No More Learning

Tuesday, Nine, Rose squeamish. A fine morning. Weather-glass very high.

Ditto, Ten. Ordered my horse, and rode to the five-mile stone on the
Newmarket road. Appetite gets better. A pack of hounds, in full cry,
crossed the road, and startled my horse.

Ditto, Twelve. Drest. Found a letter on my table to be in London the
19th inst. Bespoke a new wig.

Ditto, One. At dinner in the hall. Too much water in the soup. Dr. Dry
always orders the beef to be salted too much for me.

Ditto, Two. In the common room. Dr. Dry gave us an instance of a
gentleman who kept the gout out of his stomach by drinking old Madeira.
Conversation chiefly on the expeditions. Company broke up at four. Dr.
Dry and myself played at backgammon for a brace of snipes. Won.

Ditto, Five. At the coffee-house. Met Mr. H. there. Could not get a
sight of the Monitor.

Ditto, Seven. Returned home, and stirred my fire. Went to the common
room, and supped on the snipes with Dr. Dry.

Ditto, Eight. Began the evening in the common room. Dr. Dry told several
stories. Were very merry. Our new fellow, that studies physick, very
talkative toward twelve. Pretends he will bring the youngest Miss ---- to
drink tea with me soon. Impertinent blockhead!

Wednesday, Nine. Alarmed with a pain in my ankle. Q. The gout? Fear I
can't dine at Peterhouse; but I hope a ride will set all to rights.
Weather-glass below Fair.

Ditto, Ten. Mounted my horse, though the weather suspicious. Pain in my
ankle entirely gone. Caught in a shower coming back. Convinced that my
weather-glass is the best in Cambridge.

Ditto, Twelve. Drest. Sauntered up to the Fish-monger's hill. Met Mr. H.
and went with him to Peterhouse. Cook made us wait thirty-six minutes
beyond the time. The company, some of my Emmanuel friends. For dinner, a
pair of soles, a leg of pork and pease, among other things. Mem.
Pease-pudding not boiled enough. Cook reprimanded and sconced in my
presence.

Ditto, after Dinner. Pain in my ankle returns. Dull all the afternoon.
Rallied for being no company. Mr. H. 's account of the accommodations on
the road in his Bath journey.

Ditto, Six. Got into spirits. Never was more chatty. We sat late at
whist. Mr. H. and self agreed at parting to take a gentle ride, and dine
at the old house on the London road to-morrow.

Thursday, Nine. My sempstress. She has lost the measure of my wrist.
Forced to be measured again. The baggage has got a trick of smiling.

Ditto, Ten to Eleven. Made some rappee snuff. Read the magazines.
Received a present of pickles from Miss Pilcocks. Mem. To send in return
some collared eel, which I know both the old lady and miss are fond of.

Ditto, Eleven. Glass very high. Mounted at the gate with Mr. H. Horse
skittish, and wants exercise. Arrive at the old house. All the
provisions bespoke by some rakish fellow-commoner in the next room, who
had been on a scheme to Newmarket. Could get nothing but mutton-chops
off the worst end. Port very new. Agree to try some other house
to-morrow.

Here the journal breaks off: for the next morning, as my friend informs
me, our genial academick was waked with a severe fit of the gout; and,
at present, enjoys all the dignity of that disease. But I believe we
have lost nothing by this interruption: since a continuation of the
remainder of the journal, through the remainder of the week, would most
probably have exhibited nothing more than a repeated relation of the
same circumstances of idling and luxury.

I hope it will not be concluded, from this specimen of academick life,
that I have attempted to decry our universities. If literature is not
the essential requisite of the modern academick, I am yet persuaded,
that Cambridge and Oxford, however degenerated, surpass the fashionable
_academies_ of our metropolis, and the _gymnasia_ of foreign countries.
The number of learned persons in these celebrated seats is still
considerable, and more conveniencies and opportunities for study still
subsist in them, than in any other place. There is at least one very
powerful incentive to learning; I mean the GENIUS _of the place_. It is
a sort of inspiring deity, which every youth of quick sensibility and
ingenious disposition creates to himself, by reflecting, that he is
placed under those venerable walls, where a HOOKER and a HAMMOND, a
BACON and a NEWTON, once pursued the same course of science, and from
whence they soared to the most elevated heights of literary fame. This
is that incitement which Tully, according to his own testimony,
experienced at Athens, when he contemplated the porticos where Socrates
sat, and the laurel-groves where Plato disputed[2].

