No More Learning

]




No. 96. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1751.


_Quod si Platonis musa personat verum,_
_Quod quisque discit, immemor recordatur. _
BOETHIUS.

Truth in Platonick ornaments bedeck'd,
Inforc'd we love, unheeding recollect.


It is reported of the Persians, by an ancient writer, that the sum of
their education consisted in teaching youth _to ride, to shoot with the
bow, and to speak truth_.

The bow and the horse were easily mastered, but it would have been happy
if we had been informed by what arts veracity was cultivated, and by
what preservatives a Persian mind was secured against the temptations
to falsehood.

There are, indeed, in the present corruption of mankind, many incitements
to forsake truth; the need of palliating our own faults, and the
convenience of imposing on the ignorance or credulity of others, so
frequently occur; so many immediate evils are to be avoided, and so
many present gratifications obtained, by craft and delusion, that very
few of those who are much entangled in life, have spirit and constancy
sufficient to support them in the steady practice of open veracity.

In order that all men may be taught to speak truth, it is necessary that
all likewise should learn to hear it; for no species of falsehood is
more frequent than flattery, to which the coward is betrayed by fear,
the dependant by interest, and the friend by tenderness. Those who are
neither servile nor timorous, are yet desirous to bestow pleasure; and
while unjust demands of praise continue to be made, there will always be
some whom hope, fear, or kindness, will dispose to pay them.

The guilt of falsehood is very widely extended, and many whom their
conscience can scarcely charge with stooping to a lie, have vitiated the
morals of others by their vanity, and patronized the vice they believe
themselves to abhor.

Truth is, indeed, not often welcome for its own sake; it is generally
unpleasing, because contrary to our wishes and opposite to our practice;
and as our attention naturally follows our interest, we hear unwillingly
what we are afraid to know, and soon forget what we have no inclination
to impress upon our memories.

For this reason many arts of instruction have been invented, by which
the reluctance against truth may be overcome; and as physick is given
to children in confections, precepts have been hidden under a thousand
appearances, that mankind may be bribed by pleasure to escape destruction.

While the world was yet in its infancy, Truth came among mortals from
above, and Falsehood from below. Truth was the daughter of Jupiter and
Wisdom; Falsehood was the progeny of Folly impregnated by the Wind. They
advanced with equal confidence to seize the dominion of the new creation,
and, as their enmity and their force were well known to the celestials,
all the eyes of heaven were turned upon the contest.

Truth seemed conscious of superiour power and juster claim, and therefore
came on towering and majestick, unassisted and alone; Reason, indeed,
always attended her, but appeared her follower, rather than companion.
Her march was slow and stately, but her motion was perpetually
progressive, and when once she had grounded her foot, neither gods nor
men could force her to retire.

Falsehood always endeavoured to copy the mien and attitudes of Truth, and
was very successful in the arts of mimickry. She was surrounded, animated,
and supported by innumerable legions of appetites and passions, but
like other feeble commanders, was obliged often to receive law from her
allies. Her motions were sudden, irregular, and violent; for she had no
steadiness nor constancy. She often gained conquests by hasty incursions,
which she never hoped to keep by her own strength, but maintained by the
help of the passions, whom she generally found resolute and faithful.

It sometimes happened that the antagonists met in full opposition. In
these encounters, Falsehood always invested her head with clouds, and
commanded Fraud to place ambushes about her. In her left hand she bore
the shield of Impudence, and the quiver of Sophistry rattled on her
shoulder. All the Passions attended at her call; Vanity clapped her wings
before, and Obstinacy supported her behind. Thus guarded and assisted,
she sometimes advanced against Truth, and sometimes waited the attack;
but always endeavoured to skirmish at a distance, perpetually shifted
her ground, and let fly her arrows in different directions; for she
certainly found that her strength failed, whenever the eye of Truth
darted full upon her.

Truth had the awful aspect though not the thunder of her father, and when
the long continuance of the contest brought them near to one another,
Falsehood let the arms of Sophistry fall from her grasp, and holding up
the shield of Impudence with both her hands, sheltered herself amongst
the Passions.

Truth, though she was often wounded, always recovered in a short time; but
it was common for the slightest hurt, received by Falsehood, to spread
its malignity to the neighbouring parts, and to burst open again when it
seemed to have been cured.

Falsehood, in a short time, found by experience that her superiority
consisted only in the celerity of her course, and the changes of her
posture. She therefore ordered Suspicion to beat the ground before her,
and avoid with great care to cross the way of Truth, who, as she never
varied her point, but moved constantly upon the same line, was easily
escaped by the oblique and desultory movements, the quick retreats, and
active doubles which Falsehood always practised, when the enemy began to
raise terrour by her approach.

By this procedure Falsehood every hour encroached upon the world, and
extended her empire through all climes and regions. Wherever she carried
her victories she left the Passions in full authority behind her;
who were so well pleased with command, that they held out with great
obstinacy when Truth came to seize their posts, and never failed to
retard her progress, though they could not always stop it. They yielded
at last with great reluctance, frequent rallies, and sullen submission;
and always inclined to revolt when Truth ceased to awe them by her
immediate presence.

Truth, who, when she first descended from the heavenly palaces, expected
to have been received by universal acclamation, cherished with kindness,
heard with obedience, and invited to spread her influence from province
to province, now found that wherever she came she must force her
passage. Every intellect was precluded by prejudice, and every heart
preoccupied by passion. She indeed advanced, but she advanced slowly;
and often lost the conquests which she left behind her, by sudden
insurrections of the appetites, that shook off their allegiance, and
ranged themselves again under the banner of her enemy.

Truth, however, did not grow weaker by the struggle, for her vigour was
unconquerable; yet she was provoked to see herself thus baffled and
impeded by an enemy, whom she looked on with contempt, and who had no
advantage but such as she owed to inconstancy, weakness, and artifice.
She, therefore, in the anger of disappointment, called upon her father
Jupiter to reestablish her in the skies, and leave mankind to the
disorder and misery which they deserved, by submitting willingly to the
usurpation of falsehood.

Jupiter compassionated the world too much to grant her request, yet was
willing to ease her labours and mitigate her vexation. He commanded
her to consult the muses by what methods she might obtain an easier
reception, and reign without the toil of incessant war. It was then
discovered, that she obstructed her own progress by the severity of
her aspect, and the solemnity of her dictates; and that men would
never willingly admit her till they ceased to fear her, since by giving
themselves up to falsehood, they seldom make any sacrifice of their
ease or pleasure, because she took the shape that was most engaging,
and always suffered herself to be dressed and painted by desire. The
muses wove, in the loom of Pallas, a loose and changeable robe, like
that in which falsehood captivated her admirers; with this they invested
truth, and named her fiction. She now went out again to conquer with
more success; for when she demanded entrance of the passions, they often
mistook her for falsehood, and delivered up their charge: but when she
had once taken possession, she was soon disrobed by reason, and shone
out, in her original form, with native effulgence and resistless dignity.




No. 97. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1751.


_Fœcunda culpæ sœcula nuptias_
_Primum inquinavere, et genus, et domos. _
_Hoc fonte derivala clades_
_In patriam populumque fluxit. _
HOR. Lib. iii Od. vi. 17.

Fruitful of crimes, this age first stain'd
Their hapless offspring, and profan'd
The nuptial bed; from whence the woes,
Which various and unnumber'd rose
From this polluted fountain head,
O'er Rome and o'er the nations spread.
FRANCIS.


