No More Learning

The author, whose endeavour is at once to
mollify and elude his persecutor, composes his features and softens his
accent, breaks the force of assault by retreat, and rather steps aside
than flies or advances.

As it very seldom happens that the rage of extemporary criticism
inflicts fatal or lasting wounds, I know not that the laws of
benevolence entitle this distress to much sympathy. The diversion of
baiting an author has the sanction of all ages and nations, and is more
lawful than the sport of teasing other animals, because, for the most
part, he comes voluntarily to the stake, furnished, as he imagines, by
the patron powers of literature, with resistless weapons, and
impenetrable armour, with the mail of the boar of Erymanth, and the paws
of the lion of Nemea.

But the works of genius are sometimes produced by other motives than
vanity; and he whom necessity or duty enforces to write, is not always
so well satisfied with himself, as not to be discouraged by censorious
impudence. It may therefore be necessary to consider, how they whom
publication lays open to the insults of such as their obscurity secures
against reprisals, may extricate themselves from unexpected encounters.

Vida, a man of considerable skill in the politicks of literature,
directs his pupil wholly to abandon his defence, and even when he can
irrefragably refute all objections, to suffer tamely the exultations of
his antagonist.

This rule may perhaps be just, when advice is asked, and severity
solicited, because no man tells his opinion so freely as when he
imagines it received with implicit veneration; and criticks ought never
to be consulted, but while errours may yet be rectified or insipidity
suppressed. But when the book has once been dismissed into the world,
and can be no more retouched, I know not whether a very different
conduct should not be prescribed, and whether firmness and spirit may
not sometimes be of use to overpower arrogance and repel brutality.
Softness, diffidence, and moderation, will often be mistaken for
imbecility and dejection; they hire cowardice to the attack by the hopes
of easy victory, and it will soon be found that he whom every man thinks
he can conquer, shall never be at peace.

The animadversions of criticks are commonly such as may easily provoke
the sedatest writer to some quickness of resentment and asperity of
reply. A man, who by long consideration has familiarized a subject to
his own mind, carefully surveyed the series of his thoughts, and planned
all the parts of his composition into a regular dependance on each
other, will often start at the sinistrous interpretations or absurd
remarks of haste and ignorance, and wonder by what infatuation they have
been led away from the obvious sense, and upon what peculiar principles
of judgment they decide against him.

The eye of the intellect, like that of the body, is not equally perfect
in all, nor equally adapted in any to all objects; the end of criticism
is to supply its defects; rules are the instruments of mental vision,
which may indeed assist our faculties when properly used, but produce
confusion and obscurity by unskilful application.

Some seem always to read with the microscope of criticism, and employ
their whole attention upon minute elegance, or faults scarcely visible
to common observation. The dissonance of a syllable, the recurrence of
the same sound, the repetition of a particle, the smallest deviation
from propriety, the slightest defect in construction or arrangement,
swell before their eyes into enormities. As they discern with great
exactness, they comprehend but a narrow compass, and know nothing of the
justness of the design, the general spirit of the performance, the
artifice of connection, or the harmony of the parts; they never,
conceive how small a proportion that which they are busy in
contemplating bears to the whole, or how the petty inaccuracies, with
which they are offended, are absorbed and lost in general excellence.

Others are furnished by criticism with a telescope. They see with great
clearness whatever is too remote to be discovered by the rest of
mankind, but are totally blind to all that lies immediately before them.
They discover in every passage some secret meaning, some remote
allusion, some artful allegory, or some occult imitation, which no other
reader ever suspected; but they have no perception of the cogency of
arguments, the force of pathetick sentiments, the various colours of
diction, or the flowery embellishments of fancy; of all that engages the
attention of others they are totally insensible, while they pry into
worlds of conjecture, and amuse themselves with phantoms in the clouds.

In criticism, as in every other art, we fail sometimes by our weakness,
but more frequently by our fault. We are sometimes bewildered by
ignorance, and sometimes by prejudice, but we seldom deviate far from
the right, but when we deliver ourselves up to the direction of vanity.



No. 177. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 1751.

_Turpe est difficiles habere nugas_. MART. Lib. ii. Ep. lxxxvi. 9.

Those things which now seem frivolous and slight,
Will be of serious consequence to you,
When they have made you once ridiculous. ROSCOMMON.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

When I was, at the usual time, about to enter upon the profession to
which my friends had destined me, being summoned, by the death of my
father, into the country, I found myself master of an unexpected sum of
money, and of an estate, which, though not large, was, in my opinion,
sufficient to support me in a condition far preferable to the fatigue,
dependance, and uncertainty of any gainful occupation. I therefore
resolved to devote the rest of my life wholly to curiosity, and without
any confinement of my excursions, or termination of my views, to wander
over the boundless regions of general knowledge.

This scheme of life seemed pregnant with inexhaustible variety, and
therefore I could not forbear to congratulate myself upon the wisdom of
my choice. I furnished a large room with all conveniences for study;
collected books of every kind; quitted every science at the first
perception of disgust; returned to it again as soon as my former ardour
happened to revive; and having no rival to depress me by comparison, nor
any critick to alarm me with objections, I spent day after day in
profound tranquillity, with only so much complaisance in my own
improvements, as served to excite and animate my application.

Thus I lived for some years with complete acquiescence in my own plan of
conduct, rising early to read, and dividing the latter part of the day
between economy, exercise, and reflection. But, in time, I began to find
my mind contracted and stiffened by solitude. My ease and elegance were
sensibly impaired; I was no longer able to accommodate myself with
readiness to the accidental current of conversation; my notions grew
particular and paradoxical, and my phraseology formal and unfashionable;
I spoke, on common occasions, the language of books. My quickness of
apprehension, and celerity of reply, had entirely deserted me; when I
delivered my opinion, or detailed my knowledge, I was bewildered by an
unseasonable interrogatory, disconcerted by any slight opposition, and
overwhelmed and lost in dejection, when the smallest advantage was
gained against me in dispute. I became decisive and dogmatical,
impatient of contradiction, perpetually jealous of my character,
insolent to such as acknowledged my superiority, and sullen and
malignant to all who refused to receive my dictates.

This I soon discovered to be one of those intellectual diseases which a
wise man should make haste to cure. I therefore resolved for a time to
shut my books, and learn again the art of conversation; to defecate and
clear my mind by brisker motions, and stronger impulses; and to unite
myself once more to the living generation.

For this purpose I hasted to London, and entreated one of my academical
acquaintances to introduce me into some of the little societies of
literature which are formed in taverns and coffee-houses. He was pleased
with an opportunity of shewing me to his friends, and soon obtained me
admission among a select company of curious men, who met once a week to
exhilarate their studies, and compare their acquisitions.