But there are other circumstances, and of the highest importance, which
render our colleges superior to all other places of education. Their
institutions, although somewhat fallen from their primaeval simplicity,
are such as influence, in a particular manner, the moral conduct of
their youth; and in this general depravity of manners and laxity of
principles, pure religion is no where more strongly inculcated. The
_academies_, as they are presumptuously styled, are too low to be
mentioned; and foreign seminaries are likely to prejudice the unwary
mind with Calvinism. But English universities render their students
virtuous, at least by excluding all opportunities of vice; and, by
teaching them the principles of the Church of England, confirm them in
those of true Christianity.

[1] Mr. Thomas Warton.

[2] A rich assemblage of examples, of the "influence of perceptible
objects in reviving former thoughts and former feelings," is
collected in Dr. Brown's Philosophy of the Human Mind, vol. 2,
Lecture 38.




No. 34. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 9, 1758.

To illustrate one thing by its resemblance to another, has been always
the most popular and efficacious art of instruction. There is indeed no
other method of teaching that of which any one is ignorant, but by means
of something already known; and a mind so enlarged by contemplation, and
inquiry, that it has always many objects within its view, will seldom be
long without some near and familiar image through which an easy
transition may be made to truths more distant and obscure.

Of the parallels which have been drawn by wit and curiosity, some are
literal and real, as between poetry and painting, two arts which pursue
the same end, by the operation of the same mental faculties, and which
differ only as the one represents things by marks permanent and natural,
the other by signs accidental and arbitrary. The one, therefore, is more
easily and generally understood, since similitude of form is immediately
perceived; the other is capable of conveying more ideas, for men have
thought and spoken of many things which they do not see.

Other parallels are fortuitous and fanciful, yet these have sometimes
been extended to many particulars of resemblance by a lucky concurrence
of diligence and chance. The animal body is composed of many members,
united under the direction of one mind: any number of individuals,
connected for some common purpose, is therefore called a body. From this
participation of the same appellation arose the comparison of the body
natural and body politick, of which, how far soever it has been deduced,
no end has hitherto been found.

In these imaginary similitudes, the same word is used at once in its
primitive and metaphorical sense. Thus health, ascribed to the body
natural, is opposed to sickness; but attributed to the body politick
stands as contrary to adversity. These parallels therefore have more of
genius, but less of truth; they often please, but they never convince.

Of this kind is a curious speculation frequently indulged by a
philosopher of my acquaintance, who had discovered, that the qualities
requisite to conversation are very exactly represented by a bowl of
punch.

Punch, says this profound investigator, is a liquor compounded of spirit
and acid juices, sugar and water. The spirit, volatile and fiery, is the
proper emblem of vivacity and wit; the acidity of the lemon will very
aptly figure pungency of raillery, and acrimony of censure; sugar is the
natural representative of luscious adulation and gentle complaisance;
and water is the proper hieroglyphick of easy prattle, innocent and
tasteless.

Spirit alone is too powerful for use. It will produce madness rather
than merriment; and instead of quenching thirst will inflame the blood.
Thus wit, too copiously poured out, agitates the hearer with emotions
rather violent than pleasing; every one shrinks from the force of its
oppression, the company sits entranced and overpowered; all are
astonished, but nobody is pleased.

The acid juices give this genial liquor all its power of stimulating the
palate. Conversation would become dull and vapid, if negligence were not
sometimes roused, and sluggishness quickened, by due severity of
reprehension. But acids unmixed will distort the face and torture the
palate; and he that has no other qualities than penetration and
asperity, he whose constant employment is detection and censure, who
looks only to find faults, and speaks only to punish them, will soon be
dreaded, hated and avoided.

