No More Learning

SIR,

I am the modest young man whom you favoured with your advice, in a
late paper; and, as I am very far from suspecting that you foresaw the
numberless inconveniencies which I have, by following it, brought upon
myself, I will lay my condition open before you, for you seem bound
to extricate me from the perplexities in which your counsel, however
innocent in the intention, has contributed to involve me.

You told me, as you thought, to my comfort, that a writer might easily
find means of introducing his genius to the world, for the _presses of
England were open_. This I have now fatally experienced; the press is,
indeed, open.

_----Facilis descensus Averni,_
_Noctes atque dies patet atri janua Ditis. _
VIRG. Æn. lib. vi. 126.

The gates of hell are open night and day;
Smooth the descent, and easy is the way.
DRYDEN.

The means of doing hurt to ourselves are always at hand. I immediately
sent to a printer, and contracted with him for an impression of several
thousands of my pamphlet. While it was at the press, I was seldom absent
from the printing-house, and continually urged the workmen to haste, by
solicitations, promises, and rewards. From the day all other pleasures
were excluded, by the delightful employment of correcting the sheets; and
from the night, sleep generally was banished, by anticipations of the
happiness which every hour was bringing nearer. At last the time of
publication approached, and my heart beat with the raptures of an author.
I was above all little precautions, and, in defiance of envy or of
criticism, set my name upon the title, without sufficiently considering,
that what has once passed the press is irrevocable, and that though the
printing-house may properly be compared to the infernal regions, for the
facility of its entrance, and the difficulty with which authors return
from it; yet there is this difference, that a great genius can never
return to his former state, by a happy draught of the waters of oblivion.

I am now, Mr. Rambler, known to be an author, and am condemned,
irreversibly condemned, to all the miseries of high reputation. The first
morning after publication my friends assembled about me; I presented
each, as is usual, with a copy of my book. They looked into the first
pages, but were hindered, by their admiration, from reading further. The
first pages are, indeed, very elaborate. Some passages they particularly
dwelt upon, as more eminently beautiful than the rest; and some delicate
strokes, and secret elegancies, I pointed out to them, which had escaped
their observation. I then begged of them to forbear their compliments,
and invited them, I could do no less, to dine with me at a tavern.
After dinner, the book was resumed; but their praises very often so much
over-powered my modesty, that I was forced to put about the glass, and
had often no means of repressing the clamours of their admiration, but by
thundering to the drawer for another bottle.

Next morning another set of my acquaintance congratulated me upon my
performance, with such importunity of praise, that I was again forced
to obviate their civilities by a treat. On the third day, I had yet a
greater number of applauders to put to silence in the same manner; and,
on the fourth, those whom I had entertained the first day came again,
having, in the perusal of the remaining part of the book, discovered so
many forcible sentences and masterly touches, that it was impossible for
me to bear the repetition of their commendations. I therefore persuaded
them once more to adjourn to the tavern, and choose some other subject,
on which I might share in their conversation. But it was not in their
power to withhold their attention from my performance, which had so
entirely taken possession of their minds, that no entreaties of mine
could change their topick, and I was obliged to stifle, with claret, that
praise which neither my modesty could hinder, nor my uneasiness repress.

The whole week was thus spent in a kind of literary revel, and I have now
found that nothing is so expensive as great abilities, unless there is
joined with them an insatiable eagerness of praise; for to escape from
the pain of hearing myself exalted above the greatest names, dead and
living, of the learned world, it has already cost me two hogsheads of
port, fifteen gallons of arrack, ten dozen of claret, and five and forty
bottles of champagne.

I was resolved to stay at home no longer, and therefore rose early and
went to the coffee-house; but found that I had now made myself too
eminent for happiness, and that I was no longer to enjoy the pleasure
of mixing, upon equal terms, with the rest of the world. As soon as I
enter the room, I see part of the company raging with envy, which they
endeavour to conceal, sometimes with the appearance of laughter, and
sometimes with that of contempt; but the disguise is such, that I can
discover the secret rancour of their hearts, and as envy is deservedly
its own punishment, I frequently indulge myself in tormenting them with
my presence.

But though there may be some slight satisfaction received from the
mortification of my enemies, yet my benevolence will not suffer me to
take any pleasure in the terrours of my friends. I have been cautious,
since the appearance of my work, not to give myself more premeditated
airs of superiority, than the most rigid humility might allow. It is,
indeed, not impossible that I may sometimes have laid down my opinion,
in a manner that shewed a consciousness of my ability to maintain it, or
interrupted the conversation, when I saw its tendency, without suffering
the speaker to waste his time in explaining his sentiments; and, indeed,
I did indulge myself for two days in a custom of drumming with my
fingers, when the company began to lose themselves in absurdities, or
to encroach upon subjects which I knew them unqualified to discuss. But
I generally acted with great appearance of respect, even to those whose
stupidity I pitied in my heart. Yet, notwithstanding this exemplary
moderation, so universal is the dread of uncommon powers, and such the
unwillingness of mankind to be made wiser, that I have now for some days
found myself shunned by all my acquaintance. If I knock at a door, nobody
is at home; if I enter a coffee-house, I have the box to myself. I live
in the town like a lion in his desert, or an eagle on his rock, too great
for friendship or society, and condemned to solitude by unhappy elevation
and dreaded ascendency.

Nor is my character only formidable to others, but burdensome to myself.
I naturally love to talk without much thinking, to scatter my merriment
at random, and to relax my thoughts with ludicrous remarks and fanciful
images; but such is now the importance of my opinion, that I am afraid to
offer it, lest, by being established too hastily into a maxim, it should
be the occasion of errour to half the nation; and such is the expectation
with which I am attended, when I am going to speak, that I frequently
pause to reflect whether what I am about to utter is worthy of myself.

This, Sir, is sufficiently miserable; but there are still greater
calamities behind. You must have read in Pope and Swift how men of parts
have had their closets rifled, and their cabinets broke open, at the
instigation of piratical booksellers, for the profit of their works; and
it is apparent that there are many prints now sold in the shops, of men
whom you cannot suspect of sitting for that purpose, and whose likenesses
must have been certainly stolen when their names made their faces
vendible. These considerations at first put me on my guard, and I have,
indeed, found sufficient reason for my caution, for I have discovered
many people examining my countenance, with a curiosity that shewed their
intention to draw it; I immediately left the house, but find the same
behaviour in another.

Others may be persecuted, but I am haunted; I have good reason to believe
that eleven painters are now dogging me, for they know that he who can get
my face first will make his fortune. I often change my wig, and wear my
hat over my eyes, by which I hope somewhat to confound them; for you know
it is not fair to sell my face, without admitting me to share the profit.

I am, however, not so much in pain for my face as for my papers, which I
dare neither carry with me nor leave behind. I have, indeed, taken some
measures for their preservation, having put them in an iron chest, and
fixed a padlock upon my closet. I change my lodgings five times a week,
and always remove at the dead of night.

Thus I live, in consequence of having given too great proofs of a
predominant genius, in the solitude of a hermit, with the anxiety of
a miser, and the caution of an outlaw; afraid to shew my face lest it
should be copied; afraid to speak, lest I should injure my character;
and to write, lest my correspondents should publish my letters; always
uneasy lest my servants should steal my papers for the sake of money, or
my friends for that of the publick. This it is to soar above the rest of
mankind; and this representation I lay before you, that I may be informed
how to divest myself of the laurels which are so cumbersome to the
wearer, and descend to the enjoyment of that quiet, from which I find a
writer of the first class so fatally debarred.

MISELLUS.




No. 17. TUESDAY, MAY 15, 1750.


_----Me non oracula certum,_
_Sed mors certa facit. _
LUCAN, lib. ix. 582.

Let those weak minds, who live in doubt and fear,
To juggling priests for oracles repair;
One certain hour of death to each decreed,
My fixt, my certain soul from doubt has freed.
ROWE.