The eldest and most venerable of this society was Hirsutus, who, after
the first civilities of my reception, found means to introduce the
mention of his favourite studies, by a severe censure of those who want
the due regard for their native country. He informed me, that he had
early withdrawn his attention from foreign trifles, and that since he
began to addict his mind to serious and manly studies, he had very
carefully amassed all the English books that were printed in the black
character. This search he had pursued so diligently, that he was able to
shew the deficiencies of the best catalogues. He had long since
completed his Caxton, had three sheets of Treveris unknown to the
antiquaries, and wanted to a perfect Pynson but two volumes, of which
one was promised him as a legacy by its present possessor, and the other
he was resolved to buy, at whatever price, when Quisquilius's library
should be sold. Hirsutus had no other reason for the valuing or
slighting a book, than that it was printed in the Roman or the Gothic
letter, nor any ideas but such as his favourite volumes had supplied;
when he was serious he expatiated on the narratives "of Johan de
Trevisa," and when he was merry, regaled us with a quotation from the
"Shippe of Foles. "

While I was listening to this hoary student, Ferratus entered in a
hurry, and informed us with the abruptness of ecstacy, that his set of
halfpence was now complete; he had just received in a handful of change,
the piece that he had so long been seeking, and could now defy mankind
to outgo his collection of English copper.

Chartophylax then observed how fatally human sagacity was sometimes
baffled, and how often the most valuable discoveries are made by chance.
He had employed himself and his emissaries seven years at great expense
to perfect his series of Gazettes, but had long wanted a single paper,
which, when he despaired of obtaining it, was sent him wrapped round a
parcel of tobacco.

Cantilenus turned all his thoughts upon old ballads, for he considered
them as the genuine records of the national taste. He offered to shew me
a copy of "The Children in the Wood," which he firmly believed to be of
the first edition, and, by the help of which, the text might be freed
from several corruptions, if this age of barbarity had any claim to such
favours from him.

Many were admitted into this society as inferior members, because they
had collected old prints and neglected pamphlets, or possessed some
fragment of antiquity, as the seal of an ancient corporation, the
charter of a religious house, the genealogy of a family extinct, or a
letter written in the reign of Elizabeth.

Every one of these virtuosos looked on all his associates as wretches of
depraved taste and narrow notions. Their conversation was, therefore,
fretful and waspish, their behaviour brutal, their merriment bluntly
sarcastick, and their seriousness gloomy and suspicious. They were
totally ignorant of all that passes, or has lately passed, in the world;
unable to discuss any question of religious, political, or military
knowledge; equally strangers to science and politer learning, and
without any wish to improve their minds, or any other pleasure than that
of displaying rarities, of which they would not suffer others to make
the proper use.

Hirsutus graciously informed me, that the number of their society was
limited, but that I might sometimes attend as an auditor. I was pleased
to find myself in no danger of an honour, which I could not have
willingly accepted, nor gracefully refused, and left them without any
intention of returning; for I soon found that the suppression of those
habits with which I was vitiated, required association with men very
different from this solemn race.

I am, Sir, &c.

VIVACULUS.

It is natural to feel grief or indignation when any thing necessary or
useful is wantonly wasted, or negligently destroyed; and therefore my
correspondent cannot be blamed for looking with uneasiness on the waste
of life. Leisure and curiosity might soon make great advances in useful
knowledge, were they not diverted by minute emulation and laborious
trifles. It may, however, somewhat mollify his anger to reflect, that
perhaps none of the assembly which he describes, was capable of any
nobler employment, and that he who does his best, however little, is
always to be distinguished from him who does nothing. Whatever busies
the mind without corrupting it, has at least this use, that it rescues
the day from idleness, and he that is never idle will not often be
vicious.



No. 178. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 1751.

_Purs sanitatis velle sanuria fuit_. SENECA.

To yield to remedies is half the cure.

Pythagoras is reported to have required from those whom he instructed in
philosophy a probationary silence of five years. Whether this
prohibition of speech extended to all the parts of this time, as seems
generally to be supposed, or was to be observed only in the school or in
the presence of their master, as is more probable, it was sufficient to
discover the pupil's disposition; to try whether he was willing to pay
the price of learning, or whether he was one of those whose ardour was
rather violent than lasting, and who expected to grow wise on other
terms than those of patience and obedience.

Many of the blessings universally desired, are very frequently wanted,
because most men, when they should labour, content themselves to
complain, and rather linger in a state in which they cannot be at rest,
than improve their condition by vigour and resolution.

Providence has fixed the limits of human enjoyment by immoveable
boundaries, and has set different gratifications at such a distance from
each other, that no art or power can bring them together. This great law
it is the business of every rational being to understand, that life may
not pass away in an attempt to make contradictions consistent, to
combine opposite qualities, and to unite things which the nature of
their being must always keep asunder.

Of two objects tempting at a distance on contrary sides, it is
impossible to approach one but by receding from the other; by long
deliberation and dilatory projects, they may be both lost, but can never
be both gained. It is, therefore, necessary to compare them, and, when
we have determined the preference, to withdraw our eyes and our thoughts
at once from that which reason directs us to reject. This is more
necessary, if that which we are forsaking has the power of delighting
the senses, or firing the fancy. He that once turns aside to the
allurements of unlawful pleasure, can have no security that he shall
ever regain the paths of virtue.

The philosophick goddess of Boethius, having related the story of
Orpheus, who, when he had recovered his wife from the dominions of
death, lost her again by looking back upon her in the confines of light,
concludes with a very elegant and forcible application. "Whoever you are
that endeavour to elevate your minds to the illuminations of Heaven,
consider yourselves as represented in this fable; for he that is once so
far overcome as to turn back his eyes towards the infernal caverns,
loses at the first sight all that influence which attracted him on
high:"

Vos haec fabula respicit,
Quicunque in superum diem
Mentem ducere quaeritis.
Nam qui Tartareum in specus
Victus lumina flexerit,
Quidquid praecipuum trahit,
Perdit, dum videt inferos.

It may be observed, in general, that the future is purchased by the
present. It is not possible to secure instant or permanent happiness but
by the forbearance of some immediate gratification. This is so evidently
true with regard to the whole of our existence, that all the precepts of
theology have no other tendency than to enforce a life of faith; a life
regulated not by our senses but our belief; a life in which pleasures
are to be refused for fear of invisible punishments, and calamities
sometimes to be sought, and always endured, in hope of rewards that
shall be obtained in another state.

Even if we take into our view only that particle of our duration which
is terminated by the grave, it will be found that we cannot enjoy one
part of life beyond the common limitations of pleasure, but by
anticipating some of the satisfaction which should exhilarate the
following years. The heat of youth may spread happiness into wild
luxuriance, but the radical vigour requisite to make it perennial is
exhausted, and all that can be hoped afterwards is languor and
sterility.

The reigning errour of mankind is, that we are not content with the
conditions on which the goods of life are granted. No man is insensible
of the value of knowledge, the advantages of health, or the convenience
of plenty, but every day shews us those on whom the conviction is
without effect.

Knowledge is praised and desired by multitudes whom her charms could
never rouse from the couch of sloth; whom the faintest invitation of
pleasure draws away from their studies; to whom any other method of
wearing out the day is more eligible than the use of books, and who are
more easily engaged by any conversation, than such as may rectify their
notions or enlarge their comprehension.

Every man that has felt pain, knows how little all other comforts can
gladden him to whom health is denied. Yet who is there does not
sometimes hazard it for the enjoyment of an hour? All assemblies of
jollity, all places of public entertainment, exhibit examples of
strength wasting in riot, and beauty withering in irregularity; nor is
it easy to enter a house in which part of the family is not groaning in
repentance of past intemperance, and part admitting disease by
negligence, or soliciting it by luxury.