The taste of sugar is generally pleasing, but it cannot long be eaten by
itself. Thus meekness and courtesy will always recommend the first
address, but soon pall and nauseate, unless they are associated with
more sprightly qualities. The chief use of sugar is to temper the taste
of other substances; and softness of behaviour, in the same manner,
mitigates the roughness of contradiction, and allays the bitterness of
unwelcome truth.

Water is the universal vehicle by which are conveyed the particles
necessary to sustenance and growth, by which thirst is quenched, and all
the wants of life and nature are supplied. Thus all the business of the
world is transacted by artless and easy talk, neither sublimed by fancy,
nor discoloured by affectation, without either the harshness of satire,
or the lusciousness of flattery. By this limpid vein of language,
curiosity is gratified, and all the knowledge is conveyed which one man
is required to impart for the safety or convenience of another. Water is
the only ingredient in punch which can be used alone, and with which man
is content till fancy has framed an artificial want. Thus while we only
desire to have our ignorance informed, we are most delighted with the
plainest diction; and it is only in the moments of idleness or pride,
that we call for the gratifications of wit or flattery.

He only will please long, who, by tempering the acidity of satire with
the sugar of civility, and allaying the heat of wit with the frigidity
of humble chat, can make the true punch of conversation; and, as that
punch can be drunk in the greatest quantity which has the largest
proportion of water, so that companion will be oftenest welcome, whose
talk flows out with inoffensive copiousness, and unenvied insipidity.




No. 35. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 16, 1758.

TO THE IDLER.

Mr. Idler,

If it be difficult to persuade the idle to be busy, it is likewise, as
experience has taught me, not easy to convince the busy that it is
better to be idle. When you shall despair of stimulating sluggishness to
motion, I hope you will turn your thoughts towards the means of stilling
the bustle of pernicious activity.

I am the unfortunate husband of a _buyer of bargains_. My wife has
somewhere heard, that a good housewife _never_ has any thing to
_purchase when it is wanted_. This maxim is often in her mouth, and
always in her head. She is not one of those philosophical talkers that
speculate without practice; and learn sentences of wisdom only to repeat
them: she is always making additions to her stores; she never looks into
a broker's shop, but she spies something that may be wanted some time;
and it is impossible to make her pass the door of a house where she
hears _goods selling by auction_.

Whatever she thinks cheap, she holds it the duty of an economist to buy;
in consequence of this maxim, we are encumbered on every side with
useless lumber. The servants can scarcely creep to their beds through
the chests and boxes that surround them. The carpenter is employed once
a week in building closets, fixing cupboards, and fastening shelves; and
my house has the appearance of a ship stored for a voyage to the
colonies.

I had often observed that advertisements set her on fire; and therefore,
pretending to emulate her laudable frugality, I forbade the newspaper to
be taken any longer; but my precaution is vain; I know not by what
fatality, or by what confederacy, every catalogue of _genuine furniture_
comes to her hand, every advertisement of a warehouse newly opened, is
in her pocketbook, and she knows before any of her neighbours when the
stock of any man _leaving off trade_ is to be _sold cheap for ready
money_.

Such intelligence is to my dear-one the Syren's song. No engagement, no
duty, no interest, can withhold her from a sale, from which she always
returns congratulating herself upon her dexterity at a bargain; the
porter lays down his burden in the hall; she displays her new
acquisitions, and spends the rest of the day in contriving where they
shall be put.

As she cannot bear to have any thing uncomplete, one purchase
necessitates another; she has twenty feather-beds more than she can use,
and a late sale has supplied her with a proportionable number of Witney
blankets, a large roll of linen for sheets, and five quilts for every
bed, which she bought because the seller told her, that if she would
clear his hands he would let her have a bargain.

Thus by hourly encroachments my habitation is made narrower and
narrower; the dining-room is so crowded with tables, that dinner
scarcely can be served; the parlour is decorated with so many piles of
china, that I dare not step within the door; at every turn of the stairs
I have a clock, and half the windows of the upper floors are darkened,
that shelves may be set before them.