It is recorded of some eastern monarch, that he kept an officer in
his house, whose employment it was to remind him of his mortality,
by calling out every morning, at a stated hour, _Remember, prince, that
thou shalt die! _ And the contemplation of the frailness and uncertainty
of our present state appeared of so much importance to Solon of Athens,
that he left this precept to future ages; _Keep thine eye fixed upon
the end of life. _

A frequent and attentive prospect of that moment, which must put a
period to all our schemes, and deprive us of all our acquisitions, is
indeed of the utmost efficacy to the just and rational regulation of
our lives; nor would ever any thing wicked, or often any thing absurd,
be undertaken or prosecuted by him who should begin every day with a
serious reflection that he is born to die.

The disturbers of our happiness, in this world, are our desires, our
griefs, and our fears; and to all these, the consideration of mortality
is a certain and adequate remedy. Think, says Epictetus, frequently on
poverty, banishment, and death, and thou wilt then never indulge violent
desires, or give up thy heart to mean sentiments, ουδεν ουδεποτε ταπεινον
ενθυμηση, ουτε αγαν επιθυμησεις τινος.

That the maxim of Epictetus is founded on just observation will easily
be granted, when we reflect, how that vehemence of eagerness after
the common objects of pursuit is kindled in our minds. We represent
to ourselves the pleasures of some future possession, and suffer our
thoughts to dwell attentively upon it, till it has wholly engrossed
the imagination, and permits us not to conceive any happiness but
its attainment, or any misery but its loss; every other satisfaction
which the bounty of Providence has scattered over life is neglected as
inconsiderable, in comparison of the great object which we have placed
before us, and is thrown from us as incumbering our activity, or trampled
under foot as standing in our way.

Every man has experienced how much of this ardour has been remitted, when
a sharp or tedious sickness has set death before his eyes. The extensive
influence of greatness, the glitter of wealth, the praises of admirers,
and the attendance of supplicants, have appeared vain and empty things,
when the last hour seemed to be approaching: and the same appearance they
would always have, if the same thought was always predominant. We should
then find the absurdity of stretching out our arms incessantly to grasp
that which we cannot keep, and wearing out our lives in endeavours to
add new turrets to the fabrick of ambition, when the foundation itself
is shaking, and the ground on which it stands is mouldering away.

All envy is proportionate to desire; we are uneasy at the attainments
of another, according as we think our own happiness would be advanced by
the addition of that which he withholds from us; and therefore whatever
depresses immoderate wishes, will, at the same time, set the heart
free from the corrosion of envy, and exempt us from that vice which is,
above most others, tormenting to ourselves, hateful to the world, and
productive of mean artifices, and sordid projects. He that considers
how soon he must close his life, will find nothing of so much importance
as to close it well; and will, therefore, look with indifference upon
whatever is useless to that purpose. Whoever reflects frequently upon the
uncertainty of his own duration, will find out, that the state of others
is not more permanent, and that what can confer nothing on himself very
desirable, cannot so much improve the condition of a rival, as to make
him much superior to those from whom he has carried the prize--a prize
too mean to deserve a very obstinate opposition.

Even grief, that passion to which the virtuous and tender mind is
particularly subject, will be obviated or alleviated by the same
thoughts. It will be obviated, if all the blessings of our condition are
enjoyed with a constant sense of this uncertain tenure. If we remember,
that whatever we possess is to be in our hands but a very little time,
and that the little which our most lively hopes can promise us may be
made less by ten thousand accidents; we shall not much repine at a loss,
of which we cannot estimate the value, but of which, though we are not
able to tell the least amount, we know, with sufficient certainty, the
greatest; and are convinced that the greatest is not much to be regretted.

But, if any passion has so much usurped our understanding, as not to
suffer us to enjoy advantages with the moderation prescribed by reason, it
is not too late to apply this remedy, when we find ourselves sinking under
sorrow, and inclined to pine for that which is irrecoverably vanished. We
may then usefully revolve the uncertainty of our own condition, and the
folly of lamenting that from which, if it had stayed a little longer,
we should ourselves have been taken away.

With regard to the sharpest and most melting sorrow, that which arises
from the loss of those whom we have loved with tenderness, it may be
observed, that friendship between mortals can be contracted on no other
terms, than that one must some time mourn for the other's death: and this
grief will always yield to the survivor one consolation proportionate
to his affliction; for the pain, whatever it be, that he himself feels,
his friend has escaped.

Nor is fear, the most overbearing and resistless of all our passions,
less to be temperated by this universal medicine of the mind. The
frequent contemplation of death, as it shews the vanity of all human
good, discovers likewise the lightness of all terrestrial evil, which
certainly can last no longer than the subject upon which it acts; and
according to the old observation, must be shorter, as it is more
violent. The most cruel calamity which misfortune can produce, must,
by the necessity of nature, be quickly an at end. The soul cannot long
be held in prison, but will fly away, and leave a lifeless body to
human malice.

_----Ridetque sui ludibria trunci. _

And soaring mocks the broken frame below.

The utmost that we can threaten to one another is that death, which,
indeed, we may precipitate, but cannot retard, and from which, therefore,
it cannot become a wise man to buy a reprieve at the expense of virtue,
since he knows not how small a portion of time he can purchase, but
knows, that whether short or long, it will be made less valuable by the
remembrance of the price at which it has been obtained. He is sure that
he destroys his happiness, but is not sure that he lengthens his life.

The known shortness of life, as it ought to moderate our passions, may
likewise, with equal propriety, contract our designs. There is not time
for the most forcible genius, and most active industry, to extend its
effects beyond a certain sphere. To project the conquest of the world,
is the madness of mighty princes; to hope for excellence in every
science, has been the folly of literary heroes; and both have found at
last, that they have panted for a height of eminence denied to humanity,
and have lost many opportunities of making themselves useful and happy,
by a vain ambition of obtaining a species of honour, which the eternal
laws of Providence have placed beyond the reach of man.

The miscarriages of the great designs of princes are recorded in the
histories of the world, but are of little use to the bulk of mankind,
who seem very little interested in admonitions against errours which they
cannot commit. But the fate of learned ambition is a proper subject for
every scholar to consider; for who has not had occasion to regret the
dissipation of great abilities in a boundless multiplicity of pursuits,
to lament the sudden desertion of excellent designs, upon the offer of
some other subject made inviting by its novelty, and to observe the
inaccuracy and deficiencies of works left unfinished by too great an
extension of the plan?

It is always pleasing to observe, how much more our minds can conceive,
than our bodies can perform; yet it is our duty, while we continue in
this complicated state, to regulate one part of our composition by some
regard to the other. We are not to indulge our corporeal appetites with
pleasures that impair our intellectual vigour, nor gratify our minds with
schemes which we know our lives must fail in attempting to execute. The
uncertainty of our duration ought at once to set bounds to our designs,
and add incitements to our industry; and when we find ourselves inclined
either to immensity in our schemes, or sluggishness in our endeavours,
we may either check, or animate, ourselves, by recollecting, with the
father of physick, _that art is long, and life is short_.




No. 18. SATURDAY, MAY 19, 1750.


_Illic matre carentibus,_
_Privignis mulier temperat innocens,_
_Nec dotata regit virum_
_Conjux, nec nitido fidit adultero:_
_Dos est magna parentium_
_Virtus, et metuens alterius viri_
_Certo fœdere castitas. _
HOR. lib. iii. Ode xxiv. 17.

Not there the guiltless step-dame knows
The baleful draught for orphans to compose;
No wife high portion'd rules her spouse,
Or trusts her essenc'd lover's faithless vows:
The lovers there for dow'ry claim
The father's virtue, and the spotless fame,
Which dares not break the nuptial tie.
FRANCIS.


There is no observation more frequently made by such as employ themselves
in surveying the conduct of mankind, than that marriage, though the
dictate of nature, and the institution of Providence, is yet very often
the cause of misery, and that those who enter into that state can seldom
forbear to express their repentance, and their envy of those whom either
chance or caution hath withheld from it.

This general unhappiness has given occasion to many sage maxims among
the serious, and smart remarks among the gay; the moralist and the
writer of epigrams have equally shewn their abilities upon it; some have
lamented, and some have ridiculed it; but as the faculty of writing has
been chiefly a masculine endowment, the reproach of making the world
miserable has been always thrown upon the women, and the grave and the
merry have equally thought themselves at liberty to conclude either
with declamatory complaints, or satirical censures, of female folly or
fickleness, ambition or cruelty, extravagance or lust.