There is no pleasure which men of every age and sect have more generally
agreed to mention with contempt, than the gratifications of the palate;
an entertainment so far removed from intellectual happiness, that
scarcely the most shameless of the sensual herd have dared to defend it:
yet even to this, the lowest of our delights, to this, though neither
quick nor lasting, is health with all its activity and sprightliness
daily sacrificed; and for this are half the miseries endured which urge
impatience to call on death.

The whole world is put in motion by the wish for riches and the dread of
poverty. Who, then, would not imagine that such conduct as will
inevitably destroy what all are thus labouring to acquire, must
generally be avoided? That he who spends more than he receives, must in
time become indigent, cannot be doubted; but, how evident soever this
consequence may appear, the spendthrift moves in the whirl of pleasure
with too much rapidity to keep it before his eyes, and, in the
intoxication of gaiety, grows every day poorer without any such sense of
approaching ruin as is sufficient to wake him into caution.

Many complaints are made of the misery of life; and indeed it must be
confessed that we are subject to calamities by which the good and bad,
the diligent and slothful, the vigilant and heedless, are equally
afflicted. But surely, though some indulgence may be allowed to groans
extorted by inevitable misery, no man has a right to repine at evils
which, against warning, against experience, he deliberately and
leisurely brings upon his own head; or to consider himself as debarred
from happiness by such obstacles as resolution may break or dexterity
may put aside.

Great numbers who quarrel with their condition, have wanted not the
power but the will to obtain a better state. They have never
contemplated the difference between good and evil sufficiently to
quicken aversion, or invigorate desire; they have indulged a drowsy
thoughtlessness or giddy levity; have committed the balance of choice to
the management of caprice; and when they have long accustomed themselves
to receive all that chance offered them, without examination, lament at
last that they find themselves deceived.



No. 179. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 3, 1751.

_Perpetuo risu pulmonem agitare solebat_. JUV. Sat. x. 33.

Democritus would feed his spleen, and shake
His sides and shoulders till he felt them ake. DRYDEN

Every man, says Tully, has two characters; one which he partakes with
all mankind, and by which he is distinguished from brute animals;
another which discriminates him from the rest of his own species, and
impresses on him a manner and temper peculiar to himself; this
particular character, if it be not repugnant to the laws of general
humanity, it is always his business to cultivate and preserve.

Every hour furnishes some confirmation of Tully's precept. It seldom
happens, that an assembly of pleasure is so happily selected, but that
some one finds admission, with whom the rest are deservedly offended;
and it will appear, on a close inspection, that scarce any man becomes
eminently disagreeable, but by a departure from his real character, and
an attempt at something for which nature or education have left him
unqualified.

Ignorance or dulness have indeed no power of affording delight, but they
never give disgust except when they assume the dignity of knowledge, or
ape the sprightliness of wit. Awkwardness and inelegance have none of
those attractions by which ease and politeness take possession of the
heart; but ridicule and censure seldom rise against them, unless they
appear associated with that confidence which belongs only to long
acquaintance with the modes of life, and to consciousness of unfailing
propriety of behaviour. Deformity itself is regarded with tenderness
rather than aversion, when it does not attempt to deceive the sight by
dress and decoration, and to seize upon fictitious claims the
prerogatives of beauty.

He that stands to contemplate the crowds that fill the streets of a
populous city, will see many passengers whose air and motion it will be
difficult to behold without contempt and laughter; but if he examines
what are the appearances that thus powerfully excite his risibility, he
will find among them neither poverty nor disease, nor any involuntary or
painful defect. The disposition to derision and insult is awakened by
the softness of foppery, the swell of insolence, the liveliness of
levity, or the solemnity of grandeur; by the sprightly trip, the stately
stalk, the formal strut, the lofty mien; by gestures intended to catch
the eye, and by looks elaborately formed as evidences of importance.

It, has, I think, been sometimes urged in favour of affectation, that it
is only a mistake of the means to a good end, and that the intention
with which it is practised is always to please. If all attempts to
innovate the constitutional or habitual character have really proceeded
from publick spirit and love of others, the world has hitherto been
sufficiently ungrateful, since no return but scorn has yet been made to
the most difficult of all enterprises, a contest with nature; nor has
any pity been shown to the fatigues of labour which never succeeded, and
the uneasiness of disguise by which nothing was concealed.

It seems therefore to be determined by the general suffrage of mankind,
that he who decks himself in adscititious qualities rather purposes to
command applause than impart pleasure: and he is therefore treated as a
man who, by an unreasonable ambition, usurps the place in society to
which he has no right. Praise is seldom paid with willingness even to
incontestable merit, and it can be no wonder that he who calls for it
without desert is repulsed with universal indignation.

Affectation naturally counterfeits those excellencies which are placed
at the greatest distance from possibility of attainment. We are
conscious of our own defects, and eagerly endeavour to supply them by
artificial excellence; nor would such efforts be wholly without excuse,
were they not often excited by ornamental trifles, which he, that thus
anxiously struggles for the reputation of possessing them, would not
have been known to want, had not his industry quickened observation.

Gelasimus passed the first part of his life in academical privacy and
rural retirement, without any other conversation than that of scholars,
grave, studious, and abstracted as himself. He cultivated the
mathematical sciences with indefatigable diligence, discovered many
useful theorems, discussed with great accuracy the resistance of fluids,
and, though his priority was not generally acknowledged, was the first
who fully explained all the properties of the catenarian curve.

Learning, when if rises to eminence, will be observed in time, whatever
mists may happen to surround it. Gelasimus, in his forty-ninth year, was
distinguished by those who have the rewards of knowledge in their hands,
and called out to display his acquisitions for the honour of his
country, and add dignity by his presence to philosophical assemblies. As
he did not suspect his unfitness for common affairs, he fell no
reluctance to obey the invitation, and what he did not feel he had yet
too much honesty to feign. He entered into the world as a larger and
more populous college, where his performances would be more publick, and
his renown farther extended; and imagined that he should find his
reputation universally prevalent, and the influence of learning every
where the same.

His merit introduced him to splendid tables and elegant acquaintance;
but he did not find himself always qualified to join in the
conversation. He was distressed by civilities, which he knew not how to
repay, and entangled in many ceremonial perplexities, from which his
books and diagrams could not extricate him. He was sometimes unluckily
engaged in disputes with ladies, with whom algebraick axioms had no
great weight, and saw many whose favour and esteem he could not but
desire, to whom he was very little recommended by his theories of the
tides, or his approximations to the quadrature of the circle.

Gelasimus did not want penetration to discover, that no charm was more
generally irresistible than that of easy facetiousness and flowing
hilarity. He saw that diversion was more frequently welcome than
improvement; that authority and seriousness were rather feared than
loved; and that the grave scholar was a kind of imperious ally, hastily
dismissed when his assistance was no longer necessary. He came to a
sudden resolution of throwing off those cumbrous ornaments of learning
which hindered his reception, and commenced a man of wit and jocularity.
Utterly unacquainted with every topick of merriment, ignorant of the
modes and follies, the vices and virtues of mankind, and unfurnished
with any ideas but such as Pappas and Archimedes had given him, he began
to silence all inquiries with a jest instead of a solution, extended his
face with a grin, which he mistook for a smile, and in the place of
scientifick discourse, retailed in a new language, formed between the
college and the tavern, the intelligence of the newspaper.