This, however, might be borne, if she would gratify her own inclinations
without opposing mine. But I, who am idle, am luxurious, and she
condemns me to live upon salt provisions. She knows the loss of buying
in small quantities, we have, therefore, whole hogs and quarters of
oxen. Part of our meat is tainted before it is eaten, and part is thrown
away because it is spoiled; but she persists in her system, and will
never buy any thing by single penny-worths.

The common vice of those who are still grasping at more, is to neglect
that which they already possess; but from this failing my charmer is
free. It is the great care of her life that the pieces of beef should be
boiled in the order in which they are bought; that the second bag of
pease should not be opened till the first be eaten; that every
feather-bed should be lain on in its turn; that the carpets should be
taken out of the chests once a month and brushed, and the rolls of linen
opened now and then before the fire. She is daily inquiring after the best
traps for mice, and keeps the rooms always scented by fumigations to
destroy the moths. She employs workmen, from time to time, to adjust six
clocks that never go, and clean five jacks that rust in the garret; and
a woman in the next alley lives by scouring the brass and pewter, which
are only laid up to tarnish again.

She is always imagining some distant time, in which she shall use
whatever she accumulates: she has four looking-glasses which she cannot
hang up in her house, but which will be handsome in more lofty rooms;
and pays rent for the place of a vast copper in some warehouse, because,
when we live in the country, we shall brew our own beer.

Of this life I have long been weary, but know not how to change it: all
the married men whom I consult advise me to have patience; but some old
bachelors are of opinion that, since she loves sales so well, she should
have a sale of her own; and I have, I think, resolved to open her
hoards, and advertise an auction.

I am, Sir,

Your very humble servant,

PETER PLENTY.




No. 30. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23, 1758.

The great differences that disturb the peace of mankind are not about
ends, but means. We have all the same general desires, but how those
desires shall be accomplished will for ever be disputed. The ultimate
purpose of government is temporal, and that of religion is eternal
happiness. Hitherto we agree; but here we must part, to try, according
to the endless varieties of passion and understanding combined with one
another, every possible form of government, and every imaginable tenet
of religion.

We are told by Cumberland that _rectitude_, applied to action or
contemplation, is merely metaphorical; and that as a _right_ line
describes the shortest passage from point to point, so a _right_ action
effects a good design by the fewest means; and so likewise a _right_
opinion is that which connects distant truths by the shortest train of
intermediate propositions.

To find the nearest way from truth to truth, or from purpose to effect,
not to use more instruments where fewer will be sufficient; not to move
by wheels and levers what will give way to the naked hand, is the great
proof of a healthful and vigorous mind, neither feeble with helpless
ignorance, nor overburdened with unwieldy knowledge.

But there are men who seem to think nothing so much the characteristick
of a genius, as to do common things in an uncommon manner; like
Hudibras, to _tell the clock by algebra_; or like the lady in Dr.
Young's satires, _to drink tea by stratagem_; to quit the beaten track,
only because it is known, and take a new path, however crooked or rough,
because the straight was found out before.

Every man speaks and writes with intent to be understood; and it can
seldom happen but he that understands himself, might convey his notions
to another, if, content to be understood, he did not seek to be admired;
but when once he begins to contrive how his sentiments may be received,
not with most ease to his reader, but with most advantage to himself, he
then transfers his consideration from words to sounds, from sentences to
periods, and as he grows more elegant becomes less intelligible.

It is difficult to enumerate every species of authors whose labours
counteract themselves; the man of exuberance and copiousness, who
diffuses every thought through so many diversities of expression, that
it is lost like water in a mist; the ponderous dictator of sentences,
whose notions are delivered in the lump, and are, like uncoined bullion,
of more weight than use; the liberal illustrator, who shows by examples
and comparisons what was clearly seen when it was first proposed; and
the stately son of demonstration, who proves with mathematical formality
what no man has yet pretended to doubt.