Led by such a number of examples, and incited by my share in the common
interest, I sometimes venture to consider this universal grievance,
having endeavoured to divest my heart of all partiality, and place
myself as a kind of neutral being between the sexes, whose clamours
being equally vented on both sides with all the vehemence of distress,
all the apparent confidence of justice, and all the indignation of
injured virtue, seem entitled to equal regard. The men have, indeed,
by their superiority of writing, been able to collect the evidence
of many ages, and raise prejudices in their favour by the venerable
testimonies of philosophers, historians, and poets; but the pleas of the
ladies appeal to passions of more forcible operation than the reverence
of antiquity. If they have not so great names on their side, they have
stronger arguments: it is to little purpose that Socrates, or Euripides,
are produced against the sighs of softness, and the tears of beauty. The
most frigid and inexorable judge would at least stand suspended between
equal powers, as Lucan was perplexed in the determination of the cause,
where the deities were on one side, and Cato on the other.

But I, who have long studied the severest and most abstracted philosophy,
have now, in the cool maturity of life, arrived at such command over
my passions, that I can hear the vociferations of either sex without
catching any of the fire from those that utter them. For I have found,
by long experience, that a man will sometimes rage at his wife, when
in reality his mistress has offended him; and a lady complain of the
cruelty of her husband, when she has no other enemy than bad cards.
I do not suffer myself to be any longer imposed upon by oaths on one
side, or fits on the other; nor when the husband hastens to the tavern,
and the lady retires to her closet, am I always confident that they
are driven by their miseries; since I have sometimes reason to believe,
that they purpose not so much to soothe their sorrows, as to animate their
fury. But how little credit soever may be given to particular accusations,
the general accumulation of the charge shews, with too much evidence, that
married persons are not very often advanced in felicity; and, therefore,
it may be proper to examine at what avenues so many evils have made
their way into the world. With this purpose, I have reviewed the lives
of my friends, who have been least successful in connubial contracts,
and attentively considered by what motives they were incited to marry,
and by what principles they regulated their choice.

One of the first of my acquaintances that resolved to quit the unsettled
thoughtless condition of a bachelor, was Prudentius, a man of slow parts,
but not without knowledge or judgment in things which he had leisure
to consider gradually before he determined them. Whenever we met at a
tavern, it was his province to settle the scheme of our entertainment,
contract with the cook, and inform us when we had called for wine to the
sum originally proposed. This grave considerer found, by deep meditation,
that a man was no loser by marrying early, even though he contented
himself with a less fortune; for estimating the exact worth of annuities,
he found that considering the constant diminution of the value of life,
with the probable fall of the interest of money, it was not worse to
have ten thousand pounds at the age of two and twenty years, than a much
larger fortune at thirty; for many opportunities, says he, occur of
improving money, which if a man misses, he may not afterwards recover.

Full of these reflections, he threw his eyes about him, not in search
of beauty or elegance, dignity or understanding, but of a woman with ten
thousand pounds. Such a woman, in a wealthy part of the kingdom, it was
not very difficult to find; and by artful management with her father,
whose ambition was to make his daughter a gentlewoman, my friend got
her, as he boasted to us in confidence two days after his marriage,
for a settlement of seventy-three pounds a year less than her fortune
might have claimed, and less than he would himself have given, if the
fools had been but wise enough to delay the bargain.

Thus, at once delighted with the superiority of his parts and the
augmentation of his fortune, he carried Furia to his own house, in which
he never afterwards enjoyed one hour of happiness. For Furia was a wretch
of mean intellects, violent passions, a strong voice, and low education,
without any sense of happiness but that which consisted in eating and
counting money. Furia was a scold. They agreed in the desire of wealth,
but with this difference, that Prudentius was for growing rich by gain,
Furia by parsimony. Prudentius would venture his money with chances
very much in his favour; but Furia very wisely observing, that what
they had was, while they had it, _their own_, thought all traffick
too great a hazard, and was for putting it out at low interest,
upon good security. Prudentius ventured, however, to insure a ship
at a very unreasonable price, but happening to lose his money, was
so tormented with the clamours of his wife, that he never durst try
a second experiment. He has now grovelled seven and forty years under
Furia's direction, who never once mentioned him, since his bad luck,
by any other name than that of _the insurer_.

The next that married from our society was Florentius. He happened to
see Zephyretta in a chariot at a horse-race, danced with her at night,
was confirmed in his first ardour, waited on her next morning, and
declared himself her lover. Florentius had not knowledge enough of
the world, to distinguish between the flutter of coquetry, and the
sprightliness of wit, or between the smile of allurement, and that of
cheerfulness. He was soon awaked from his rapture, by conviction that
his pleasure was but the pleasure of a day. Zephyretta had in four and
twenty hours spent her stock of repartee, gone round the circle of her
airs, and had nothing remaining for him but childish insipidity, or for
herself, but the practice of the same artifices upon new men.

Melissus was a man of parts, capable of enjoying and of improving life.
He had passed through the various scenes of gaiety with that indifference
and possession of himself, natural to men who have something higher
and nobler in their prospect. Retiring to spend the summer in a village
little frequented, he happened to lodge in the same house with Ianthe, and
was unavoidably drawn to some acquaintance, which her wit and politeness
soon invited him to improve. Having no opportunity of any other company,
they were always together; and as they owed their pleasures to each
other, they began to forget that any pleasure was enjoyed before their
meeting. Melissus, from being delighted with her company, quickly began to
be uneasy in her absence, and being sufficiently convinced of the force
of her understanding, and finding, as he imagined, such a conformity of
temper as declared them formed for each other, addressed her as a lover,
after no very long courtship obtained her for his wife, and brought her
next winter to town in triumph.

Now began their infelicity. Melissus had only seen her in one scene,
where there was no variety of objects, to produce the proper excitements
to contrary desires. They had both loved solitude and reflection, where
there was nothing but solitude and reflection to be loved; but when
they came into publick life, Ianthe discovered those passions which
accident rather than hypocrisy had hitherto concealed. She was, indeed,
not without the power of thinking, but was wholly without the exertion
of that power when either gaiety or splendour played on her imagination.
She was expensive in her diversions, vehement in her passions, insatiate
of pleasure, however dangerous to her reputation, and eager of applause,
by whomsoever it might be given. This was the wife which Melissus the
philosopher found in his retirement, and from whom he expected an
associate in his studies, and an assistant to his virtues.

Prosapius, upon the death of his younger brother, that the family
might not be extinct, married his housekeeper, and has ever since been
complaining to his friends that mean notions are instilled into his
children, that he is ashamed to sit at his own table, and that his house
is uneasy to him for want of suitable companions.

Avaro, master of a very large estate, took a woman of bad reputation,
recommended to him by a rich uncle, who made that marriage the condition
on which he should be his heir. Avaro now wonders to perceive his own
fortune, his wife's and his uncle's, insufficient to give him that
happiness which is to be found only with a woman of virtue.

I intend to treat in more papers on this important article of life,
and shall, therefore, make no reflection upon these histories, except
that all whom I have mentioned failed to obtain happiness, for want of
considering that marriage is the strictest tie of perpetual friendship;
that there can be no friendship without confidence, and no confidence
without integrity; and that he must expect to be wretched, who pays to
beauty, riches, or politeness, that regard which only virtue and piety
can claim.




No. 19. TUESDAY, MAY 22, 1750.


_Dum modo causidicum, dum te modo rhetora fingis,_
_Et non decernis, Taure, quid esse velis,_
_Peleos et Priami transit, vel Nestoris, ætas;_
_Et fuerat serum jam tibi desinere. ----_
_Eia age, rumpe moras: quo te sperabimus usque? _
_Dum, quid sis, dubitas, jam potes esse nihil. _
MART. lib. ii. Ep. 64.

To rhetorick now, and now to law inclin'd,
Uncertain where to fix thy changing mind;
Old Priam's age or Nestor's may be out,
And thou, O Taures! still go on in doubt.
Come then, how long such wavering shall we see?
Thou may'st doubt on: thou now canst nothing be.
F. LEWIS.