Laughter, he knew, was a token of alacrity; and, therefore, whatever he
said or heard, he was careful not to fail in that great duty of a wit.
If he asked or told the hour of the day, if he complained of heat or
cold, stirred the fire, or filled a glass, removed his chair, or snuffed
a candle, he always found some occasion to laugh. The jest was indeed a
secret to all but himself; but habitual confidence in his own
discernment hindered him from suspecting any weakness or mistake. He
wondered that his wit was so little understood, but expected that his
audience would comprehend it by degrees, and persisted all his life to
shew by gross buffoonery, how little the strongest faculties can perform
beyond the limits of their own province.



No. 180. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1751.

[Greek: Taut eidos sophos isthi, mataen d' Epikouron eason
Poy to kenon zaetein, kai tines ai monades. ] AUTOMEDON.

On life, on morals, be thy thoughts employ'd;
Leave to the schools their atoms and their void.

It is somewhere related by Le Clerc, that a wealthy trader of good
understanding, having the common ambition to breed his son a scholar,
carried him to an university, resolving to use his own judgment in the
choice of a tutor. He had been taught, by whatever intelligence, the
nearest way to the heart of an academick, and at his arrival entertained
all who came about him with such profusion, that the professors were
lured by the smell of his table from their books, and flocked round him
with all the cringes of awkward complaisance. This eagerness answered
the merchant's purpose: he glutted them with delicacies, and softened
them with caresses, till he prevailed upon one after another to open his
bosom, and make a discovery of his competitions, jealousies, and
resentments. Having thus learned each man's character, partly from
himself, and partly from his acquaintances, he resolved to find some
other education for his son, and went away convinced, that a scholastick
life has no other tendency than to vitiate the morals and contract the
understanding: nor would he afterwards hear with patience the praises of
the ancient authors, being persuaded that scholars of all ages must have
been the same, and that Xenophon and Cicero were professors of some
former university, and therefore mean and selfish, ignorant and servile,
like those whom he had lately visited and forsaken.

Envy, curiosity, and a sense of the imperfection of our present state,
incline us to estimate the advantages which are in the possession of
others above their real value. Every one must have remarked, what powers
and prerogatives the vulgar imagine to be conferred by learning. A man
of science is expected to excel the unlettered and unenlightened even on
occasions where literature is of no use, and among weak minds, loses
part of his reverence, by discovering no superiority in those parts of
life, in which all are unavoidably equal; as when a monarch makes a
progress to the remoter provinces, the rustics are said sometimes to
wonder that they find him of the same size with themselves.

These demands of prejudice and folly can never be satisfied; and
therefore many of the imputations which learning suffers from
disappointed ignorance, are without reproach. But there are some
failures, to which men of study are peculiarly exposed. Every condition
has its disadvantages. The circle of knowledge is too wide for the most
active and diligent intellect, and while science is pursued, other
accomplishments are neglected; as a small garrison must leave one part
of an extensive fortress naked, when an alarm calls them to another.

The learned, however, might generally support their dignity with more
success, if they suffered not themselves to be misled by the desire of
superfluous attainments. Raphael, in return to Adam's inquiries into the
courses of the stars, and the revolutions of heaven, counsels him to
withdraw his mind from idle speculations, and employ his faculties upon
nearer and more interesting objects, the survey of his own life, the
subjection of his passions, the knowledge of duties which must daily be
performed, and the detection of dangers which must daily be incurred.

This angelick counsel every man of letters should always have before
him. He that devotes himself to retired study naturally sinks from
omission to forgetfulness of social duties; he must be therefore
sometimes awakened and recalled to the general condition of mankind.

I am far from any intention to limit curiosity, or confine the labours
of learning to arts of immediate and necessary use. It is only from the
various essays of experimental industry, and the vague excursions of
minds sent out upon discovery, that any advancement of knowledge can be
expected; and, though many must be disappointed in their labours, yet
they are not to be charged with having spent their time in vain; their
example contributed to inspire emulation, and their miscarriages taught
others the way to success.

But the distant hope of being one day useful or eminent, ought not to
mislead us too far from that study which is equally requisite to the
great and mean, to the celebrated and obscure; the art of moderating the
desires, of repressing the appetites, and of conciliating or retaining
the favour of mankind.

No man can imagine the course of his own life, or the conduct of the
world around him, unworthy his attention; yet, among the sons of
learning, many seem to have thought of every thing rather than of
themselves, and to have observed every thing but what passes before
their eyes: many who toil through the intricacy of complicated systems,
are insuperably embarrassed with the least perplexity in common affairs;
many who compare the actions, and ascertain the characters of ancient
heroes, let their own days glide away without examination, and suffer
vicious habits to encroach upon their minds without resistance or
detection.

The most frequent reproach of the scholastick race is the want of
fortitude, not martial but philosophick. Men bred in shades and silence,
taught to immure themselves at sunset, and accustomed to no other weapon
than syllogism, may be allowed to feel terrour at personal danger, and
to be disconcerted by tumult and alarm. But why should he whose life is
spent in contemplation, and whose business is only to discover truth, be
unable to rectify the fallacies of imagination, or contend successfully
against prejudice and passion? To what end has he read and meditated, if
he gives up his understanding to false appearances, and suffers himself
to be enslaved by fear of evils to which only folly or vanity can expose
him, or elated by advantages to which, as they are equally conferred
upon the good and bad, no real dignity is annexed.

Such, however, is the state of the world, that the most obsequious of
the slaves of pride, the most rapturous of the gazers upon wealth, the
most officious of the whisperers of greatness, are collected from
seminaries appropriated to the study of wisdom and of virtue, where it
was intended that appetite should learn to be content with little, and
that hope should aspire only to honours which no human power can give or
take away[j].

The student, when he comes forth into the world, instead of
congratulating himself upon his exemption from the errours of those
whose opinions have been formed by accident or custom, and who live
without any certain principles of conduct, is commonly in haste to
mingle with the multitude, and shew his sprightliness and ductility by
an expeditious compliance with fashions or vices. The first smile of a
man, whose fortune gives him power to reward his dependants, commonly
enchants him beyond resistance; the glare of equipage, the sweets of
luxury, the liberality of general promises, the softness of habitual
affability, fill his imagination; and he soon ceases to have any other
wish than to be well received, or any measure of right and wrong but the
opinion of his patron.

A man flattered and obeyed, learns to exact grosser adulation, and
enjoin lower submission. Neither our virtues nor vices are all our own.
If there were no cowardice, there would be little insolence; pride
cannot rise to any great degree, but by the concurrence of blandishment
or the sufferance of tameness. The wretch who would shrink and crouch
before one that should dart his eyes upon him with the spirit of natural
equality, becomes capricious and tyrannical when he sees himself
approached with a downcast look, and hears the soft address of awe and
servility. To those who are willing to purchase favour by cringes and
compliance, is to be imputed the haughtiness that leaves nothing to be
hoped by firmness and integrity.

If, instead of wandering after the meteors of philosophy, which fill the
world with splendour for a while, and then sink and are forgotten, the
candidates of learning fixed their eyes upon the permanent lustre of
moral and religious truth, they would find a more certain direction to
happiness. A little plausibility of discourse, and acquaintance with
unnecessary speculations, is dearly purchased, when it excludes those
instructions which fortify the heart with resolution, and exalt the
spirit to independence.