The reader is indebted for this day's entertainment to an author from whom
the age has received greater favours, who has enlarged the knowledge of
human nature, and taught the passions to move at the command of virtue.


TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

When the Spectator was first published in single papers, it gave me so
much pleasure, that it is one of the favourite amusements of my age
to recollect it; and when I reflect on the foibles of those times,
as described in that useful work, and compare them with the vices
now reigning among us, I cannot but wish that you would oftener take
cognizance of the manners of the better half of the human species, that
if your precepts and observations be carried down to posterity, the
Spectators may show to the rising generation what were the fashionable
follies of their grandmothers, the Rambler of their mothers, and that
from both they may draw instruction and warning.

When I read those Spectators which took notice of the misbehaviour of
young women at church, by which they vainly hope to attract admirers,
I used to pronounce such forward young women Seekers, in order to
distinguish them, by a mark of infamy, from those who had patience and
decency to stay till they were sought.

But I have lived to see such a change in the manners of women, that I
would now be willing to compound with them for that name, although I then
thought it disgraceful enough, if they would deserve no worse; since now
they are too generally given up to negligence of domestick business, to
idle amusements, and to wicked rackets, without any settled view at all
but of squandering time.

In the time of the Spectator, excepting sometimes in appearance in the
ring, sometimes at a good and chosen play, sometimes on a visit at the
house of a grave relation, the young ladies contented themselves to
be found employed in domestick duties; for then routes, drums, balls,
assemblies, and such like markets for women, were not known.

Modesty and diffidence, gentleness and meekness, were looked upon as
the appropriate virtues and characteristick graces of the sex; and if
a forward spirit pushed itself into notice, it was exposed in print as
it deserved.

The churches were almost the only places where single women were to be
seen by strangers. Men went thither expecting to see them, and perhaps
too much for that only purpose.

But some good often resulted, however improper might be their motives.
Both sexes were in the way of their duty. The man must be abandoned
indeed, who loves not goodness in another; nor were the young fellows
of that age so wholly lost to a sense of right, as pride and conceit has
since made them affect to be. When therefore they saw a fair-one whose
decent behaviour and cheerful piety shewed her earnest in her first
duties, they had the less doubt, judging politically only, that she would
have conscientious regard to her second.

With what ardour have I seen watched for, the rising of a kneeling beauty;
and what additional charms has devotion given to her recommunicated
features?

The men were often the better for what they heard. Even a Saul was once
found prophesying among the prophets whom he had set out to destroy. To a
man thus put into good humour by a pleasing object, religion itself looked
more amiable. The Men Seekers of the Spectator's time loved the holy place
for the object's sake, and loved the object for her suitable behaviour
in it.

Reverence mingled with their love, and they thought that a young lady of
such good principles must be addressed only by the man who at least made
a shew of good principles, whether his heart was yet quite right or not.

Nor did the young lady's behaviour, at any time of the service, lessen
this reverence. Her eyes were her own, her ears the preacher's. Women are
always most observed when they seem themselves least to observe, or to
lay out for observation. The eye of a respectful lover loves rather to
receive confidence from the withdrawn eye of the fair-one, than to find
itself obliged to retreat.

When a young gentleman's affection was thus laudably engaged, he pursued
its natural dictates; keeping then was a rare, at least a secret and
scandalous vice, and a wife was the summit of his wishes. Rejection
was now dreaded, and pre-engagement apprehended. A woman whom he loved,
he was ready to think must be admired by all the world. His fears, his
uncertainties, increased his love.

Every inquiry he made into the lady's domestick excellence, which, when a
wife is to be chosen, will surely not be neglected, confirmed him in his
choice. He opens his heart to a common friend, and honestly discovers the
state of his fortune. His friend applies to those of the young lady, whose
parents, if they approve his proposals, disclose them to their daughter.

She perhaps is not an absolute stranger to the passion of the young
gentleman. His eyes, his assiduities, his constant attendance at a
church, whither, till of late, he used seldom to come, and a thousand
little observances that he paid her, had very probably first forced her
to regard, and then inclined her to favour him.

That a young lady should be in love, and the love of the young gentleman
undeclared, is an heterodoxy which prudence, and even policy, must not
allow. But, thus applied to, she is all resignation to her parents.
Charming resignation, which inclination opposes not.

Her relations applaud her for her duty; friends meet; points are adjusted;
delightful perturbations, and hopes, and a few lover's fears, fill up the
tedious space till an interview is granted; for the young lady had not
made herself cheap at publick places.

The time of interview arrives. She is modestly reserved; he is not
confident. He declares his passion; the consciousness of her own worth,
and his application to her parents, take from her any doubt of his
sincerity; and she owns herself obliged to him for his good opinion. The
inquiries of her friends into his character, have taught her that his
good opinion deserves to be valued.

She tacitly allows of his future visits; he renews them; the regard of
each for the other is confirmed; and when he presses for the favour of
her hand, he receives a declaration of an entire acquiescence with her
duty, and a modest acknowledgment of esteem for him.

He applies to her parents therefore for a near day; and thinks himself
under obligation to them for the cheerful and affectionate manner with
which they receive his agreeable application.

With this prospect of future happiness, the marriage is celebrated.
Gratulations pour in from every quarter. Parents and relations on both
sides, brought acquainted in the course of the courtship, can receive the
happy couple with countenances illumined, and joyful hearts.

The brothers, the sisters, the friends of one family, are the brothers,
the sisters, the friends of the other. Their two families, thus made one,
are the world to the young couple.

Their home is the place of their principal delight, nor do they ever
occasionally quit it but they find the pleasure of returning to it
augmented in proportion to the time of their absence from it.

Oh, Mr. Rambler! forgive the talkativeness of an old man! When I courted
and married my Lætitia, then a blooming beauty, every thing passed just
so! But how is the case now? The ladies, maidens, wives, and widows,
are engrossed by places of open resort and general entertainment, which
fill every quarter of the metropolis, and, being constantly frequented,
make home irksome. Breakfasting-places, dining-places, routes, drums,
concerts, balls, plays, operas, masquerades for the evening, and even for
all night, and lately, publick sales of the goods of broken housekeepers,
which the general dissoluteness of manners has contributed to make
very frequent, come in as another seasonable relief to these modern
time-killers.

In the summer there are in every country-town assemblies; Tunbridge, Bath,
Cheltenham, Scarborough! What expense of dress and equipage is required
to qualify the frequenters for such emulous appearance!

By the natural infection of example, the lowest people have places of
six-penny resort, and gaming-tables for pence. Thus servants are now
induced to fraud and dishonesty, to support extravagance, and supply
their losses.

As to the ladies who frequent those publick places, they are not ashamed
to shew their faces wherever men dare go, nor blush to try who shall
stare most impudently, or who shall laugh loudest on the publick walks.

The men who would make good husbands, if they visit those places,
are frighted at wedlock, and resolve to live single, except they are
bought at a very high price. They can be spectators of all that passes,
and, if they please, more than spectators, at the expense of others.
The companion of an evening and the companion for life, require very
different qualifications.

Two thousand pounds in the last age, with a domestick wife, would go
farther than ten thousand in this. Yet settlements are expected, that
often, to a mercantile man especially, sink a fortune into uselessness;
and pin-money is stipulated for, which makes a wife independent,
and destroys love, by putting it out of a man's power to lay any
obligation upon her, that might engage gratitude, and kindle affection.
When to all this the card-tables are added, how can a prudent man think
of marrying?