It is never without very melancholy reflections, that we can observe
the misconduct, or miscarriage, of those men, who seem, by the force of
understanding, or extent of knowledge, exempted from the general frailties
of human nature, and privileged from the common infelicities of life.
Though the world is crowded with scenes of calamity, we look upon the
general mass of wretchedness with very little regard, and fix our eyes
upon the state of particular persons, whom the eminence of their qualities
marks out from the multitude; as in reading an account of a battle, we
seldom reflect on the vulgar heaps of slaughter, but follow the hero
with our whole attention, through all the varieties of his fortune,
without a thought of the thousands that are falling round him.

With the same kind of anxious veneration I have for many years been making
observations on the life of Polyphilus, a man whom all his acquaintances
have, from his first appearance in the world, feared for the quickness
of his discernment, and admired for the multiplicity of his attainments,
but whose progress in life, and usefulness to mankind, has been hindered
by the superfluity of his knowledge, and the celerity of his mind.

Polyphilus was remarkable, at the school, for surpassing all his
companions, without any visible application, and at the university was
distinguished equally for his successful progress as well through the
thorny mazes of science, as the flowery path of politer literature,
without any strict confinement to hours of study, or remarkable
forbearance of the common amusements of young men.

When Polyphilus was at the age in which men usually choose their
profession, and prepare to enter into a publick character, every
academical eye was fixed upon him; all were curious to inquire what
this universal genius would fix upon for the employment of his life;
and no doubt was made but that he would leave all his contemporaries
behind him, and mount to the highest honours of that class in which
he should inlist himself, without those delays and pauses which must be
endured by meaner abilities.

Polyphilus, though by no means insolent or assuming, had been sufficiently
encouraged, by uninterrupted success, to place great confidence in his own
parts; and was not below his companions in the indulgence of his hopes,
and expectations of the astonishment with which the world would be struck,
when first his lustre should break out upon it; nor could he forbear
(for whom does not constant flattery intoxicate? ) to join sometimes in
the mirth of his friends, at the sudden disappearance of those, who,
having shone a while, and drawn the eyes of the publick upon their
feeble radiance, were now doomed to fade away before him.

It is natural for a man to catch advantageous notions of the condition
which those with whom he converses are striving to attain. Polyphilus,
in a ramble to London, fell accidentally among the physicians, and
was so much pleased with the prospect of turning philosophy to profit,
and so highly delighted with a new theory of fevers which darted into
his imagination, and which, after having considered it a few hours,
he found himself able to maintain against all the advocates for the
ancient system, that he resolved to apply himself to anatomy, botany,
and chemistry, and to leave no part unconquered, either of the animal,
mineral, or vegetable kingdoms.

He therefore read authors, constructed systems, and tried experiments;
but, unhappily, as he was going to see a new plant in flower at Chelsea,
he met, in crossing Westminster to take water, the chancellor's coach;
he had the curiosity to follow him into the hall, where a remarkable
cause happened to be tried, and found himself able to produce so many
arguments, which the lawyers had omitted on both sides, that he determined
to quit physic for a profession in which he found it would be so easy to
excel, and which promised higher honours, and larger profits, without
melancholy attendance upon misery, mean submission to peevishness,
and continual interruption of rest and pleasure.

He immediately took chambers in the Temple, bought a common-place book,
and confined himself for some months to the perusal of the statutes,
year-books, pleadings, and reports; he was a constant hearer of the
courts, and began to put cases with reasonable accuracy. But he soon
discovered, by considering the fortune of lawyers, that preferment was
not to be got by acuteness, learning, and eloquence. He was perplexed by
the absurdities of attorneys, and misrepresentations made by his clients
of their own causes, by the useless anxiety of one, and the incessant
importunity of another; he began to repent of having devoted himself to a
study, which was so narrow in its comprehension that it could never carry
his name to any other country, and thought it unworthy of a man of parts
to sell his life only for money. The barrenness of his fellow-students
forced him generally into other company at his hours of entertainment,
and among the varieties of conversation through which his curiosity was
daily wandering, he, by chance, mingled at a tavern with some intelligent
officers of the army. A man of letters was easily dazzled with the
gaiety of their appearance, and softened into kindness by the politeness
of their address; he, therefore, cultivated this new acquaintance, and
when he saw how readily they found in every place admission and regard,
and how familiarly they mingled with every rank and order of men, he
began to feel his heart beat for military honours, and wondered how the
prejudices of the university should make him so long insensible of that
ambition, which has fired so many hearts in every age, and negligent
of that calling, which is, above all others, universally and invariably
illustrious, and which gives, even to the exterior appearance of its
professors, a dignity and freedom unknown to the rest of mankind.

These favourable impressions were made still deeper by his conversation
with ladies, whose regard for soldiers he could not observe, without
wishing himself one of that happy fraternity, to which the female
world seem to have devoted their charms and their kindness. The love of
knowledge, which was still his predominant inclination, was gratified
by the recital of adventures, and accounts of foreign countries; and
therefore he concluded that there was no way of life in which all his
views could so completely concentre as in that of a soldier. In the art of
war he thought it not difficult to excel, having observed his new friends
not very much versed in the principles of tacticks or fortification;
he therefore studied all the military writers both ancient and modern,
and, in a short time, could tell how to have gained every remarkable
battle that has been lost from the beginning of the world. He often
shewed at table how Alexander should have been checked in his conquests,
what was the fatal errour at Pharsalia, how Charles of Sweden might
have escaped his ruin at Pultowa, and Marlborough might have been made
to repent his temerity at Blenheim. He entrenched armies upon paper so
that no superiority of numbers could force them, and modelled in clay
many impregnable fortresses, on which all the present arts of attack
would be exhausted without effect.

Polyphilus, in a short time, obtained a commission; but before he could
rub off the solemnity of a scholar, and gain the true air of military
vivacity, a war was declared, and forces sent to the continent. Here
Polyphilus unhappily found that study alone would not make a soldier; for
being much accustomed to think, he let the sense of danger sink into
his mind, and felt at the approach of any action, that terrour which
a sentence of death would have brought upon him. He saw that, instead
of conquering their fears, the endeavour of his gay friends was only
to escape them; but his philosophy chained his mind to its object,
and rather loaded him with shackles than furnished him with arms. He,
however, suppressed his misery in silence, and passed through the campaign
with honour, but found himself utterly unable to support another.

He then had recourse again to his books, and continued to range from one
study to another. As I usually visit him once a month, and am admitted
to him without previous notice, I have found him within this last half
year, decyphering the Chinese language, making a farce, collecting a
vocabulary of the obsolete terms of the English law, writing an inquiry
concerning the ancient Corinthian brass, and forming a new scheme of
the variations of the needle.

Thus is this powerful genius, which might have extended the sphere of
any science, or benefited the world in any profession, dissipated in a
boundless variety, without profit to others or himself! He makes sudden
irruptions into the regions of knowledge, and sees all obstacles give
way before him; but he never stays long enough to complete his conquest,
to establish laws, or bring away the spoils.

Such is often the folly of men, whom nature has enabled to obtain skill
and knowledge, on terms so easy, that they have no sense of the value
of the acquisition; they are qualified to make such speedy progress in
learning, that they think themselves at liberty to loiter in the way,
and by turning aside after every new object, lose the race, like Atalanta,
to slower competitors, who press diligently forward, and whose force is
directed to a single point.

I have often thought those happy that have been fixed, from the first
dawn of thought, in a determination to some state of life, by the choice
of one whose authority may caprice, and whose influence may prejudice them
in favour of his opinion. The general precept of consulting the genius
is of little use, unless we are told how the genius can be known. If
it is to be discovered only by experiment, life will be lost before the
resolution can be fixed; if any other indications are to be found, they
may, perhaps, be very early discerned. At least, if to miscarry in an
attempt be a proof of having mistaken the direction of the genius, men
appear not less frequently deceived with regard to themselves than to
others; and therefore no one has much reason to complain that his life
was planned out by his friends, or to be confident that he should have
had either more honour or happiness, by being abandoned to the chance
of his own fancy.
It was said of the learned bishop Sanderson, that when he was preparing
his lectures, he hesitated so much, and rejected so often, that, at the
time of reading, he was often forced to produce, not what was best, but
what happened to be at hand. This will be the state of every man, who,
in the choice of his employment, balances all the arguments on every side;
the complication is so intricate, the motives and objections so numerous,
there is so much play for the imagination, and so much remains in the
power of others, that reason is forced at last to rest in neutrality,
the decision devolves into the hands of chance, and after a great part
of life spent in inquiries which can never be resolved, the rest must
often pass in repenting the unnecessary delay, and can be useful to few
other purposes than to warn others against the same folly, and to shew,
that of two states of life equally consistent with religion and virtue,
he who chooses earliest chooses best.