There is a mode of style for which I know not that the masters of
oratory have yet found a name; a style by which the most evident truths
are so obscured that they can no longer be perceived, and the most
familiar propositions so disguised that they cannot be known. Every
other kind of eloquence is the dress of sense; but this is the mask by
which a true master of his art will so effectually conceal it, that a
man will as easily mistake his own positions, if he meets them thus
transformed, as he may pass in a masquerade his nearest acquaintance.

This style may be called the _terrifick_, for its chief intention is to
terrify and amaze; it may be termed the _repulsive_, for its natural
effect is to drive away the reader; or it may be distinguished, in plain
English, by the denomination of the _bugbear style_, for it has more
terrour than danger, and will appear less formidable as it is more
nearly approached.

A mother tells her infant, that _two and two make four_; the child
remembers the proposition, and is able to count four to all the purposes
of life, till the course of his education brings him among philosophers,
who fright him from his former knowledge, by telling him, that four is a
certain aggregate of units; that all numbers being only the repetition
of an unit, which, though not a number itself, is the parent, root, or
original of all number, _four_ is the denomination assigned to a certain
number of such repetitions. The only danger is, lest, when he first
hears these dreadful sounds, the pupil should run away; if he has but
the courage to stay till the conclusion, he will find that, when
speculation has done its worst, two and two still make four.

An illustrious example of this species of eloquence may be found in
"Letters concerning Mind. " The author begins by declaring, that "the
sorts of things are things that now are, have been, and shall be, and
the things that strictly _are_. " In this position, except the last
clause, in which he uses something of the scholastick language, there is
nothing but what every man has heard, and imagines himself to know.
But
who would not believe that some wonderful novelty is presented to his
intellect, when he is afterwards told, in the true bugbear style, that
"the _ares_, in the former sense, are things that lie between the
_have-beens_ and _shall-bes_. The _have-beens_ are things that are past;
the _shall-bes_ are things that are to come; and the things that _are_,
in the latter sense, are things that have not been, nor shall be, nor
stand in the midst of such as are before them, or shall be after them.
The things that _have been_, and _shall be_, have respect to present,
past, and future.

"Those likewise that now _are_ have moreover place; that, for instance,
which is here, that which is to the east, that which is to the west. "

All this, my dear reader, is very strange; but though it be strange, it
is not new; survey these wonderful sentences again, and they will be
found to contain nothing more than very plain truths, which, till this
author arose, had always been delivered in plain language[1].


[1] These "Letters on Mind" were written by a Mr. Petvin, who after some
years again astounded the literary public by sending forth, in
diction equally terrific, another tract entitled a "Summary of the
Soul's Perceptive Faculties," 1768. He was at that time compared to
Duns Scotus, the subtle Doctor, who, in the weakness of old age,
wept because he could not understand the subtleties of his earlier
writings.




No. 37. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 30, 1758.

Those who are skilled in the extraction and preparation of metals
declare, that iron is every where to be found; and that not only its
proper ore is copiously treasured in the caverns of the earth, but that
its particles are dispersed throughout all other bodies.

If the extent of the human view could comprehend the whole frame of the
universe, I believe it would be found invariably true, that Providence
has given that in greatest plenty, which the condition of life makes of
greatest use; and that nothing is penuriously imparted, or placed far
from the reach of man, of which a more liberal distribution, or more
easy acquisition, would increase real and rational felicity.

Iron is common, and gold is rare. Iron contributes so much to supply the
wants of nature, that its use constitutes much of the difference between
savage and polished life, between the state of him that slumbers in
European palaces, and him that shelters himself in the cavities of a
rock from the chilness of the night, or the violence of the storm. Gold
can never be hardened into saws or axes; it can neither furnish
instruments of manufacture, utensils of agriculture, nor weapons of
defence; its only quality is to shine, and the value of its lustre
arises from its scarcity.