And when the worthy men know not where to find wives, must not the sex
be left to the foplings, the coxcombs, the libertines of the age, whom
they help to make such? And need even these wretches marry to enjoy the
conversation of those who render their company so cheap?

And what, after all, is the benefit which the gay coquette obtains by her
flutters? As she is approachable by every man without requiring, I will
not say incense or adoration, but even common complaisance, every fop
treats her as upon the level, looks upon her light airs as invitations,
and is on the watch to take the advantage: she has companions indeed, but
no lovers; for love is respectful and timorous; and where among all her
followers will she find a husband?

Set, dear Sir, before the youthful, the gay, the inconsiderate, the
contempt as well as the danger to which they are exposed. At one time or
other, women, not utterly thoughtless, will be convinced of the justice
of your censure, and the charity of your instruction.

But should your expostulations and reproofs have no effect upon those
who are far gone in fashionable folly, they may be retailed from their
mouths to their nieces, (marriage will not often have entitled these
to daughters,) when they, the meteors of a day, find themselves elbowed
off the stage of vanity by other flutterers; for the most admired women
cannot have many Tunbridge, many Bath seasons to blaze in; since even
fine faces, often seen, are less regarded than new faces, the proper
punishment of showy girls for rendering themselves so impolitickly cheap.

I am, Sir,

Your sincere admirer, &c. [56]

[Footnote 56: The writer of this paper was Richardson, the Novelist.
See Preface. ]




No. 98. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 1751.


_----Quæ nec Sarmentus iniquas_
_Cæsaris ad mensas, nec vilis Galba talisset. _
JUV. Sat. v. 3.

Which not Sarmentus brook'd at Cæsar's board,
Nor grov'ling Galba from his haughty Lord.
ELPHINSTON.


TO THE AUTHOR OF THE RAMBLER.

MR. RAMBLER,

You have often endeavoured to impress upon your readers an observation of
more truth than novelty, that life passes, for the most part, in petty
transactions; that our hours glide away in trifling amusements and slight
gratifications; and that there very seldom emerges any occasion that can
call forth great virtue or great abilities.

It very commonly happens that speculation has no influence on conduct.
Just conclusions, and cogent arguments, formed by laborious study, and
diligent inquiry, are often reposited in the treasuries of memory, as
gold in a miser's chest, useless alike to others and himself. As some are
not richer for the extent of their possessions, others are not wiser for
the multitude of their ideas.

You have truly described the state of human beings, but it may be doubted
whether you have accommodated your precepts to your description; whether
you have not generally considered your readers as influenced by the
tragick passions, and susceptible of pain or pleasure only from powerful
agents, and from great events.

To an author who writes not for the improvement of a single art, or
the establishment of a controverted doctrine, but equally intends the
advantage and equally courts the perusal of all the classes of mankind,
nothing can justly seem unworthy of regard, by which the pleasure of
conversation may be increased, and the daily satisfactions of familiar
life secured from interruption and disgust.

For this reason you would not have injured your reputation, if you had
sometimes descended to the minuter duties of social beings, and enforced
the observance of those little civilities and ceremonious delicacies,
which, inconsiderable as they may appear to the man of science, and
difficult as they may prove to be detailed with dignity, yet contribute
to the regulation of the world, by facilitating the intercourse between
one man and another, and of which the French have sufficiently testified
their esteem, by terming the knowledge and practice of them _Sçavoir
vivre_, The art of living.

Politeness is one of those advantages which we never estimate rightly
but by the inconvenience of its loss. Its influence upon the manners
is constant and uniform, so that, like an equal motion, it escapes
perception. The circumstances of every action are so adjusted to each
other, that we do not see where any errour could have been committed, and
rather acquiesce in its propriety than admire its exactness.

But as sickness shews us the value of ease, a little familiarity with
those who were never taught to endeavour the gratification of others, but
regulate their behaviour merely by their own will, will soon evince the
necessity of established modes and formalities to the happiness and quiet
of common life.

Wisdom and virtue are by no means sufficient, without the supplemental
laws of good-breeding, to secure freedom from degenerating to rudeness,
or self-esteem from swelling into insolence; a thousand incivilities may
be committed, and a thousand offices neglected, without any remorse of
conscience or reproach from reason.

The true effect of genuine politeness seems to be rather ease than
pleasure. The power of delighting must be conferred by nature, and cannot
be delivered by precept, or obtained by imitation; but though it be the
privilege of a very small number to ravish and to charm, every man may
hope by rules and caution not to give pain, and may, therefore, by the
help of good-breeding, enjoy the kindness of mankind, though he should
have no claim to higher distinctions.

The universal axiom in which all complaisance is included, and from
which flow all the formalities which custom has established in civilized
nations, is, _That no man shall give any preference to himself_. A rule
so comprehensive and certain, that, perhaps, it is not easy for the mind
to image an incivility, without supposing it to be broken.

There are, indeed, in every place some particular modes of the ceremonial
part of good-breeding, which, being arbitrary and accidental, can
be learned only by habitude and conversation; such are the forms
of salutation, the different gradations of reverence, and all the
adjustments of place and precedence. These, however, may be often
violated without offence, if it be sufficiently evident, that neither
malice nor pride contributed to the failure; but will not atone, however
rigidly observed, for the tumour of insolence, or petulance of contempt.

I have, indeed, not found among any part of mankind, less real and
rational complaisance, than among those who have passed their time in
paying and receiving visits, in frequenting publick entertainments,
in studying the exact measures of ceremony, and in watching all the
variations of fashionable courtesy.

They know, indeed, at what hour they may beat the door of an acquaintance,
how many steps they must attend him towards the gate, and what interval
should pass before his visit is returned; but seldom extend their care
beyond the exterior and unessential parts of civility, nor refuse their
own vanity any gratification, however expensive to the quiet of another.

Trypherus is a man remarkable for splendour and expense; a man, that having
been originally placed by his fortune and rank in the first class of the
community, has acquired that air of dignity, and that readiness in the
exchange of compliments, which courts, balls, and levees, easily confer.

But Trypherus, without any settled purposes of malignity, partly by his
ignorance of human nature, and partly by the habit of contemplating with
great satisfaction his own grandeur and riches, is hourly giving disgust
to those whom chance or expectation subjects to his vanity.

To a man whose fortune confines him to a small house, he declaims upon
the pleasure of spacious apartments, and the convenience of changing his
lodging-room in different parts of the year; tells him, that he hates
confinement; and concludes, that if his chamber was less, he should never
wake without thinking of a prison.

To Eucretas, a man of birth equal to himself, but of much less estate, he
shewed his services of plate, and remarked that such things were, indeed,
nothing better than costly trifles, but that no man must pretend to the
rank of a gentleman without them; and that for his part, if his estate
was smaller, he should not think of enjoying but increasing it, and would
inquire out a trade for his eldest son.

He has, in imitation of some more acute observer than himself, collected a
great many shifts and artifices by which poverty is concealed; and among
the ladies of small fortune, never fails to talk of frippery and slight
silks, and the convenience of a general mourning.

I have been insulted a thousand times with a catalogue of his pictures,
his jewels, and his rarities, which, though he knows the humble neatness
of my habitation, he seldom fails to conclude by a declaration, that
wherever he sees a house meanly furnished, he despises the owner's taste,
or pities his poverty.

This, Mr. Rambler, is the practice of Trypherus, by which he is become
the terrour of all who are less wealthy than himself, and has raised
innumerable enemies without rivalry, and without malevolence.