No. 20. SATURDAY, MAY 26, 1750.


_Ad populum phaleras. Ego te intus, et in cute novi. _
PERSIUS, Sat. iii. 30.

Such pageantry be to the people shown;
There boast thy horse's trappings and thy own;
I know thee to thy bottom, from within
Thy shallow centre, to thy utmost skin.
DRYDEN.


Among the numerous stratagems, by which pride endeavours to recommend
folly to regard, there is scarcely one that meets with less success
than affectation, or a perpetual disguise of the real character, by
fictitious appearances; whether it be, that every man hates falsehood,
from the natural congruity of truth to his faculties of reason, or that
every man is jealous of the honour of his understanding, and thinks
his discernment consequently called in question, whenever any thing is
exhibited under a borrowed form.

This aversion from all kinds of disguise, whatever be its cause, is
universally diffused, and incessantly in action; nor is it necessary,
that to exasperate detestation, or excite contempt, any interest should
be invaded, or any competition attempted; it is sufficient, that there
is an intention to deceive, an intention which every heart swells to
oppose, and every tongue is busy to detect.

This reflection was awakened in my mind by a very common practice among
my correspondents, of writing under characters which they cannot support,
which are of no use to the explanation or enforcement of that which they
describe or recommend; and which, therefore, since they assume them only
for the sake of displaying their abilities, I will advise them for the
future to forbear, as laborious without advantage.

It is almost a general ambition of those who favour me with their advice
for the regulation of my conduct, or their contribution for the assistance
of my understanding, to affect the style and the names of ladies. And
I cannot always withhold some expression of anger, like Sir Hugh in
the comedy, when I happen to find that a woman has a beard. I must
therefore warn the gentle Phyllis, that she send me no more letters
from the Horse Guards; and require of Belinda, that she be content to
resign her pretentions to female elegance, till she has lived three weeks
without hearing the politicks of Batson's coffee-house. I must indulge
myself in the liberty of observation, that there were some allusions in
Chloris's production, sufficient to shew that Bracton and Plowden are
her favourite authors; and that Euphelia has not been long enough at
home, to wear out all the traces of phraseology, which she learned in
the expedition to Carthagena.

Among all my female friends, there was none who gave me more trouble to
decypher her true character, than Penthesilea, whose letter lay upon my
desk three days before I could fix upon the real writer. There was a
confusion of images, and medley of barbarity, which held me long in
suspense; till by perseverance I disentangled the perplexity, and found
that Penthesilea is the son of a wealthy stock-jobber, who spends his
morning under his father's eye in Change-Alley, dines at a tavern in
Covent-Garden, passes his evening in the play-house, and part of the
night at a gaming-table, and having learned the dialects of these
various regions, has mingled them all in a studied composition.

When Lee was once told by a critick, that it was very easy to write like
a madman, he answered, that it was difficult to write like a madman, but
easy enough to write like a fool; and I hope to be excused by my kind
contributors, if, in imitation of this great author, I presume to remind
them, that it is much easier not to write like a man, than to write like
a woman.

I have, indeed, some ingenious well-wishers, who, without departing from
their sex, have found very wonderful appellations. A very smart letter
has been sent me from a puny ensign, signed Ajax Telamonius; another, in
recommendation of a new treatise upon cards, from a gamester, who calls
himself Sesostris: and another upon the improvements of the fishery,
from Dioclesian: but as these seem only to have picked up their
appellations by chance, without endeavouring at any particular
imposture, their improprieties are rather instances of blunder than of
affectation, and are, therefore, not equally fitted to inflame the
hostile passions; for it is not folly but pride, not errour but deceit,
which the world means to persecute, when it raises the full cry of
nature to hunt down affectation.

The hatred which dissimulation always draws upon itself, is so great,
that if I did not know how much cunning differs from wisdom, I should
wonder that any men have so little knowledge of their own interest, as
to aspire to wear a mask for life; to try to impose upon the world a
character, to which they feel themselves void of any just claim; and
to hazard their quiet, their fame and even their profit, by exposing
themselves to the danger of that reproach, malevolence, and neglect,
which such a discovery as they have always to fear will certainly bring
upon them.

It might be imagined, that the pleasure of reputation should consist in
the satisfaction of having our opinion of our merit confirmed by the
suffrage of the publick; and that, to be extolled for a quality, which
a man knows himself to want, should give him no other happiness than
to be mistaken for the owner of an estate, over which he chances to
be travelling. But he who subsists upon affectation, knows nothing of
this delicacy; like a desperate adventurer in commerce, he takes up
reputation upon trust, mortgages possessions which he never had, and
enjoys, to the fatal hour of bankruptcy, though with a thousand terrours
and anxieties, the unnecessary splendour of borrowed riches.

Affectation is to be always distinguished from hypocrisy, as being the
art of counterfeiting those qualities which we might, with innocence and
safety, be known, to want. Thus the man who to carry on any fraud, or to
conceal any crime, pretends to rigours of devotion, and exactness of life,
is guilty of hypocrisy; and his guilt is greater, as the end, for which
he puts on the false appearance, is more pernicious. But he that,
with an awkward address, and unpleasing countenance, boasts of the
conquests made by him among the ladies, and counts over the thousands
which he might have possessed if he would have submitted to the yoke
of matrimony, is chargeable only with affectation. Hypocrisy is the
necessary burthen of villany, affectation part of the chosen trappings
of folly; the one completes a villain, the other only finishes a fop.
Contempt is the proper punishment of affectation, and detestation the
just consequence of hypocrisy.

With the hypocrite it is not at present my intention to expostulate,
though even he might be taught the excellency of virtue, by the necessity
of seeming to be virtuous; but the man of affectation may, perhaps,
be reclaimed, by finding how little he is likely to gain by perpetual
constraint, and incessant vigilance, and how much more securely he
might make his way to esteem, by cultivating real, than displaying
counterfeit qualities.

Every thing future is to be estimated, by a wise man, in proportion
to the probability of attaining it and its value, when attained; and
neither of these considerations will much contribute to the encouragement
of affectation. For, if the pinnacles of fame be at best slippery,
how unsteady must his footing be who stands upon pinnacles without
foundation! If praise be made by the inconstancy and maliciousness of
those who must confer it, a blessing which no man can promise himself
from the most conspicuous merit and vigorous industry, how faint must
be the hope of gaining it, when the uncertainty is multiplied by the
weakness of the pretensions! He that pursues fame with just claims,
trusts his happiness to the winds; but he that endeavours after it by
false merit, has to fear, not only the violence of the storm, but the
leaks of his vessel. Though he should happen to keep above water for a
time, by the help of a soft breeze, and a calm sea, at the first gust
he must inevitably founder, with this melancholy reflection, that, if he
would have been content with his natural station, he might have escaped
his calamity. Affectation may possibly succeed for a time, and a man may,
by great attention, persuade others, that he really has the qualities
which he presumes to boast; but the hour will come when he should exert
them, and then whatever he enjoyed in praise, he must suffer in reproach.

Applause and admiration are by no means to be counted among the
necessaries of life, and therefore any indirect arts to obtain them
have very little claim to pardon or compassion. There is scarcely any
man without some valuable or improveable qualities, by which he might
always secure himself from contempt. And perhaps exemption from ignominy
is the most eligible reputation, as freedom from pain is, among some
philosophers, the definition of happiness.

If we therefore compare the value of the praise obtained by fictitious
excellence, even while the cheat is yet undiscovered, with that kindness
which every man may suit by his virtue, and that esteem to which most
men may rise by common understanding steadily and honestly applied, we
shall find that when from the adscititious happiness all the deductions
are made by fear and casualty, there will remain nothing equiponderant to
the security of truth. The state of the possessor of humble virtues, to
the affecter of great excellencies, is that of a small cottage of stone,
to the palace raised with ice by the empress of Russia; it was for a
time splendid and luminous, but the first sunshine melted it to nothing.