Throughout the whole circle, both of natural and moral life, necessaries
are as iron, and superfluities as gold. What we really need we may
readily obtain; so readily, that far the greater part of mankind has, in
the wantonness of abundance, confounded natural with artificial desires,
and invented necessities for the sake of employment, because the mind is
impatient of inaction, and life is sustained with so little labour, that
the tediousness of idle time cannot otherwise be supported.

Thus plenty is the original cause of many of our needs; and even the
poverty, which is so frequent and distressful in civilized nations,
proceeds often from that change of manners which opulence has produced.
Nature makes us poor only when we want necessaries; but custom gives the
name of poverty to the want of superfluities.

When Socrates passed through shops of toys and ornaments, he cried out,
"How many things are here which I do not need! " And the same exclamation
may every man make who surveys the common accommodations of life.

Superfluity and difficulty begin together. To dress food for the stomach
is easy, the art is to irritate the palate when the stomach is sufficed.
A rude hand may build walls, form roofs, and lay floors, and provide all
that warmth and security require; we only call the nicer artificers to
carve the cornice, or to paint the ceilings. Such dress as may enable
the body to endure the different seasons, the most unenlightened nations
have been able to procure; but the work of science begins in the
ambition of distinction, in variations of fashion, and emulation of
elegance. Corn grows with easy culture; the gardener's experiments are
only employed to exalt the flavours of fruits, and brighten the colours
of flowers.

Even of knowledge, those parts are most easy which are generally
necessary. The intercourse of society is maintained without the
elegancies of language. Figures, criticisms, and refinements, are the
work of those whom idleness makes weary of themselves. The commerce of
the world is carried on by easy methods of computation. Subtilty and
study are required only when questions are invented merely to puzzle,
and calculations are extended to show the skill of the calculator. The
light of the sun is equally beneficial to him whose eyes tell him that
it moves, and to him whose reason persuades him that it stands still;
and plants grow with the same luxuriance, whether we suppose earth or
water the parent of vegetation.

If we raise our thoughts to nobler inquiries, we shall still find
facility concurring with usefulness. No man needs stay to be virtuous,
till the moralists have determined the essence of virtue; our duty is
made apparent by its proximate consequences, though the general and
ultimate reason should never be discovered. Religion may regulate the
life of him to whom the Scotists and Thomists are alike unknown; and the
assertors of fate and free-will, however different in their talk, agree
to act in the same manner.

It is not my intention to depreciate the politer arts or abstruser
studies. That curiosity which always succeeds ease and plenty, was
undoubtedly given us as a proof of capacity which our present state is
not able to fill, as a preparative for some better mode of existence,
which shall furnish employment for the whole soul, and where pleasure
shall be adequate to our powers of fruition. In the mean time, let us
gratefully acknowledge that goodness which grants us ease at a cheap
rate, which changes the seasons where the nature of heat and cold has
not been yet examined, and gives the vicissitudes of day and night to
those who never marked the tropicks, or numbered the constellations.




No. 38. SATURDAY, JANUARY 6, 1759.

Since the publication of the letter concerning the condition of those
who are confined in gaols by their creditors, an inquiry is said to have
been made, by which it appears that more than twenty thousand[1] are at
this time prisoners for debt.

We often look with indifference on the successive parts of that, which,
if the whole were seen together, would shake us with emotion. A debtor
is dragged to prison, pitied for a moment, and then forgotten; another
follows him, and is lost alike in the caverns of oblivion; but when the
whole mass of calamity rises up at once, when twenty thousand reasonable
beings are heard all groaning in unnecessary misery, not by the
infirmity of nature, but the mistake or negligence of policy, who can
forbear to pity and lament, to wonder and abhor?

There is here no need of declamatory vehemence: we live in an age of
commerce and computation; let us, therefore, coolly inquire what is the
sum of evil which the imprisonment of debtors brings upon our country.

It seems to be the opinion of the later computists, that the inhabitants
of England do not exceed six millions, of which twenty thousand is the
three-hundredth part. What shall we say of the humanity or the wisdom of
a nation, that voluntarily sacrifices one in every three hundred to
lingering destruction?