[Footnote j: "Such are a sort of sacrilegious ministers in the temple of
intellect. They profane its shew-bread to pamper the palate, its
everlasting lamp they use to light unholy fires within their breast, and
show them the way to the sensual chambers of sense and worldliness. "
IRVING. ]



No. 181. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 10, 1751.

_--Neu fluitem dubue spe pendulus horae_. HOR. Lib. i. Ep. xviii. 110.

Nor let me float in fortune's pow'r,
Dependent on the future hour. FRANCIS.

TO THE RAMBLER.
SIR,

As I have passed much of my life in disquiet and suspense, and lost many
opportunities of advantage by a passion which I have reason to believe
prevalent in different degrees over a great part of mankind, I cannot
but think myself well qualified to warn those who are yet uncaptivated,
of the danger which they incur by placing themselves within its
influence.

I served an apprenticeship to a linen-draper, with uncommon reputation
for diligence and fidelity; and at the age of three-and-twenty opened a
shop for myself with a large stock, and such credit among all the
merchants, who were acquainted with my master, that I could command
whatever was imported curious or valuable. For five years I proceeded
with success proportionate to close application and untainted integrity;
was a daring bidder at every sale; always paid my notes before they were
due; and advanced so fast in commercial reputation, that I was
proverbially marked out as the model of young traders, and every one
expected that a few years would make me an alderman.

In this course of even prosperity, I was one day persuaded to buy a
ticket in the lottery. The sum was inconsiderable, part was to be repaid
though fortune might fail to favour me, and therefore my established
maxims of frugality did not restrain me from so trifling an experiment.
The ticket lay almost forgotten till the time at which every man's fate
was to be determined; nor did the affair even then seem of any
importance, till I discovered by the publick papers that the number next
to mine had conferred the great prize.

My heart leaped at the thought of such an approach to sudden riches,
which I considered myself, however contrarily to the laws of
computation, as having missed by a single chance; and I could not
forbear to revolve the consequences which such a bounteous allotment
would have produced, if it had happened to me. This dream of felicity,
by degrees, took possession of my imagination. The great delight of my
solitary hours was to purchase an estate, and form plantations with
money which once might have been mine, and I never met my friends but I
spoiled all their merriment by perpetual complaints of my ill luck.

At length another lottery was opened, and I had now so heated my
imagination with the prospect of a prize, that I should have pressed
among the first purchasers, had not my ardour been withheld by
deliberation upon the probability of success from one ticket rather than
another. I hesitated long between even and odd; considered the square
and cubick numbers through the lottery; examined all those to which good
luck had been hitherto annexed; and at last fixed upon one, which, by
some secret relation to the events of my life, I thought predestined to
make me happy. Delay in great affairs is often mischievous; the ticket
was sold, and its possessor could not be found.

I returned to my conjectures, and after many arts of prognostication,
fixed upon another chance, but with less confidence. Never did captive,
heir, or lover, feel so much vexation from the slow pace of time, as I
suffered between the purchase of my ticket and the distribution of the
prizes. I solaced my uneasiness as well as I could, by frequent
contemplation of approaching happiness; when the sun rose I knew it
would set, and congratulated myself at night that I was so much nearer
to my wishes. At last the day came, my ticket appeared, and rewarded all
my care and sagacity with a despicable prize of fifty pounds.

My friends, who honestly rejoiced upon my success, were very coldly
received; I hid myself a fortnight in the country, that my chagrin might
fume away without observation, and then returning to my shop, began to
listen after another lottery.

With the news of a lottery I was soon gratified, and having now found
the vanity of conjecture, and inefficacy of computation, I resolved to
take the prize by violence, and therefore bought forty tickets, not
omitting, however, to divide them between the even and odd numbers, that
I might not miss the lucky class. Many conclusions did I form, and many
experiments did I try, to determine from which of those tickets I might
most reasonably expect riches. At last, being unable to satisfy myself
by any modes of reasoning, I wrote the numbers upon dice, and allotted
five hours every day to the amusement of throwing them in a garret; and,
examining the event by an exact register, found, on the evening before
the lottery was drawn, that one of my numbers had been turned up five
times more than any of the rest in three hundred and thirty thousand
throws.

This experiment was fallacious; the first day presented the hopeful
ticket, a detestable blank. The rest came out with different fortune,
and in conclusion I lost thirty pounds by this great adventure.

I had now wholly changed the cast of my behaviour and the conduct of my
life. The shop was for the most part abandoned to my servants, and if I
entered it, my thoughts were so engrossed by my tickets, that I scarcely
heard or answered a question, but considered every customer as an
intruder upon my meditations, whom I was in haste to despatch. I mistook
the price of my goods, committed blunders in my bills, forgot to file my
receipts, and neglected to regulate my books. My acquaintances by
degrees began to fall away; but I perceived the decline of my business
with little emotion, because whatever deficience there might be in my
gains, I expected the next lottery to supply.

Miscarriage naturally produces diffidence; I began now to seek
assistance against ill luck, by an alliance with those that had been
more successful. I inquired diligently at what office any prize had been
sold, that I might purchase of a propitious vender; solicited those who
had been fortunate in former lotteries, to partake with me in my new
tickets; and whenever I met with one that had in any event of his life
been eminently prosperous, I invited him to take a larger share. I had,
by this rule of conduct, so diffused my interest, that I had a fourth
part of fifteen tickets, an eighth of forty, and a sixteenth of ninety.

I waited for the decision of my fate with my former palpitations, and
looked upon the business of my trade with the usual neglect. The wheel
at last was turned, and its revolutions brought me a long succession of
sorrows and disappointments. I indeed often partook of a small prize,
and the loss of one day was generally balanced by the gain of the next;
but my desires yet remained unsatisfied, and when one of my chances had
failed, all my expectation was suspended on those which remained yet
undetermined. At last a prize of five thousand pounds was proclaimed; I
caught fire at the cry, and inquiring the number, found it to be one of
my own tickets, which I had divided among those on whose luck I
depended, and of which I had retained only a sixteenth part.

You will easily judge with what detestation of himself, a man thus
intent upon gain reflected that he had sold a prize which was once in
his possession. It was to no purpose, that I represented to my mind the
impossibility of recalling the past, or the folly of condemning an act,
which only its event, an event which no human intelligence could
foresee, proved to be wrong. The prize which, though put in my hands,
had been suffered to slip from me, filled me with anguish, and knowing
that complaint would only expose me to ridicule, I gave myself up
silently to grief, and lost by degrees my appetite and my rest.

My indisposition soon became visible; I was visited by my friends, and
among them by Eumathes, a clergyman, whose piety and learning gave him
such an ascendant over me, that I could not refuse to open my heart.
There are, said he, few minds sufficiently firm to be trusted in the
hands of chance. Whoever finds himself inclined to anticipate futurity,
and exalt possibility to certainty, should avoid every kind of casual
adventure, since his grief must be always proportionate to his hope. You
have long wasted that time, which, by a proper application, would have
certainly, though moderately, increased your fortune, in a laborious and
anxious pursuit of a species of gain, which no labour or anxiety, no art
or expedient, can secure or promote. You are now fretting away your life
in repentance of an act, against which repentance can give no caution,
but to avoid the occasion of committing it. Rouse from this lazy dream
of fortuitous riches, which, if obtained, you could scarcely have
enjoyed, because they could confer no consciousness of desert; return to
rational and manly industry, and consider the mere gift of luck as below
the care of a wise man.