No. 21. TUESDAY, MAY 29, 1750.


_Terra salutares herbas, eademque nocentes,_
_Nutrit; et urticæ proxima sæpe rosa est. _
OVID, Rem. Amor. 45.

Our bane and physick the same earth bestows,
And near the noisome nettle blooms the rose.


Every man is prompted by the love of himself to imagine, that he
possesses some qualities, superior, either in kind or in degree, to
those which he sees allotted to the rest of the world; and, whatever
apparent disadvantages he may suffer in the comparison with others,
he has some invisible distinctions, some latent reserve of excellence,
which he throws into the balance, and by which he generally fancies
that it is turned in his favour.

The studious and speculative part of mankind always seem to consider
their fraternity as placed in a state of opposition to those who are
engaged in the tumult of publick business; and have pleased themselves,
from age to age, with celebrating the felicity of their own condition,
and with recounting the perplexity of politicks, the dangers of greatness,
the anxieties of ambition, and the miseries of riches.

Among the numerous topicks of declamation, that their industry has
discovered on this subject, there is none which they press with greater
efforts, or on which they have more copiously laid out their reason
and their imagination, than the instability of high stations, and the
uncertainty with which the profits and honours are possessed, that must
be acquired with so much hazard, vigilance, and labour.

This they appear to consider as an irrefragable argument against the
choice of the statesman and the warriour; and swell with confidence of
victory, thus furnished by the muses with the arms which never can be
blunted, and which no art or strength of their adversaries can elude
or resist.

It was well known by experience to the nations which employed elephants
in war, that though by the terrour of their bulk, and the violence of
their impression, they often threw the enemy into disorder, yet there was
always danger in the use of them, very nearly equivalent to the advantage;
for if their first charge could be supported, they were easily driven
back upon their confederates; they then broke through the troops behind
them, and made no less havock in the precipitation of their retreat,
than in the fury of their onset.

I know not whether those who have so vehemently urged the inconveniencies
and danger of an active life, have not made use of arguments that may
be retorted with equal force upon themselves; and whether the happiness
of a candidate for literary fame be not subject to the same uncertainty
with that of him who governs provinces, commands armies, presides in
the senate, or dictates in the cabinet.

That eminence of learning is not to be gained without labour, at least
equal to that which any other kind of greatness can require, will
be allowed by those who wish to elevate the character of a scholar;
since they cannot but know, that every human acquisition is valuable in
proportion to the difficulty employed in its attainment. And that those
who have gained the esteem and veneration of the world, by their knowledge
or their genius, are by no means exempt from the solicitude which any
other kind of dignity produces, may be conjectured from the innumerable
artifices which they make use of to degrade a superior, to repress a
rival, or obstruct a follower; artifices so gross and mean, as to prove
evidently how much a man may excel in learning, without being either more
wise or more virtuous than those whose ignorance he pities or despises.

Nothing therefore remains, by which the student can gratify his desire
of appearing to have built his happiness on a more firm basis than his
antagonist, except the certainty with which his honours are enjoyed.
The garlands gained by the heroes of literature must be gathered from
summits equally difficult to climb with those that bear the civick or
triumphal wreaths, they must be worn with equal envy, and guarded with
equal care from those hands that are always employed in efforts to tear
them away; the only remaining hope is, that their verdure is more lasting,
and that they are less likely to fade by time, or less obnoxious to the
blasts of accident.

Even this hope will receive very little encouragement from the examination
of the history of learning, or observation of the fate of scholars in
the present age. If we look back into past times, we find innumerable
names of authors once in high reputation, read perhaps by the beautiful,
quoted by the witty, and commented on by the grave; but of whom we now
know only that they once existed. If we consider the distribution of
literary fame in our own time, we shall find it a possession of very
uncertain tenure; sometimes bestowed by a sudden caprice of the publick,
and again transferred to a new favourite, for no other reason than that
he is new; sometimes refused to long labour and eminent desert, and
sometimes granted to very slight pretensions; lost sometimes by security
and negligence, and sometimes by too diligent endeavours to retain it.

A successful author is equally in danger of the diminution of his fame,
whether he continues or ceases to write. The regard of the publick
is not to be kept but by tribute, and the remembrance of past service
will quickly languish, unless successive performances frequently revive
it. Yet in every new attempt there is new hazard, and there are few who
do not at some unlucky time, injure their own characters by attempting
to enlarge them.

There are many possible causes of that inequality which we may so
frequently observe in the performances of the same man, from the influence
of which no ability or industry is sufficiently secured, and which have
so often sullied the splendour of genius, that the wit, as well as the
conqueror, may be properly cautioned not to indulge his pride with too
early triumphs, but to defer to the end of life his estimate of happiness.

_------Ultima semper_
_Expectanda dies homini, dicique beatus_
_Ante obitum nemo supremaque funera debet. _
OVID, Met. iii. 135.

But no frail man, however great or high,
Can be concluded blest before he die.
ADDISON.

Among the motives that urge an author to undertakings by which his
reputation is impaired, one of the most frequent must be mentioned
with tenderness, because it is not to be counted among his follies,
but his miseries. It very often happens that the works of learning
or of wit are performed at the direction of those by whom they are
to be rewarded; the writer has not always the choice of his subject,
but is compelled to accept any task which is thrown before him without
much consideration of his own convenience, and without time to prepare
himself by previous studies.

Miscarriages of this kind are likewise frequently the consequence of
that acquaintance with the great, which is generally considered as
one of the chief privileges of literature and genius. A man who has
once learned to think himself exalted by familiarity with those whom
nothing but their birth, or their fortunes, or such stations as are
seldom gained by moral excellence, set above him, will not be long
without submitting his understanding to their conduct; he will suffer
them to prescribe the course of his studies, and employ him for their
own purposes either of diversion or interest, His desire of pleasing
those whose favour he has weakly made necessary to himself, will not
suffer him always to consider how little he is qualified for the work
imposed. Either his vanity will tempt him to conceal his deficiencies,
or that cowardice, which always encroaches fast upon such as spend their
lives in the company of persons higher than themselves, will not leave
him resolution to assert the liberty of choice.

But, though we suppose that a man by his fortune can avoid the necessity
of dependance, and by his spirit can repel the usurpations of patronage,
yet he may easily, by writing long, happen to write ill. There is
a general succession of events in which contraries are produced by
periodical vicissitudes; labour and care are rewarded with success,
success produces confidence, confidence relaxes industry, and negligence
ruins that reputation which accuracy had raised.

He that happens not to be lulled by praise into supineness, may be
animated by it to undertakings above his strength, or incited to fancy
himself alike qualified for every kind of composition, and able to
comply with the publick taste through all its variations. By some
opinion like this, many men have been engaged, at an advanced age, in
attempts which they had not time to complete, and after a few weak
efforts, sunk into the grave with vexation to see the rising generation
gain ground upon them. From these failures the highest genius is not
exempt; that judgment which appears so penetrating, when it is employed
upon the works of others, very often fails where interest or passion can
exert their power. We are blinded in examining our own labours by
innumerable prejudices. Our juvenile compositions please us, because
they bring to our minds the remembrance of youth; our later performances
we are ready to esteem, because we are unwilling to think that we have
made no improvement; what flows easily from the pen charms us, because
we read with pleasure that which flatters our opinion of our own powers;
what was composed with great struggles of the mind we do not easily
reject, because we cannot bear that so much labour should be fruitless.
But the reader has none of these prepossessions, and wonders that the
author is so unlike himself, without considering that the same soil
will, with different culture, afford different products.




No. 22. SATURDAY, JUNE 2, 1750.


_----Ego nec studium sine divite venû,_
_Nec rude quid prosit video ingenium; alterius sic_
_Altera poscit opem res, et conjurat amice. _
HOR. Ars. Poet. 409.

Without a genius learning soars in vain;
And without learning genius sinks again;
Their force united crowns the sprightly reign.
ELPHINSTON.