Yet though all are not equally culpable with Trypherus, it is scarcely
possible to find any man who does not frequently, like him, indulge his
own pride by forcing others into a comparison with himself when he knows
the advantage is on his side, without considering that unnecessarily
to obtrude unpleasing ideas, is a species of oppression; and that it is
little more criminal to deprive another of some real advantage, than to
interrupt that forgetfulness of its absence which is the next happiness
to actual possession.

I am, &c.

EUTROPIUS.




No. 99. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 26, 1751.


_Scilicet ingeniis aliqua est concordia junctis,_
_Et servat studii fœdera quisque sui. _
_Rusticus agricolam, miles fera bella gerentem,_
_Rectorem dubiæ navita puppis amat. _
OVID, Ex Pon. v. 59.

Congenial passions souls together bind,
And ev'ry calling mingles with its kind;
Soldier unites with soldier, swain with swain,
The mariner with him that roves the main.
F. LEWIS.


It has been ordained by Providence, for the conservation of order in the
immense variety of nature, and for the regular propagation of the several
classes of life with which the elements are peopled, that every creature
should be drawn by some secret attraction to those of his own kind; and
that not only the gentle and domestick animals which naturally unite
into companies, or co-habit by pairs, should continue faithful to their
species; but even those ravenous and ferocious savages which Aristotle
observes never to be gregarious, should range mountains and deserts in
search of one another, rather than pollute the world with a monstrous
birth.

As the perpetuity and distinction of the lower tribes of the creation
require that they should be determined to proper mates by some uniform
motive of choice, or some cogent principle of instinct, it is necessary,
likewise, that man, whose wider capacity demands more gratifications, and
who feels in himself innumerable wants, which a life of solitude cannot
supply, and innumerable powers to which it cannot give employment, should
be led to suitable companions by particular influence; and among many
beings of the same nature with himself, he may select some for intimacy
and tenderness, and improve the condition of his existence, by
superadding friendship to humanity, and the love of individuals to that
of the species.

Other animals are so formed, that they seem to contribute very little to
the happiness of each other, and know neither joy, nor grief, nor love,
nor hatred, but as they are urged by some desire immediately subservient
either to the support of their own lives, or to the continuation of
their race; they therefore seldom appear to regard any of the minuter
discriminations which distinguish creatures of the same kind from one
another.

But if man were to feel no incentives to kindness, more than his
general tendency to congenial nature, Babylon or London, with all
their multitudes, would have to him the desolation of a wilderness; his
affections, not compressed into a narrower compass, would vanish, like
elemental fire, in boundless evaporation; he would languish in perpetual
insensibility, and though he might, perhaps, in the first vigour of
youth, amuse himself with the fresh enjoyments of life, yet, when
curiosity should cease, and alacrity subside, he would abandon himself to
the fluctuations of chance, without expecting help against any calamity,
or feeling any wish for the happiness of others.

To love all men is our duty, so far as it includes a general habit of
benevolence, and readiness of occasional kindness; but to love all
equally is impossible; at least impossible without the extinction of
those passions which now produce all our pains and all our pleasures;
without the disuse, if not the abolition, of some of our faculties, and
the suppression of all our hopes and fears in apathy and indifference.

The necessities of our condition require a thousand offices of tenderness,
which mere regard for the species will never dictate. Every man has
frequent grievances which only the solicitude of friendship will discover
and remedy, and which would remain for ever unheeded in the mighty heap
of human calamity, were it only surveyed by the eye of general benevolence
equally attentive to every misery.

The great community of mankind is, therefore, necessarily broken into
smaller independent societies; these form distinct interests, which are
too frequently opposed to each other, and which they who have entered
into the league of particular governments falsely think it virtue to
promote, however destructive to the happiness of the rest of the world.

Such unions are again separated into subordinate classes and combinations,
and social life is perpetually branched out into minuter subdivisions,
till it terminates in the last ramifications of private life.

That friendship may at once be fond and lasting, it has been already
observed in these papers, that a conformity of inclinations is necessary.
No man can have much kindness for him by whom he does not believe himself
esteemed, and nothing so evidently proves esteem as imitation.

That benevolence is always strongest which arises from participation of
the same pleasures, since we are naturally most willing to revive in our
minds the memory of persons, with whom the idea of enjoyment is connected.

It is commonly, therefore, to little purpose that any one endeavours to
ingratiate himself with such as he cannot accompany in their amusements
and diversions.
Men have been known to rise to favour and to fortune,
only by being skilful in the sports with which their patron happened to
be delighted, by concurring with his taste for some particular species of
curiosities, by relishing the same wine, or applauding the same cookery.

Even those whom wisdom or virtue have placed above regard to such petty
recommendations, must nevertheless be gained by similitude of manners.
The highest and noblest enjoyment of familiar life, the communication
of knowledge, and reciprocation of sentiments, must always pre-suppose a
disposition to the same inquiry, and delight in the same discoveries.

With what satisfaction could the politician lay his schemes for the
reformation of laws, or his comparisons of different forms of government,
before the chemist, who has never accustomed his thoughts to any other
object than salt and sulphur? or how could the astronomer, in explaining
his calculations and conjectures, endure the coldness of a grammarian, who
would lose sight of Jupiter and all his satellites, for a happy etymology
of an obscure word, or a better explication of a controverted line?

Every man loves merit of the same kind with his own, when it is not
likely to hinder his advancement or his reputation; for he not only best
understands the worth of those qualities which he labours to cultivate,
or the usefulness of the art which he practises with success, but always
feels a reflected pleasure from the praises, which, though given to
another, belong equally to himself.

There is, indeed, no need of research and refinement to discover that
men must generally select their companions from their own state of
life, since there are not many minds furnished for great variety of
conversation, or adapted to multiplicity of intellectual entertainments.

The sailor, the academick, the lawyer, the mechanick, and the courtier,
have all a cast of talk peculiar to their own fraternity; have fixed
their attention upon the same events, have been engaged in affairs of the
same sort, and made use of allusions and illustrations which themselves
only can understand.

To be infected with the jargon of a particular profession, and to know
only the language of a single rank of mortals, is indeed sufficiently
despicable. But as limits must be always set to the excursions of the
human mind, there will be some study which every man more zealously
prosecutes, some darling subject on which he is principally pleased
to converse; and he that can most inform or best understand him, will
certainly be welcomed with particular regard.

Such partiality is not wholly to be avoided, nor is it culpable, unless
suffered so far to predominate as to produce aversion from every other
kind of excellence, and to shade the lustre of dissimilar virtues. Those,
therefore, whom the lot of life has conjoined, should endeavour constantly
to approach towards the inclination of each other, invigorate every
motion of concurrent desire, and fan every spark of kindred curiosity.

It has been justly observed, that discord generally operates in little
things; it is inflamed to its utmost vehemence by contrariety of taste,
oftener than of principles; and might therefore commonly be avoided by
innocent conformity, which, if it was not at first the motive, ought
always to be the consequence of indissoluble union.




No. 100. SATURDAY, MARCH 2, 1751.


_Omne vafer vitium ridenti Flaccus amico_
_Tangit, et admissus circum præcordia, ludit. _
PERSIUS, Sat. i. 116.

Horace, with sly insinuating grace,
Laugh'd at his friend, and look'd him in the face;
Would raise a blush, where secret vice he found,
And tickle while he gently prob'd the wound.
With seeming innocence the crowd beguild;
But made the desperate passes when he smil'd.
DRYDEN.


TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

As very many well-disposed persons, by the unavoidable necessity of their
affairs, are so unfortunate as to be totally buried in the country, where
they labour under the most deplorable ignorance of what is transacting
among the polite part of mankind, I cannot help thinking, that, as a
publick writer, you should take the case of these truly compassionable
objects under your consideration.

These unhappy languishers in obscurity should be furnished with such
accounts of the employments of people of the world, as may engage them
in their several remote corners to a laudable imitation; or, at least, so
far inform and prepare them, that if by any joyful change of situation
they should be suddenly transported into the gay scene, they may not gape,
and wonder, and stare, and be utterly at a loss how to behave and make a
proper appearance in it.

It is inconceivable how much the welfare of all the country towns in the
kingdom might be promoted, if you would use your charitable endeavours to
raise in them a noble emulation of the manners and customs of higher life.

For this purpose you should give a very clear and ample description of the
whole set of polite acquirements; a complete history of forms, fashions,
frolicks; of routs, drums, hurricanes, balls, assemblies, ridottos,
masquerades, auctions, plays, operas, puppet-shows, and bear-gardens;
of all those delights which profitably engage the attention of the
most sublime characters, and by which they have brought to such amazing
perfection the whole art and mystery of passing day after day, week after
week, and year after year, without the heavy assistance of any one thing
that formal creatures are pleased to call useful and necessary.

In giving due instructions through what steps to attain this summit of
human excellence, you may add such irresistible arguments in its favour,
as must convince numbers, who in other instances do not seem to want
natural understanding, of the unaccountable errour of supposing they
were sent into the world for any other purpose but to flutter, sport, and
shine. For, after all, nothing can be clearer than that an everlasting
round of diversion, and the more lively and hurrying the better, is the
most important end of human life.

It is really prodigious, so much as the world is improved, that there
should in these days be persons so ignorant and stupid as to think it
necessary to mispend their time, and trouble their heads about any thing
else than pursuing the present fancy; for what else is worth living for?

It is time enough surely to think of consequences when they come; and
as for the antiquated notions of duty, they are not to be met with in any
French novel, or any book one ever looks into, but derived almost wholly
from the writings of authors[57], who lived a vast many ages ago, and who,
as they were totally without any idea of those accomplishments which now
characterize people of distinction, have been for some time sinking apace
into utter contempt. It does not appear that even their most zealous
admirers, for some partisans of his own sort every writer will have, can
pretend to say they were ever at one ridotto.

In the important article of diversions, the ceremonial of visits, the
ecstatick delight of unfriendly intimacies and unmeaning civilities, they
are absolutely silent. Blunt truth, and downright honesty, plain clothes,
staying at home, hard work, few words, and those unenlivened with
censure or double meaning, are what they recommend as the ornaments and
pleasures of life. Little oaths, polite dissimulation, tea-table scandal,
delightful indolence, the glitter of finery, the triumph of precedence,
the enchantments of flattery, they seem to have had no notion of; and
I cannot but laugh to think what a figure they would have made in a
drawing-room, and how frighted they would have looked at a gaming-table.

The noble zeal of patriotism that disdains authority, and tramples on laws
for sport, was absolutely the aversion of these tame wretches.

Indeed one cannot discover any one thing they pretend to teach people, but
to be wise, and good; acquirements infinitely below the consideration of
persons of taste and spirit, who know how to spend their time to so much
better purpose.

Among other admirable improvements, pray, Mr. Rambler, do not forget to
enlarge on the very extensive benefit of playing at cards on Sundays,
a practice of such infinite use, that we may modestly expect to see it
prevail universally in all parts of this kingdom.

To persons of fashion, the advantage is obvious; because, as for some
strange reason or other, which no fine gentleman or fine lady has yet
been able to penetrate, there is neither play, nor masquerade, nor
bottled conjurer, nor any other thing worth living for, to be had on a
Sunday; if it were not for the charitable assistance of whist or bragg,
the genteel part of mankind must, one day in seven, necessarily suffer
a total extinction of being.

Nor are the persons of high rank the only gainers by so salutary a custom,
which extends its good influence, in some degree, to the lower orders of
people; but were it quite general, how much better and happier would the
world be than it is even now?

'Tis hard upon poor creatures, be they ever so mean, to deny them those
enjoyments and liberties which are equally open for all. Yet if servants
were taught to go to church on this day, spend some part of it in reading
or receiving instruction in a family way, and the rest in mere friendly
conversation, the poor wretches would infallibly take it into their
heads, that they were obliged to be sober, modest, diligent, and faithful
to their masters and mistresses.

Now surely no one of common prudence or humanity would wish their
domesticks infected with such strange and primitive notions, or laid
under such unmerciful restraints: all which may, in a great measure, be
prevented by the prevalence of the good-humoured fashion, that I would
have you recommend. For when the lower kind of people see their betters,
with a truly laudable spirit, insulting and flying in the face of those
rude, ill-bred dictators, piety and the laws, they are thereby excited
and admonished, as far as actions can admonish and excite, and taught
that they too have an equal right of setting them at defiance in such
instances as their particular necessities and inclinations may require;
and thus is the liberty of the whole human species mightily improved
and enlarged.

In short, Mr. Rambler, by a faithful representation of the numberless
benefits of a modish life, you will have done your part in promoting
what every body seems to confess the true purpose of human existence,
perpetual dissipation.

By encouraging people to employ their whole attention on trifles, and make
amusement their sole study, you will teach them how to avoid many very
uneasy reflections.

All the soft feelings of humanity, the sympathies of friendship, all
natural temptations to the care of a family, and solicitude about the
good or ill of others, with the whole train of domestick and social
affections, which create such daily anxieties and embarrassments, will
be happily stifled and suppressed in a round of perpetual delights; and
all serious thoughts, but particularly that of _hereafter_, be banished
out of the world; a most perplexing apprehension, but luckily a most
groundless one too, as it is so very clear a case, that nobody ever dies.

I am, &c.

CHARIESSA. [58]

[Footnote 57: In the original of this paper, written by Mrs. Carter, and
republished by her nephew and executor, the Rev. Montagu Pennington,
(Memoirs of Mrs. C. Vol. ii. Oct. 1816,) the following words occur, which
were unaccountably omitted by Dr. Johnson--"authors called, I think Peter
and Paul, who lived. " &c. ]

[Footnote 58: The second contribution of Mrs. Carter. ]




No. 101. TUESDAY, MARCH 5, 1751.


_Mella jubes Hyblæa tibi, vel Hymettia nasci;_
_Et thyma Cecropiæ Corsica ponis api? _
MART. Lib. xi. Ep. 42.

Alas! dear Sir, you try in vain,
Impossibilities to gain;
No bee from Corsica's rank juice,
Hyblæan honey can produce.
F. LEWIS.


TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Having by several years of continual study treasured in my mind a great
number of principles and ideas, and obtained by frequent exercise the
power of applying them with propriety, and combining them with readiness,
I resolved to quit the university, where I considered myself as a gem
hidden in the mine, and to mingle in the crowd of publick life. I was
naturally attracted by the company of those who were of the same age with
myself, and finding that my academical gravity contributed very little
to my reputation, applied my faculties to jocularity and burlesque. Thus,
in a short time, I had heated my imagination to such a state of activity
and ebullition, that upon every occasion it fumed away in bursts of
wit, and evaporations of gaiety. I became on a sudden the idol of the
coffee-house, was in one winter solicited to accept the presidentship
of five clubs, was dragged by violence to every new play, and quoted
in every controversy upon theatrical merit; was in every publick place
surrounded by a multitude of humble auditors, who retailed in other
places of resort my maxims and my jests, and was boasted as their
intimate and companion, by many, who had no other pretensions to my
acquaintance, than that they had drank chocolate in the same room.