No. 182. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 14, 1751.

_--Dives qui fieri vult,
Et cilo vult fieri. --_ JUV. Sat. xiv. 176

The lust of wealth can never bear delay.

It has been observed in a late paper, that we are unreasonably desirous
to separate the goods of life from those evils which Providence has
connected with them, and to catch advantages without paying the price at
which they are offered us. Every man wishes to be rich, but very few
have the powers necessary to raise a sudden fortune, either by new
discoveries, or by superiority of skill, in any necessary employment;
and among lower understandings, many want the firmness and industry
requisite to regular gain and gradual acquisitions.

From the hope of enjoying affluence by methods more compendious than
those of labour, and more generally practicable than those of genius,
proceeds the common inclination to experiment and hazard, and that
willingness to snatch all opportunities of growing rich by chance,
which, when it has once taken possession of the mind, is seldom driven
out either by time or argument, but continues to waste life in perpetual
delusion, and generally ends in wretchedness and want.

The folly of untimely exultation and visionary prosperity, is by no
means peculiar to the purchasers of tickets; there are multitudes whose
life is nothing but a continual lottery; who are always within a few
months of plenty and happiness, and how often soever they are mocked
with blanks, expect a prize from the next adventure.

Among the most resolute and ardent of the votaries of chance, may be
numbered the mortals whose hope is to raise themselves by a wealthy
match; who lay out all their industry on the assiduities of courtship,
and sleep and wake with no other ideas than of treats, compliments,
guardians and rivals.

One of the most indefatigable of this class, is my old friend Leviculus,
whom I have never known for thirty years without some matrimonial
project of advantage. Leviculus was bred under a merchant, and by the
graces of his person, the sprightliness of his prattle, and the neatness
of his dress, so much enamoured his master's second daughter, a girl of
sixteen, that she declared her resolution to have no other husband. Her
father, after having chidden her for undutifulness, consented to the
match, not much to the satisfaction of Leviculus, who was sufficiently
elated with his conquest to think himself entitled to a larger fortune.
He was, however, soon rid of his perplexity, for his mistress died
before their marriage.

He was now so well satisfied with his own accomplishments, that he
determined to commence fortune-hunter; and when his apprenticeship
expired, instead of beginning, as was expected, to walk the Exchange
with a face of importance, or associating himself with those who were
most eminent for their knowledge of the stocks, he at once threw off the
solemnity of the counting-house, equipped himself with a modish wig,
listened to wits in coffee-houses, passed his evenings behind the scenes
in the theatres, learned the names of beauties of quality, hummed the
last stanzas of fashionable songs, talked with familiarity of high play,
boasted of his achievements upon drawers and coachmen, was often brought
to his lodgings at midnight in a chair, told with negligence and
jocularity of bilking a tailor, and now and then let fly a shrewd jest
at a sober citizen.

Thus furnished with irresistible artillery, he turned his batteries upon
the female world, and, in the first warmth of self-approbation, proposed
no less than the possession of riches and beauty united. He therefore
paid his civilities to Flavilla, the only daughter of a wealthy
shop-keeper, who not being accustomed to amorous blandishments, or
respectful addresses, was delighted with the novelty of love, and easily
suffered him to conduct her to the play, and to meet her where she
visited. Leviculus did not doubt but her father, however offended by a
clandestine marriage, would soon be reconciled by the tears of his
daughter, and the merit of his son-in-law, and was in haste to conclude
the affair. But the lady liked better to be courted than married, and
kept him three years in uncertainty and attendance. At last she fell in
love with a young ensign at a ball, and having danced with him all
night, married him in the morning.

Leviculus, to avoid the ridicule of his companions, took a journey to a
small estate in the country, where, after his usual inquiries concerning
the nymphs in the neighbourhood, he found it proper to fall in love with
Altilia, a maiden lady, twenty years older than himself, for whose
favour fifteen nephews and nieces were in perpetual contention. They
hovered round her with such jealous officiousness, as scarcely left a
moment vacant for a lover. Leviculus, nevertheless, discovered his
passion in a letter, and Altilia could not withstand the pleasure of
hearing vows and sighs, and flatteries and protestations. She admitted
his visits, enjoyed for five years the happiness of keeping all her
expectants in perpetual alarms, and amused herself with the various
stratagems which were practised to disengage her affections. Sometimes
she was advised with great earnestness to travel for her health, and
sometimes entreated to keep her brother's house. Many stories were
spread to the disadvantage of Leviculus, by which she commonly seemed
affected for a time, but took care soon afterwards to express her
conviction of their falsehood. But being at last satiated with this
ludicrous tyranny, she told her lover, when he pressed for the reward of
his services, that she was very sensible of his merit, but was resolved
not to impoverish an ancient family.

He then returned to the town, and soon after his arrival, became
acquainted with Latronia, a lady distinguished by the elegance of her
equipage, and the regularity of her conduct. Her wealth was evident in
her magnificence, and her prudence in her economy, and therefore
Leviculus, who had scarcely confidence to solicit her favour, readily
acquitted fortune of her former debts, when he found himself
distinguished by her with such marks of preference as a woman of modesty
is allowed to give. He now grew bolder, and ventured to breathe out his
impatience before her. She heard him without resentment, in time
permitted him to hope for happiness, and at last fixed the nuptial day,
without any distrustful reserve of pin-money, or sordid stipulations for
jointure, and settlements.

Leviculus was triumphing on the eve of marriage, when he heard on the
stairs the voice of Latronia's maid, whom frequent bribes had secured in
his service. She soon burst into his room, and told him that she could
not suffer him to be longer deceived; that her mistress was now spending
the last payment of her fortune, and was only supported in her expense
by the credit of his estate. Leviculus shuddered to see himself so near
a precipice, and found that he was indebted for his escape to the
resentment of the maid, who having assisted Latronia to gain the
conquest, quarrelled with her at last about the plunder.

Leviculus was now hopeless and disconsolate, till one Sunday he saw a
lady in the Mall, whom her dress declared a widow, and whom, by the
jolting prance of her gait, and the broad resplendence of her
countenance, he guessed to have lately buried some prosperous citizen.
He followed her home, and found her to be no less than the relict of
Prune the grocer, who, having no children, had bequeathed to her all his
debts and dues, and his estates real and personal. No formality was
necessary in addressing madam Prune, and therefore Leviculus went next
morning without an introductor. His declaration was received with a loud
laugh; she then collected her countenance, wondered at his impudence,
asked if he knew to whom he was talking, then shewed him the door, and
again laughed to find him confused. Leviculus discovered that this
coarseness was nothing more than the coquetry of Cornhill, and next day
returned to the attack. He soon grew familiar to her dialect, and in a
few weeks heard, without any emotion, hints of gay clothes with empty
pockets; concurred in many sage remarks on the regard due to people of
property; and agreed with her in detestation of the ladies at the other
end of the town, who pinched their bellies to buy fine laces, and then
pretended to laugh at the city.

He sometimes presumed to mention marriage; but was always answered with
a slap, a hoot, and a flounce. At last he began to press her closer, and
thought himself more favourably received; but going one morning, with a
resolution to trifle no longer, he found her gone to church with a young
journeyman from the neighbouring shop, of whom she had become enamoured
at her window.