Wit and Learning were the children of Apollo, by different mothers; Wit
was the offspring of Euphrosyne, and resembled her in cheerfulness and
vivacity; Learning was born of Sophia, and retained her seriousness and
caution. As their mothers were rivals, they were bred up by them from
their birth in habitual opposition, and all means were so incessantly
employed to impress upon them a hatred and contempt of each other, that
though Apollo, who foresaw the ill effects of their discord, endeavoured
to soften them, by dividing his regard equally between them, yet his
impartiality and kindness were without effect; the maternal animosity
was deeply rooted, having been intermingled with their first ideas, and
was confirmed every hour, as fresh opportunities occurred of exerting
it. No sooner were they of age to be received into the apartments of
the other celestials, than Wit began to entertain Venus at her toilet,
by aping the solemnity of Learning, and Learning to divert Minerva at
her loom, by exposing the blunders and ignorance of Wit.

Thus they grew up, with malice perpetually increasing, by the
encouragement which each received from those whom their mothers had
persuaded to patronize and support them; and longed to be admitted to
the table of Jupiter, not so much for the hope of gaining honour, as of
excluding a rival from all pretensions to regard, and of putting an
everlasting stop to the progress of that influence which either believed
the other to have obtained by mean arts and false appearances.

At last the day came, when they were both, with the usual solemnities,
received into the class of superior deities, and allowed to take nectar
from the hand of Hebe. But from that hour Concord lost her authority at
the table of Jupiter. The rivals, animated by their new dignity, and
incited by the alternate applauses of the associate powers, harassed
each other by incessant contests, with such a regular vicissitude of
victory, that neither was depressed.

It was observable, that, at the beginning of every debate, the
advantage was on the side of Wit; and that, at the first sallies,
the whole assembly sparkled, according to Homer's expression, with
unextinguishable merriment. But Learning would reserve her strength till
the burst of applause was over, and the languor with which the violence
of joy is always succeeded, began to promise more calm and patient
attention. She then attempted her defence, and, by comparing one part
of her antagonist's objections with another, commonly made him confute
himself; or, by shewing how small a part of the question he had taken
into his view, proved that his opinion could have no weight. The audience
began gradually to lay aside their prepossessions, and rose, at last,
with great veneration for Learning, but with greater kindness for Wit.


Their conduct was, whenever they desired to recommend themselves to
distinction, entirely opposite. Wit was daring and adventurous; Learning
cautious and deliberate. Wit thought nothing reproachful but dulness;
Learning was afraid of no imputation but that of errour. Wit answered
before he understood, lest his quickness of apprehension should be
questioned; Learning paused, where there was no difficulty, lest any
insidious sophism should lie undiscovered. Wit perplexed every debate
by rapidity and confusion; Learning tired the hearers with endless
distinctions, and prolonged the dispute without advantage, by proving
that which never was denied. Wit, in hopes of shining, would venture
to produce what he had not considered, and often succeeded beyond his
own expectation, by following the train of a lucky thought; learning would
reject every new notion, for fear of being entangled in consequences
which she could not foresee, and was often hindered, by her caution,
from pressing her advantages, and subduing her opponent.

Both had prejudices, which, in some degree, hindered their progress
towards perfection, and left them open to attacks. Novelty was the
darling of wit, and antiquity of learning. To wit, all that was new was
specious; to learning, whatever was ancient was venerable. Wit, however,
seldom failed to divert those whom he could not convince, and to
convince was not often his ambition; learning always supported her
opinion with so many collateral truths, that, when the cause was decided
against her, her arguments were remembered with admiration.

Nothing was more common, on either side, than to quit their proper
characters, and to hope for a complete conquest by the use of the
weapons which had been employed against them. Wit would sometimes
labour a syllogism, and learning distort her features with a jest; but
they always suffered by the experiment, and betrayed themselves to
confutation or contempt. The seriousness of wit was without dignity,
and the merriment of learning without vivacity.


Their contests, by long continuance, grew at last important, and the
divinities broke into parties. Wit was taken into protection of the
laughter-loving Venus, had a retinue allowed him of smiles and jests, and
was often permitted to dance among the graces. Learning still continued
the favourite of Minerva, and seldom went out of her palace without
a train of the severer virtues, chastity, temperance, fortitude, and
labour. Wit, cohabiting with malice, had a son named satire, who followed
him, carrying a quiver filled with poisoned arrows, which, where they
once drew blood, could by no skill ever be extracted. These arrows he
frequently shot at learning, when she was most earnestly or usefully
employed, engaged in abstruse inquiries, or giving instructions to her
followers. Minerva, therefore, deputed criticism to her aid, who generally
broke the point of satire's arrows, turned them aside, or retorted them
on himself.

Jupiter was at last angry that the peace of the heavenly regions should
be in perpetual danger of violation, and resolved to dismiss these
troublesome antagonists to the lower world. Hither, therefore, they came,
and carried on their ancient quarrel among mortals, nor was either long
without zealous votaries. Wit, by his gaiety, captivated the young;
and learning, by her authority, influenced the old. Their power quickly
appeared by very eminent effects; theatres were built for the reception
of wit, and colleges endowed for the residence of learning. Each party
endeavoured to outvie the other in cost and magnificence, and to propagate
an opinion, that it was necessary, from the first entrance into life,
to enlist in one of the factions; and that none could hope for the regard
of either divinity, who had once entered the temple of the rival power.

There were, indeed, a class of mortals, by whom wit and learning
were equally disregarded: these were the devotees of Plutus, the god
of riches; among these it seldom happened that the gaiety of wit could
raise a smile, or the eloquence of learning procure attention. In revenge
of this contempt they agreed to incite their followers against them;
but the forces that were sent on those expeditions frequently betrayed
their trust; and, in contempt of the orders which they had received,
flattered the rich in publick, while they scorned them in their hearts;
and when, by this treachery, they had obtained the favour of Plutus,
affected to look with an air of superiority on those who still remained
in the service of wit and learning.

Disgusted with these desertions, the two rivals, at the same time,
petitioned Jupiter for readmission to their native habitations. Jupiter
thundered on the right hand, and they prepared to obey the happy
summons. Wit readily spread his wings and soared aloft, but not being
able to see far, was bewildered in the pathless immensity of the ethereal
spaces. Learning, who knew the way, shook her pinions; but for want of
natural vigour could only take short flights: so, after many efforts,
they both sunk again to the ground, and learned, from their mutual
distress, the necessity of union. They therefore joined their hands,
and renewed their flight: Learning was borne up by the vigour of Wit,
and Wit guided by the perspicacity of Learning. They soon reached the
dwellings of Jupiter, and were so endeared to each other, that they lived
afterwards in perpetual concord. Wit persuaded Learning to converse with
the Graces, and Learning engaged Wit in the service of the Virtues. They
were now the favourites of all the powers of heaven, and gladdened every
banquet by their presence. They soon after married, at the command of
Jupiter, and had a numerous progeny of Arts and Sciences.




No. 23. TUESDAY, JUNE 5, 1750.


_Tres mihi convivæ prope dissentire videntur;_
_Poscentur vario multum diversa palato. _
HOR. lib. ii. Ep. ii. 61.

Three guests I have, dissenting at my feast,
Requiring each to gratify his taste
With different food.
FRANCIS.


That every man should regulate his actions by his own conscience, without
any regard to the opinions of the rest of the world, is one of the first
precepts of moral prudence; justified not only by the suffrage of reason,
which declares that none of the gifts of heaven are to lie useless, but
by the voice likewise of experience, which will soon inform us that,
if we make the praise or blame of others the rule of our conduct, we
shall be distracted by a boundless variety of irreconcileable judgments,
be held in perpetual suspense between contrary impulses, and consult
for ever without determination.

I know not whether, for the same reason, it is not necessary for an
author to place some confidence in his own skill, and to satisfy himself
in the knowledge that he has not deviated from the established laws of
composition, without submitting his works to frequent examinations
before he gives them to the publick, or endeavouring to secure success
by a solicitous conformity to advice and criticism.

It is, indeed, quickly discoverable, that consultation and compliance
can conduce little to the perfection of any literary performance;
for whoever is so doubtful of his own abilities as to encourage the
remarks of others, will find himself every day embarrassed with new
difficulties, and will harass his mind, in vain, with the hopeless
labour of uniting heterogeneous ideas, digesting independent hints, and
collecting into one point the several rays of borrowed light, emitted
often with contrary directions.