You will not wonder, Mr. Rambler, that I mention my success with some
appearance of triumph and elevation. Perhaps no kind of superiority is
more flattering or alluring than that which is conferred by the powers
of conversation, by extemporaneous sprightliness of fancy, copiousness of
language, and fertility of sentiment. In other exertions of genius, the
greater part of the praise is unknown and unenjoyed; the writer, indeed,
spreads his reputation to a wider extent, but receives little pleasure
or advantage from the diffusion of his name, and only obtains a kind of
nominal sovereignty over regions which pay no tribute. The colloquial
wit has always his own radiance reflected on himself, and enjoys all
the pleasure which he bestows; he finds his power confessed by every one
that approaches him, sees friendship kindling with rapture, and attention
swelling into praise.

The desire which every man feels of importance and esteem, is so much
gratified by finding an assembly, at his entrance, brightened with
gladness and hushed with expectation, that the recollection of such
distinctions can scarcely fail to be pleasing whensoever it is innocent.
And my conscience does not reproach me with any mean or criminal effects
of vanity; since I always employed my influence on the side of virtue,
and never sacrificed my understanding or my religion to the pleasure
of applause.

There were many whom either the desire of enjoying my pleasantry, or the
pride of being thought to enjoy it, brought often into my company; but
I was caressed in a particular manner by Demochares, a gentleman of a
large estate, and a liberal disposition. My fortune being by no means
exuberant, inclined me to be pleased with a friend who was willing to be
entertained at his own charge. I became by daily invitations habituated
to his table, and, as he believed my acquaintance necessary to the
character of elegance, which he was desirous of establishing, I lived in
all the luxury of affluence, without expense or dependence, and passed my
life in a perpetual reciprocation of pleasure, with men brought together
by similitude of accomplishments, or desire of improvement.

But all power has its sphere of activity, beyond which it produces
no effect. Demochares, being called by his affairs into the country,
imagined that he should increase his popularity by coming among his
neighbours accompanied by a man whose abilities were so generally
allowed. The report presently spread through half the country that
Demochares was arrived, and had brought with him the celebrated Hilarius,
by whom such merriment would be excited, as had never been enjoyed or
conceived before. I knew, indeed, the purpose for which I was invited,
and, as men do not look diligently out for possible miscarriages,
was pleased to find myself courted upon principles of interest, and
considered as capable of reconciling factions, composing feuds, and
uniting a whole province in social happiness.

After a few days spent in adjusting his domestick regulations, Demochares
invited all the gentlemen of his neighbourhood to dinner, and did not
forget to hint how much my presence was expected to heighten the pleasure
of the feast. He informed me what prejudices my reputation had raised in
my favour, and represented the satisfaction with which he should see me
kindle up the blaze of merriment, and should remark the various effects
that my fire would have upon such diversity of matter.

This declaration, by which he intended to quicken my vivacity, filled me
with solicitude. I felt an ambition of shining which I never knew before;
and was therefore embarrassed with an unusual fear of disgrace. I passed
the night in planning out to myself the conversation of the coming day;
recollected all my topicks of raillery, proposed proper subjects of
ridicule, prepared smart replies to a thousand questions, accommodated
answers to imaginary repartees, and formed a magazine of remarks,
apophthegms, tales, and illustrations.

The morning broke at last in the midst of these busy meditations. I
rose with the palpitations of a champion on the day of combat; and,
notwithstanding all my efforts, found my spirits sunk under the weight of
expectation. The company soon after began to drop in, and every one, at
his entrance, was introduced to Hilarius. What conception the inhabitants
of this region had formed of a wit, I cannot yet discover; but observed
that they all seemed, after the regular exchange of compliments, to turn
away disappointed; and that while we waited for dinner, they cast their
eyes first upon me, and then upon each other, like a theatrical assembly
waiting for a show.

From the uneasiness of this situation, I was relieved by the dinner;
and as every attention was taken up by the business of the hour, I sunk
quietly to a level with the rest of the company. But no sooner were
the dishes removed, than, instead of cheerful confidence and familiar
prattle, an universal silence again shewed their expectation of some
unusual performance. My friend endeavoured to rouse them by healths and
questions, but they answered him with great brevity, and immediately
relapsed into their former taciturnity.

I had waited in hope of some opportunity to divert them, but could find
no pass opened for a single sally; and who can be merry without an object
of mirth? After a few faint efforts, which produced neither applause nor
opposition, I was content to mingle with the mass, to put round the glass
in silence, and solace myself with my own contemplations.

My friend looked round him; the guests stared at one another; and if now
and then a few syllables were uttered with timidity and hesitation, there
was none ready to make any reply. All our faculties were frozen, and
every minute took away from our capacity of pleasing, and disposition to
be pleased. Thus passed the hours to which so much happiness was decreed;
the hours which had, by a kind of open proclamation, been devoted to wit,
to mirth, and to Hilarius.

At last the night came on, and the necessity of parting freed us from the
persecutions of each other. I heard them, as they walked along the court,
murmuring at the loss of the day, and inquiring whether any man would pay
a second visit to a house haunted by a wit.

Demochares, whose benevolence is greater than his penetration, having
flattered his hopes with the secondary honour which he was to gain by
my sprightliness and elegance, and the affection with which he should
be followed for a perpetual banquet of gaiety, was not able to conceal
his vexation and resentment, nor would easily be convinced, that I had
not sacrificed his interest to sullenness and caprice, and studiously
endeavoured to disgust his guests, and suppressed my powers of delighting,
in obstinate and premeditated silence. I am informed that the reproach
of their ill reception is divided by the gentlemen of the country between
us; some being of opinion that my friend is deluded by an impostor, who,
though he has found some art of gaining his favour, is afraid to speak
before men of more penetration; and others concluding that I think only
London the proper theatre of my abilities, and disdain to exert my genius
for the praise of rusticks.

I believe, Mr. Rambler, that it has sometimes happened to others, who
have the good or ill fortune to be celebrated for wits, to fall under
the same censures upon the like occasions. I hope therefore that you
will prevent any misrepresentations of such failures, by remarking that
invention is not wholly at the command of its possessor; that the power
of pleasing is very often obstructed by the desire; that all expectation
lessens surprise, yet some surprise is necessary to gaiety; and that
those who desire to partake of the pleasure of wit must contribute to
its production, since the mind stagnates without external ventilation,
and that effervescence of the fancy, which flashes into transport, can
be raised only by the infusion of dissimilar ideas.




No. 102. SATURDAY, MARCH 9, 1751.


_Ipsa quoque assiduo labuntur tempora motu,_
_Non secus ac flumen. Neque enim consistere flumen,_
_Nec levis hora potest: sed ut unda impellitur unda,_
_Urgeturque prior veniente, urgetque priorem,_
_Tempora sic fugiunt pariter, pariterque sequuntur. _
OVID, Met. xv. 179.

With constant motion as the moments glide.
Behold in running life the rolling tide!
For none can stem by art, or stop by pow'r,
The flowing ocean, or the fleeting hour:
But wave by wave pursued arrives on shore,
And each impell'd behind impels before:
So time on time revolving we descry;
So minutes follow, and so minutes fly.
ELPHINSTON.


