the sternness of the Rambler's philosophy to more
cheerful and airy companions.

Next to the excursions of fancy are the disquisitions of criticism,
which, in my opinion, is only to be ranked among the subordinate and
instrumental arts. Arbitrary decision and general exclamation I have
carefully avoided, by asserting nothing without a reason, and
establishing all my principles of judgment on unalterable and evident
truth.

In the pictures of life I have never been so studious of novelty or
surprise, as to depart wholly from all resemblance; a fault which
writers deservedly celebrated frequently commit, that they may raise, as
the occasion requires, either mirth or abhorrence. Some enlargement may
be allowed to declamation, and some exaggeration to burlesque; but as
they deviate farther from reality, they become less useful, because
their lessons will fail of application. The mind of the reader is
carried away from the contemplation of his own manners; he finds in
himself no likeness to the phantom before him; and though he laughs or
rages, is not reformed.

The essays professedly serious, if I have been able to execute my own
intentions, will be found exactly conformable to the precepts of
Christianity, without any accommodation to the licentiousness and levity
of the present age. I therefore look back on this part of my work with
pleasure, which no blame or praise of man shall diminish or augment. I
shall never envy the honours which wit and learning obtain in any other
cause, if I can be numbered among the writers who have given ardour to
virtue, and confidence to truth.

[Greek: Auton ek makaron autaxios eiae amoibae. ]

Celestial pow'rs! that piety regard,
From you my labours wait their last reward.

END OF VOL. III.





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