Of all authors, those who retail their labours in periodical sheets
would be most unhappy, if they were much to regard the censures or the
admonitions of their readers; for, as their works are not sent into the
world at once, but by small parts in gradual succession, it is always
imagined, by those who think themselves qualified to give instructions,
that they may yet redeem their former failings by hearkening to better
judges, and supply the deficiencies of their plan, by the help of the
criticisms which are so liberally afforded.

I have had occasion to observe, sometimes with vexation, and sometimes
with merriment, the different temper with which the same man reads a
printed and manuscript performance. When a book is once in the hands
of the publick, it is considered as permanent and unalterable; and the
reader, if he be free from personal prejudices, takes it up with no
other intention than of pleasing or instructing himself: he accommodates
his mind to the author's design; and, having no interest in refusing the
amusement that is offered him, never interrupts his own tranquillity by
studied cavils, or destroys his satisfaction in that which is already
well, by an anxious inquiry how it might be better; but is often
contented without pleasure, and pleased without perfection.

But if the same man be called to consider the merit of a production yet
unpublished, he brings an imagination heated with objections to passages
which he has yet never heard; he invokes all the powers of criticism,
and stores his memory with Taste and Grace, Purity and Delicacy, Manners
and Unities, sounds which, having been once uttered by those that
understood them, have been since reechoed without meaning, and kept up
to the disturbance of the world, by a constant repercussion from one
coxcomb to another. He considers himself as obliged to shew, by some
proof of his abilities, that he is not consulted to no purpose, and
therefore watches every opening for objection, and looks round for every
opportunity to propose some specious alteration. Such opportunities a
very small degree of sagacity will enable him to find; for, in every
work of imagination, the disposition of parts, the insertion of
incidents, and use of decorations, may be varied a thousand ways with
equal propríety; and as in things nearly equal, that will always seem
best to every man which he himself produces; the critick, whose business
is only to propose, without the care of execution, can never want
the satisfaction of believing that he has suggested very important
improvements, nor the power of enforcing his advice by arguments, which,
as they appear convincing to himself, either his kindness or his vanity
will press obstinately and importunately, without suspicion that he may
possibly judge too hastily in favour of his own advice, or inquiry
whether the advantage of the new scheme be proportionate to the labour.

It is observed by the younger Pliny, that an orator ought not so much to
select the strongest arguments which his cause admits, as to employ all
which his imagination can afford: for, in pleading, those reasons are of
most value, which will most affect the judges; and the judges, says he,
will be always most touched with that which they had before conceived.
Every man who is called to give his opinion of a performance, decides
upon the same principle; he first suffers himself to form expectations,
and then is angry at his disappointment. He lets his imagination rove at
large, and wonders that another, equally unconfined in the boundless
ocean of possibility, takes a different course.

But, though the rule of Pliny be judiciously laid down, it is not
applicable to the writer's cause, because there always lies an appeal
from domestick criticism to a higher judicature, and the publick, which
is never corrupted, nor often deceived, is to pass the last sentence
upon literary claims.

Of the great force of preconceived opinions I had many proofs, when
I first entered upon this weekly labour. My readers having, from the
performances of my predecessors, established an idea of unconnected
essays, to which they believed all future authors under a necessity of
conforming, were impatient of the least deviation from their system, and
numerous remonstrances were accordingly made by each, as he found his
favourite subject omitted or delayed. Some were angry that the Rambler
did not, like the Spectator, introduce himself to the acquaintance of
the publick, by an account of his own birth and studies, an enumeration
of his adventures, and a description of his physiognomy. Others soon
began to remark that he was a solemn, serious, dictatorial writer,
without sprightliness or gaiety, and called out with vehemence for mirth
and humour. Another admonished him to have a special eye upon the
various clubs of this great city, and informed him that much of the
Spectator's vivacity was laid out upon such assemblies. He has been
censured for not imitating the politeness of his predecessors, having
hitherto neglected to take the ladies under his protection, and give
them rules for the just opposition of colours, and the proper dimensions
of ruffles and pinners. He has been required by one to fix a particular
censure upon those matrons who play at cards with spectacles: and
another is very much offended whenever he meets with a speculation in
which naked precepts are comprised without the illustration of examples
and characters.

I make not the least question that all these monitors intend the
promotion of my design, and the instruction of my readers; but they
do not know, or do not reflect, that an author has a rule of choice
peculiar to himself; and selects those subjects which he is best
qualified to treat, by the course of his studies, or the accidents of
his life; that some topicks of amusement have been already treated with
too much success to invite a competition; and that he who endeavours
to gain many readers must try various arts of invitation, essay every
avenue of pleasure, and make frequent changes in his methods of
approach.

I cannot but consider myself, amidst this tumult of criticism, as a
ship in a poetical tempest, impelled at the same time by opposite
winds, and dashed by the waves from every quarter, but held upright
by the contrariety of the assailants, and secured in some measure
by multiplicity of distress. Had the opinion of my censurers been
unanimous, it might perhaps have overset my resolution; but since I find
them at variance with each other, I can, without scruple, neglect them,
and endeavour to gain the favour of the publick by following the
direction of my own reason, and indulging the sallies of my own
imagination.





No. 24. SATURDAY, JUNE 9, 1750.


_Nemo in sese tentat descendere. _
PERSIUS, Sat. iv. 23.

None, none descends into himself.
DRYDEN.


Among the precepts, or aphorisms, admitted by general consent, and
inculcated by frequent repetition, there is none more famous among the
masters of ancient wisdom, than that compendious lesson, Γνωθι σεαυτον,
_Be acquainted with thyself_; ascribed by some to an oracle, and by
others to Chilo of Lacedæmon.

This is, indeed, a dictate, which, in the whole extent of its meaning,
may be said to comprise all the speculation requisite to a moral agent.
For what more can be necessary to the regulation of life, than the
knowledge of our original, our end, our duties, and our relation to
other beings?

It is however very improbable that the first author, whoever he was,
intended to be understood in this unlimited and complicated sense; for
of the inquiries, which in so large an acceptation it would seem to
recommend, some are too extensive for the powers of man, and some
require light from above, which was not yet indulged to the heathen
world.

We might have had more satisfaction concerning the original import of
this celebrated sentence, if history had informed us, whether it was
uttered as a general instruction to mankind, or as a particular caution
to some private inquirer; whether it was applied to some single
occasion, or laid down as the universal rule of life.

There will occur, upon the slightest consideration, many possible
circumstances, in which this monition might very properly be inforced:
for every errour in human conduct must arise from ignorance in
ourselves, either perpetual or temporary; and happen either because we
do not know what is best and fittest, or because our knowledge is at the
time of action not present to the mind.

When a man employs himself upon remote and unnecessary subjects, and
wastes his life upon questions which cannot be resolved, and of which
the solution would conduce very little to the advancement of happiness;
when he lavishes his hours in calculating the weight of the terraqueous
globe, or in adjusting successive systems of worlds beyond the reach of
the telescope; he may be very properly recalled from his excursions by
this precept, and reminded, that there is a nearer being with which it
is his duty to be more acquainted; and from which his attention has
hitherto been withheld by studies to which he has no other motive than
vanity or curiosity.

The great praise of Socrates is, that he drew the wits of Greece, by his
instruction and example, from the vain pursuit of natural philosophy to
moral inquiries, and turned their thoughts from stars and tides, and
matter and motion, upon the various modes of virtue, and relations of
life. All his lectures were but commentaries upon this saying; if we
suppose the knowledge of ourselves recommended by Chilo, in opposition
to other inquiries less suitable to the state of man.

The great fault of men of learning is still, that they offend against
this rule, and appear willing to study any thing rather than themselves;
for which reason they are often despised by those with whom they imagine
themselves above comparison; despised, as useless to common purposes, as
unable to conduct the most trivial affairs, and unqualified to perform
those offices by which the concatenation of society is preserved, and
mutual tenderness excited and maintained.

Gelidus is a man of great penetration and deep researches. Having a mind
naturally formed for the abstruser sciences, he can comprehend intricate
combinations without confusion, and being of a temper naturally cool and
equal, he is seldom interrupted by his passions in the pursuit of the
longest chain of unexpected consequences. He has, therefore, a long
time indulged hopes, that the solution of some problems, by which the
professors of science have been hitherto baffled, is reserved for his
genius and industry.