In these, and a thousand intermediate adventures, has Leviculus spent
his time, till he is now grown grey with age, fatigue, and
disappointment. He begins at last to find that success is not to be
expected, and being unfit for any employment that might improve his
fortune, and unfurnished with any arts that might amuse his leisure, is
condemned to wear out a tasteless life in narratives which few will
hear, and complaints which none will pity.



No. 183. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 17, 1751.

_Nidla fides regni sociis, omnisque potestas
Impatiens consortis erit_. LUCAN. Lib. i. 92.

No faith of partnership dominion owns;
Still discord hovers o'er divided thrones.

The hostility perpetually exercised between one man and another, is
caused by the desire of many for that which only few can possess. Every
man would be rich, powerful, and famous; yet fame, power, and riches are
only the names of relative conditions, which imply the obscurity,
dependance, and poverty of greater numbers. This universal and incessant
competition produces injury and malice by two motives, interest and
envy; the prospect of adding to our possessions what we can take from
others, and the hope of alleviating the sense of our disparity by
lessening others, though we gain nothing to ourselves.

Of these two malignant and destructive powers, it seems probable at the
first view, that interest has the strongest and most extensive
influence. It is easy to conceive that opportunities to seize what has
been long wanted, may excite desires almost irresistible; but surely the
same eagerness cannot be kindled by an accidental power of destroying
that which gives happiness to another. It must be more natural to rob
for gain, than to ravage only for mischief.

Yet I am inclined to believe, that the great law of mutual benevolence
is oftener violated by envy than by interest, and that most of the
misery which the defamation of blameless actions, or the obstruction of
honest endeavours, brings upon the world, is inflicted by men that
propose no advantage to themselves but the satisfaction of poisoning the
banquet which they cannot taste, and blasting the harvest which they
have no right to reap.

Interest can diffuse itself but to a narrow compass. The number is never
large of those who can hope to fill the posts of degraded power, catch
the fragments of shattered fortune, or succeed to the honours of
depreciated beauty. But the empire of envy has no limits, as it requires
to its influence very little help from external circumstances. Envy may
always be produced by idleness and pride, and in what place will they
not be found?

Interest requires some qualities not universally bestowed. The ruin of
another will produce no profit to him who has not discernment to mark
his advantage, courage to seize, and activity to pursue it; but the cold
malignity of envy may be exerted in a torpid and quiescent state, amidst
the gloom of stupidity, in the coverts of cowardice. He that falls by
the attacks of interest, is torn by hungry tigers; he may discover and
resist his enemies. He that perishes in the ambushes of envy, is
destroyed by unknown and invisible assailants, and dies like a man
suffocated by a poisonous vapour, without knowledge of his danger, or
possibility of contest.

Interest is seldom pursued but at some hazard. He that hopes to gain
much, has commonly something to lose, and when he ventures to attack
superiority, if he fails to conquer, is irrecoverably crushed. But envy
may act without expense or danger. To spread suspicion, to invent
calumnies, to propagate scandal, requires neither labour nor courage. It
is easy for the author of a lie, however malignant, to escape detection,
and infamy needs very little industry to assist its circulation.

Envy is almost the only vice which is practicable at all times, and in
every place; the only passion which can never lie quiet for want of
irritation: its effects therefore are every where discoverable, and its
attempts always to be dreaded.

It is impossible to mention a name which any advantageous distinction
has made eminent, but some latent animosity will burst out. The wealthy
trader, however he may abstract himself from publick affairs, will never
want those who hint, with Shylock, that ships are but boards. The
beauty, adorned only with the unambitious graces of innocence and
modesty, provokes, whenever she appears, a thousand murmurs of
detraction. The genius, even when he endeavours only to entertain or
instruct, yet suffers persecution from innumerable criticks, whose
acrimony is excited merely by the pain of seeing others pleased, and of
hearing applauses which another enjoys.

The frequency of envy makes it so familiar, that it escapes our notice;
nor do we often reflect upon its turpitude or malignity, till we happen
to feel its influence. When he that has given no provocation to malice,
but by attempting to excel, finds himself pursued by multitudes whom he
never saw, with all the implacability of personal resentment; when he
perceives clamour and malice let loose upon him as a publick enemy, and
incited by every stratagem of defamation; when he hears the misfortunes
of his family, or the follies of his youth, exposed to the world; and
every failure of conduct, or defect of nature, aggravated and ridiculed;
he then learns to abhor those artifices at which he only laughed before,
and discovers how much the happiness of life would be advanced by the
eradication of envy from the human heart.

Envy is, indeed, a stubborn weed of the mind, and seldom yields to the
culture of philosophy. There are, however, considerations, which, if
carefully implanted and diligently propagated, might in time overpower
and repress it, since no one can nurse it for the sake of pleasure, as
its effects are only shame, anguish, and perturbation. It is above all
other vices inconsistent with the character of a social being, because
it sacrifices truth and kindness to very weak temptations. He that
plunders a wealthy neighbour gains as much as he takes away, and may
improve his own condition in the same proportion as he impairs
another's; but he that blasts a flourishing reputation, must be content
with a small dividend of additional fame, so small as can afford very
little consolation to balance the guilt by which it is obtained.

I have hitherto avoided that dangerous and empirical morality, which
cures one vice by means of another. But envy is so base and detestable,
so vile in its original, and so pernicious in its effects, that the
predominance of almost any other quality is to be preferred. It is one
of those lawless enemies of society, against which poisoned arrows may
honestly be used. Let it therefore be constantly remembered, that
whoever envies another, confesses his superiority, and let those be
reformed by their pride who have lost their virtue.

It is no slight aggravation of the injuries which envy incites, that
they are committed against those who have given no intentional
provocation; and that the sufferer is often marked out for ruin, not
because he has failed in any duty, but because he has dared to do more
than was required.

Almost every other crime is practised by the help of some quality which
might have produced esteem or love, if it had been well employed; but
envy is mere unmixed and genuine evil; it pursues a hateful end by
despicable means, and desires not so much its own happiness as another's
misery. To avoid depravity like this, it is not necessary that any one
should aspire to heroism or sanctity, but only that he should resolve
not to quit the rank which nature assigns him, and wish to maintain the
dignity of a human being.



No. 184. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1751.

_Permittes ipsis expendere numinibus, quid
Conveniat nobis, rebusque sit utile nostris_. JUV. Sat. x. 347.

Intrust thy fortune to the pow'rs above;
Leave them to manage for thee, and to grant
What their unerring wisdom sees thee want. DRYDEN.

As every scheme of life, so every form of writing, has its advantages
and inconveniencies, though not mingled in the same proportions. The
writer of essays escapes many embarrassments to which a large work would
have exposed him; he seldom harasses his reason with long trains of
consequences, dims his eyes with the perusal of antiquated volumes, or
burthens his memory with great accumulations of preparatory knowledge. A
careless glance upon a favourite author, or transient survey of the
varieties of life, is sufficient to supply the first hint or seminal
idea, which, enlarged by the gradual accretion of matter stored in the
mind, is by the warmth of fancy easily expanded into flowers, and
sometimes ripened into fruit.