"Life," says Seneca, "is a voyage, in the progress of which we are
perpetually changing our scenes: we first leave childhood behind us,
then youth, then the years of ripened manhood, then the better and more
pleasing part of old age. " The perusal of this passage having incited in
me a train of reflections on the state of man, the incessant fluctuation
of his wishes, the gradual change of his disposition to all external
objects, and the thoughtlessness with which he floats along the stream of
time, I sunk into a slumber amidst my meditations, and on a sudden, found
my ears filled with the tumult of labour, the shouts of alacrity, the
shrieks of alarm, the whistle of winds, and the dash of waters.

My astonishment for a time repressed my curiosity; but soon recovering
myself so far as to inquire whither we were going, and what was the cause
of such clamour and confusion, I was told that we were launching out into
the _ocean of life_; that we had already passed the streights of infancy,
in which multitudes had perished, some by the weakness and fragility of
their vessels, and more by the folly, perverseness, or negligence, of
those who undertook to steer them; and that we were now on the main sea,
abandoned to the winds and billows, without any other means of security
than the care of the pilot, whom it was always in our power to choose
among great numbers that offered their direction and assistance.

I then looked round with anxious eagerness; and first turning my eyes
behind me, saw a stream flowing through flowery islands, which every
one that sailed along seemed to behold with pleasure; but no sooner
touched, than the current, which, though not noisy or turbulent, was yet
irresistible, bore him away. Beyond these islands all was darkness, nor
could any of the passengers describe the shore at which he first embarked.

Before me, and on each side, was an expanse of waters violently agitated,
and covered with so thick a mist, that the most perspicacious eye could
see but a little way. It appeared to be full of rocks and whirlpools, for
many sunk unexpectedly while they were courting the gale with full sails,
and insulting those whom they had left behind. So numerous, indeed, were
the dangers, and so thick the darkness, that no caution could confer
security. Yet there were many, who, by false intelligence, betrayed their
followers into whirlpools, or by violence pushed those whom they found in
their way against the rocks.

The current was invariable and insurmountable; but though it was
impossible to sail against it, or to return to the place that was once
passed, yet it was not so violent as to allow no opportunities for
dexterity or courage, since, though none could retreat back from danger,
yet they might often avoid it by oblique direction.

It was, however, not very common to steer with much care or prudence; for
by some universal infatuation, every man appeared to think himself safe,
though he saw his consorts every moment sinking round him; and no sooner
had the waves closed over them, than their fate and their misconduct were
forgotten; the voyage was pursued with the same jocund confidence; every
man congratulated himself upon the soundness of his vessel, and believed
himself able to stem the whirlpool in which his friend was swallowed, or
glide over the rocks on which he was dashed: nor was it often observed
that the sight of a wreck made any man change his course: if he turned
aside for a moment, he soon forgot the rudder, and left himself again to
the disposal of chance.

This negligence did not proceed from indifference, or from weariness
of their present condition; for not one of those who thus rushed upon
destruction, failed, when he was sinking, to call loudly upon his
associates for that help which could not now be given him; and many spent
their last moments in cautioning others against the folly by which they
were intercepted in the midst of their course. Their benevolence was
sometimes praised, but their admonitions were unregarded.

The vessels in which we had embarked being confessedly unequal to the
turbulence of the stream of life, were visibly impaired in the course of
the voyage; so that every passenger was certain, that how long soever he
might, by favourable accidents, or by incessant vigilance, be preserved,
he must sink at last.

This necessity of perishing might have been expected to sadden the gay,
and intimidate the daring, at least to keep the melancholy and timorous
in perpetual torments, and hinder them from any enjoyment of the varieties
and gratifications which nature offered them as the solace of their
labours; yet, in effect, none seemed less to expect destruction than
those to whom it was most dreadful; they all had the art of concealing
their danger from themselves; and those who knew their inability to
bear the sight of the terrours that embarrassed their way, took care
never to look forward, but found some amusement for the present moment,
and generally entertained themselves by playing with Hope, who was the
constant associate of the voyage of life.

Yet all that Hope ventured to promise, even to those whom she favoured
most, was not that they should escape, but that they should sink last;
and with this promise every one was satisfied, though he laughed at
the rest for seeming to believe it. Hope, indeed, apparently mocked the
credulity of her companions; for, in proportion as their vessels grew
leaky, she redoubled her assurances of safety; and none were more busy
in making provisions for a long voyage, than they whom all but themselves
saw likely to perish soon by irreparable decay.

In the midst of the current of life was the _gulph of_ Intemperance, a
dreadful whirlpool, interspersed with rocks, of which the pointed crags
were concealed under water, and the tops covered with herbage, on which
Ease spread couches of repose, and with shades, where Pleasure warbled
the song of invitation. Within sight of these rocks all who sailed on the
ocean of life must necessarily pass. Reason, indeed, was always at hand to
steer the passengers through a narrow outlet by which they might escape;
but very few could, by her entreaties or remonstrances, be induced to put
the rudder into her hand, without stipulating that she should approach
so near unto the rocks of Pleasure, that they might solace themselves
with a short enjoyment of that delicious region, after which they always
determined to pursue their course without any other deviation.

Reason was too often prevailed upon so far by these promises, as to
venture her charge within the eddy of the gulph of Intemperance, where,
indeed, the circumvolution was weak, but yet interrupted the course of
the vessel, and drew it, by insensible rotations, towards the centre.
She then repented her temerity, and with all her force endeavoured to
retreat; but the draught of the gulph was generally too strong to be
overcome; and the passenger, having danced in circles with a pleasing
and giddy velocity, was at last overwhelmed and lost. Those few whom
Reason was able to extricate, generally suffered so many shocks upon the
points which shot out from the rocks of Pleasure, that they were unable
to continue their course with the same strength and facility as before,
but floated along timorously and feeble, endangered by every breeze, and
shattered by every ruffle of the water, till they sunk, by slow degrees,
after long struggles, and innumerable expedients, always repining at
their own folly, and warning others against the first approach of the
gulph of Intemperance.

There were artists who professed to repair the breaches and stop the leaks
of the vessels which had been shattered on the rocks of Pleasure. Many
appeared to have great confidence in their skill, and some, indeed, were
preserved by it from sinking, who had received only a single blow; but I
remarked that few vessels lasted long which had been much repaired, nor
was it found that the artists themselves continued afloat longer than
those who had least of their assistance.

The only advantage which, in the voyage of life, the cautious had above
the negligent, was, that they sunk later, and more suddenly; for they
passed forward till they had sometimes seen all those in whose company
they had issued from the streights in infancy, perish in the way, and
at last were overset by a cross breeze, without the toil of resistance,
or the anguish of expectation. But such as had often fallen against the
rocks of Pleasure, commonly subsided by sensible degrees, contended long
with the encroaching waters, and harassed themselves by labours that
scarce Hope herself could flatter with success.

As I was looking upon the various fate of the multitude about me, I was
suddenly alarmed with an admonition from some unknown Power, "Gaze not
idly upon others when thou thyself art sinking. Whence is this thoughtless
tranquillity, when thou and they are equally endangered? " I looked, and
seeing the gulph of Intemperance before me, started and awaked.




No. 103. TUESDAY, MARCH 12, 1751.


_Scire volunt secreta domus atque inde timeri. _
JUV. Sat. iii, 113.