The most frequent difficulty by which the authors of these petty
compositions are distressed, arises from the perpetual demand of novelty
and change. The compiler of a system of science lays his invention at
rest, and employs only his judgment, the faculty exerted with least
fatigue. Even the relator of feigned adventures, when once the principal
characters are established, and the great events regularly connected,
finds incidents and episodes crowding upon his mind; every change opens
new views, and the latter part of the story grows without labour out of
the former. But he that attempts to entertain his reader with
unconnected pieces, finds the irksomeness of his task rather increased
than lessened by every production. The day calls afresh upon him for a
new topick, and he is again obliged to choose, without any principle to
regulate his choice.

It is indeed true, that there is seldom any necessity of looking far, or
inquiring long for a proper subject. Every diversity of art or nature,
every publick blessing or calamity, every domestick pain or
gratification, every sally of caprice, blunder of absurdity, or
stratagem of affectation, may supply matter to him whose only rule is to
avoid uniformity. But it often happens, that the judgment is distracted
with boundless multiplicity, the imagination ranges from one design to
another, and the hours pass imperceptibly away, till the composition can
be no longer delayed, and necessity enforces the use of those thoughts
which then happen to be at hand. The mind, rejoicing at deliverance on
any terms from perplexity and suspense, applies herself vigorously to
the work before her, collects embellishments and illustrations, and
sometimes finishes, with great elegance and happiness, what in a state
of ease and leisure she never had begun.

It is not commonly observed, how much, even of actions, considered as
particularly subject to choice, is to be attributed to accident, or some
cause out of our own power, by whatever name it be distinguished. To
close tedious deliberations with hasty resolves, and after long
consultations with reason to refer the question to caprice, is by no
means peculiar to the essayist. Let him that peruses this paper review
the series of his life, and inquire how he was placed in his present
condition. He will find, that of the good or ill which he has
experienced, a great part came unexpected, without any visible
gradations of approach; that every event has been influenced by causes
acting without his intervention; and that whenever he pretended to the
prerogative of foresight, he was mortified with new conviction of the
shortness of his views.

The busy, the ambitious, the inconstant, and the adventurous, may be
said to throw themselves by design into the arms of fortune, and
voluntarily to quit the power of governing themselves; they engage in a
course of life in which little can be ascertained by previous measures;
nor is it any wonder that their time is passed between elation and
despondency, hope and disappointment.

Some there are who appear to walk the road of life with more
circumspection, and make no step till they think themselves secure from
the hazard of a precipice, when neither pleasure nor profit can tempt
them from the beaten path; who refuse to climb lest they should fall, or
to run lest they should stumble, and move slowly forward without any
compliance with those passions by which the heady and vehement are
seduced and betrayed.

Yet even the timorous prudence of this judicious class is far from
exempting them from the dominion of chance, a subtle and insidious
power, who will intrude upon privacy and embarrass caution. No course of
life is so prescribed and limited, but that many actions must result
from arbitrary election. Every one must form the general plan of his
conduct by his own reflections; he must resolve whether he will
endeavour at riches or at content; whether he will exercise private or
publick virtues; whether he will labour for the general benefit of
mankind, or contract his beneficence to his family and dependants.

This question has long exercised the schools of philosophy, but remains
yet undecided; and what hope is there that a young man, unacquainted
with the arguments on either side, should determine his own destiny
otherwise than by chance?

When chance has given him a partner of his bed, whom he prefers to all
other women, without any proof of superior desert, chance must again
direct him in the education of his children; for, who was ever able to
convince himself by arguments, that he had chosen for his son that mode
of instruction to which his understanding was best adapted, or by which
he would most easily be made wise or virtuous?

Whoever shall inquire by what motives he was determined on these
important occasions, will find them such as his pride will scarcely
suffer him to confess; some sudden ardour of desire, some uncertain
glimpse of advantage, some petty competition, some inaccurate
conclusion, or some example implicitly reverenced. Such are often the
first causes of our resolves; for it is necessary to act, but impossible
to know the consequences of action, or to discuss all the reasons which
offer themselves on every part to inquisitiveness and solicitude.

Since life itself is uncertain, nothing which has life for its basis can
boast much stability. Yet this is but a small part of our perplexity. We
set out on a tempestuous sea in quest of some port, where we expect to
find rest, but where we are not sure of admission, we are not only in
danger of sinking in the way, but of being misled by meteors mistaken
for stars, of being driven from our course by the changes of the wind,
and of losing it by unskilful steerage; yet it sometimes happens, that
cross winds blow us to a safer coast, that meteors draw us aside from
whirlpools, and that negligence or errour contributes to our escape from
mischiefs to which a direct course would have exposed us. Of those that,
by precipitate conclusions, involve themselves in calamities without
guilt, very few, however they may reproach themselves, can be certain
that other measures would have been more successful.

In this state of universal uncertainty, where a thousand dangers hover
about us, and none can tell whether the good that he pursues is not evil
in disguise, or whether the next step will lead him to safety or
destruction, nothing can afford any rational tranquillity, but the
conviction that, however we amuse ourselves with unideal sounds, nothing
in reality is governed by chance, but that the universe is under the
perpetual superintendance of Him who created it; that our being is in
the hands of omnipotent Goodness, by whom what appears casual to us, is
directed for ends ultimately kind and merciful; and that nothing can
finally hurt him who debars not himself from the Divine favour.



No. 185. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1751.

_At vindicta bonum vita jucundius ipsa,
Nempe hoc indocti. --
Chrysippus non dicet idem, nec mite Thaletis
Ingenium, dulcique senex vicinus Hymetto,
Qui partem adceptæ sæva inter vincla Cicutæ
Adcusatori nollet dare. --
--Quippe minuti
Semper et infirmi est animi exiguique voluptas
Ultio_. JUV. Sat. xiii. 180.

_But O! revenge is sweet_.
Thus think the crowd; who, eager to engage,
Take quickly fire, and kindle into rage.
Not so mild Thales nor Chrysippus thought,
Nor that good man, who drank the poisonous draught.
With mind serene; and could not wish to see
His vile accuser drink as deep as he:
Exalted Socrates! divinely brave!
Injur'd he fell, and dying he forgave!
Too noble for revenge; which still we find
The weakest frailty of a feeble mind. DRYDEN.

No vicious dispositions of the mind more obstinately resist both the
counsels of philosophy and the injunctions of religion, than those which
are complicated with an opinion of dignity; and which we cannot dismiss
without leaving in the hands of opposition some advantage iniquitously
obtained, or suffering from our own prejudices some imputation of
pusillanimity.

For this reason scarcely any law of our Redeemer is more openly
transgressed, or more industriously evaded, than that by which he
commands his followers to forgive injuries, and prohibits, under the
sanction of eternal misery, the gratification of the desire which every
man feels to return pain upon him that inflicts it. Many who could have
conquered their anger, are unable to combat pride, and pursue offences
to extremity of vengeance, lest they should be insulted by the triumph
of an enemy.

But certainly no precept could better become him, at whose birth _peace_
was proclaimed _to the earth_. For, what would so soon destroy all the
order of society, and deform life with violence and ravage, as a
permission to every one to judge his own cause, and to apportion his own
recompense for imagined injuries?

It is difficult for a man of the strictest justice not to favour himself
too much, in the calmest moments of solitary meditation.