They search the secrets of the house, and so
Are worshipp'd there, and fear'd for what they know.
DRYDEN.


Curiosity is one of the permanent and certain characteristicks of a
vigorous intellect. Every advance into knowledge opens new prospects,
and produces new incitements to further progress. All the attainments
possible in our present state are evidently inadequate to our capacities
of enjoyment; conquest serves no purpose but that of kindling ambition,
discovery has no effect but of raising expectation; the gratification of
one desire encourages another; and after all our labours, studies, and
inquiries, we are continually at the same distance from the completion of
our schemes, have still some wish importunate to be satisfied, and some
faculty restless and turbulent for want of its enjoyment.

The desire of knowledge, though often animated by extrinsick and
adventitious motives, seems on many occasions to operate without
subordination to any other principle; we are eager to see and hear,
without intention of referring our observations to a farther end; we
climb a mountain for a prospect of the plain; we run to the strand in a
storm, that we may contemplate the agitation of the water; we range from
city to city, though we profess neither architecture nor fortification;
we cross seas only to view nature in nakedness, or magnificence in ruins;
we are equally allured by novelty of every kind, by a desert or a palace,
a cataract or a cavern, by every thing rude and every thing polished,
every thing great and every thing little; we do not see a thicket but
with some temptation to enter it, nor remark an insect flying before us
but with an inclination to pursue it.

This passion is, perhaps, regularly heightened in proportion as the powers
of the mind are elevated and enlarged. Lucan therefore introduces Cæsar
speaking with dignity suitable to the grandeur of his designs and the
extent of his capacity, when he declares to the high-priest of Egypt,
that he has no desire equally powerful with that of finding the origin
of the Nile, and that he would quit all the projects of the civil war for
a sight of those fountains which had been so long concealed. And Homer,
when he would furnish the Sirens with a temptation, to which his hero,
renowned for wisdom, might yield without disgrace, makes them declare,
that none ever departed from them but with increase of knowledge.

There is, indeed, scarce any kind of ideal acquirement which may not
be applied to some use, or which may not at least gratify pride with
occasional superiority; but whoever attends the motions of his own mind
will find, that upon the first appearance of an object, or the first
start of a question, his inclination to a nearer view, or more accurate
discussion, precedes all thoughts of profit, or of competition; and that
his desires take wing by instantaneous impulse, though their flight may
be invigorated, or their efforts renewed, by subsequent considerations.
The gratification of curiosity rather frees us from uneasiness than
confers pleasure; we are more pained by ignorance, than delighted
by instruction. Curiosity is the thirst of the soul; it inflames and
torments us, and makes us taste every thing with joy, however otherwise
insipid, by which it may be quenched.

It is evident that the earliest searchers after knowledge must have
proposed knowledge only as their reward; and that science, though perhaps
the nursling of interest, was the daughter of curiosity: for who can
believe that they who first watched the course of the stars, foresaw
the use of their discoveries to the facilitation of commerce, or the
mensuration of time? They were delighted with the splendour of the
nocturnal skies, they found that the lights changed their places; what
they admired they were anxious to understand, and in time traced their
revolutions.

There are, indeed, beings in the form of men, who appear satisfied with
their intellectual possessions, and seem to live without desire of
enlarging their conceptions; before whom the world passes without notice,
and who are equally unmoved by nature or by art.

This negligence is sometimes only the temporary effect of a predominant
passion: a lover finds no inclination to travel any path, but that
which leads to the habitation of his mistress; a trader can spare
little attention to common occurrences, when his fortune is endangered
by a storm. It is frequently the consequence of a total immersion in
sensuality; corporeal pleasures may be indulged till the memory of every
other kind of happiness is obliterated; the mind, long habituated to
a lethargick and quiescent state, is unwilling to wake to the toil of
thinking; and though she may sometimes be disturbed by the obtrusion of
new ideas, shrinks back again to ignorance and rest.

But, indeed, if we except them to whom the continual task of procuring the
supports of life, denies all opportunities of deviation from their own
narrow track, the number of such as live without the ardour of inquiry
is very small, though many content themselves with cheap amusements, and
waste their lives in researches of no importance.

There is no snare more dangerous to busy and excursive minds, than
the cobwebs of petty inquisitiveness, which entangle them in trivial
employments and minute studies, and detain them in a middle state,
between the tediousness of total inactivity, and the fatigue of laborious
efforts, enchant them at once with ease and novelty, and vitiate them
with the luxury of learning. The necessity of doing something, and the
fear of undertaking much, sinks the historian to a genealogist, the
philosopher to a journalist of the weather, and the mathematician to
a constructor of dials.

It is happy when those who cannot content themselves to be idle, nor
resolve to be industrious, are at least employed without injury to
others; but it seldom happens that we can contain ourselves long in
a neutral state, or forbear to sink into vice, when we are no longer
soaring towards virtue.

Nugaculus was distinguished in his earlier years by an uncommon liveliness
of imagination, quickness of sagacity, and extent of knowledge. When he
entered into life, he applied himself with particular inquisitiveness to
examine the various motives of human actions, the complicated influence
of mingled affections, the different modifications of interest and
ambition, and the various causes of miscarriage and success both in
public and private affairs.

Though his friends did not discover to what purpose all these observations
were collected, or how Nugaculus would much improve his virtue or his
fortune by an incessant attention to changes of countenance, bursts of
inconsideration, sallies of passion, and all the other casualties by
which he used to trace a character, yet they could not deny the study
of human nature to be worthy of a wise man; they therefore flattered his
vanity, applauded his discoveries, and listened with submissive modesty
to his lectures on the uncertainty of inclination, the weakness of
resolves, and the instability of temper, to his account of the various
motives which agitate the mind, and his ridicule of the modern dream of
a ruling passion.

Such was the first incitement of Nugaculus to a close inspection into the
conduct of mankind. He had no interest in view, and therefore no design
of supplantation; he had no malevolence, and therefore detected faults
without any intention to expose them; but having once found the art of
engaging his attention upon others, he had no inclination to call it back
to himself, but has passed his time in keeping a watchful eye upon every
rising character, and lived upon a small estate without any thought of
increasing it.

He is, by continual application, become a general master of secret
history, and can give an account of the intrigues, private marriages,
competitions, and stratagems, of half a century. He knows the mortgages
upon every man's estate, the terms upon which every spendthrift raises
his money, the real and reputed fortune of every lady, the jointure
stipulated by every contract, and the expectations of every family from
maiden aunts and childless acquaintances. He can relate the economy of
every house, knows how much one man's cellar is robbed by his butler,
and the land of another underlet by his steward; he can tell where the
manor-house is falling, though large sums are yearly paid for repairs;
and where the tenants are felling woods without the consent of the owner.

To obtain all this intelligence he is inadvertently guilty of a thousand
acts of treachery. He sees no man's servant without draining him of
his trust; he enters no family without flattering the children into
discoveries; he is a perpetual spy upon the doors of his neighbours; and
knows by long experience, at whatever distance, the looks of a creditor,
a borrower, a lover, and a pimp.

Nugaculus is not ill-natured, and therefore his industry has not hitherto
been very mischievous to others, or dangerous to himself: but since he
cannot enjoy this knowledge but by discovering it, and, if he had no
other motive to loquacity, is obliged to traffick like the chymists, and
purchase one secret with another, he is every day more hated as he is
more known; for he is considered by great numbers as one that has their
fame and their happiness in his power, and no man can much love him of
whom he lives in fear.