The misfortunes of an individual do not extend their influence to many;
yet, if we consider the effects of consanguinity and friendship, and the
general reciprocation of wants and benefits, which make one man dear or
necessary to another, it may reasonably be supposed, that every man
languishing in prison gives trouble of some kind to two others who love
or need him. By this multiplication of misery we see distress extended
to the hundredth part of the whole society.

If we estimate at a shilling a day what is lost by the inaction, and
consumed in the support of each man thus chained down to involuntary
idleness, the publick loss will rise in one year to three hundred
thousand pounds; in ten years to more than a sixth part of our
circulating coin.

I am afraid that those who are best acquainted with the state of our
prisons will confess that my conjecture is too near the truth, when I
suppose that the corrosion of resentment, the heaviness of sorrow, the
corruption of confined air, the want of exercise, and sometimes of food,
the contagion of diseases, from which there is no retreat, and the
severity of tyrants, against whom there can be no resistance, and all
the complicated horrours of a prison, put an end every year to the life
of one in four of those that are shut up from the common comforts of
human life.

Thus perish yearly five thousand men overborne with sorrow, consumed by
famine, or putrefied by filth; many of them in the most vigorous and
useful part of life; for the thoughtless and imprudent are commonly
young, and the active and busy are seldom old.

According to the rule generally received, which supposes that one in
thirty dies yearly, the race of man may be said to be renewed at the end
of thirty years. Who would have believed till now, that of every English
generation, a hundred and fifty thousand perish in our gaols? that in
every century, a nation eminent for science, studious of commerce,
ambitious of empire, should willingly lose, in noisome dungeons, five
hundred thousand of its inhabitants; a number greater than has ever been
destroyed in the same time by pestilence and the sword?

A very late occurrence may show us the value of the number which we thus
condemn to be useless; in the reestablishment of the trained bands,
thirty thousand are considered as a force sufficient against all
exigencies. While, therefore, we detain twenty thousand in prison, we
shut up in darkness and uselessness two-thirds of an army which
ourselves judge equal to the defence of our country.

The monastick institutions have been often blamed, as tending to retard
the increase of mankind. And, perhaps, retirement ought rarely to be
permitted, except to those whose employment is consistent with
abstraction, and who, though solitary, will not be idle; to those whom
infirmity makes useless to the commonwealth, or to those who have paid
their due proportion to society, and who, having lived for others, may
be honourably dismissed to live for themselves. But whatever be the evil
or the folly of these retreats, those have no right to censure them
whose prisons contain greater numbers than the monasteries of other
countries. It is, surely, less foolish and less criminal to permit
inaction than compel it; to comply with doubtful opinions of happiness,
than condemn to certain and apparent misery; to indulge the
extravagancies of erroneous piety, than to multiply and enforce
temptations to wickedness.

The misery of gaols is not half their evil: they are filled with every
corruption which poverty and wickedness can generate between them; with
all the shameless and profligate enormities that can be produced by the
impudence of ignominy, the rage of want, and the malignity of despair.
In a prison the awe of the publick eye is lost, and the power of the law
is spent; there are few fears, there are no blushes. The lewd inflame
the lewd, the audacious harden the audacious. Every one fortifies
himself as he can against his own sensibility, endeavours to practise on
others the arts which are practised on himself; and gains the kindness
of his associates by similitude of manners.

Thus some sink amidst their misery, and others survive only to propagate
villany. It may be hoped, that our lawgivers will at length take away
from us this power of starving and depraving one another; but, if there
be any reason why this inveterate evil should not be removed in our age,
which true policy has enlightened beyond any former time, let those,
whose writings form the opinions and the practices of their
contemporaries, endeavour to transfer the reproach of such imprisonment
from the debtor to the creditor, till universal infamy shall pursue the
wretch whose wantonness of power, or revenge of disappointment, condemns
another to torture and to ruin; till he shall be hunted through the
world as an enemy to man, and find in riches no shelter from contempt.

Surely, he whose debtor has perished in prison, although he may acquit
himself of deliberate murder, must at least have his mind clouded with
discontent, when he considers how much another has suffered from him;
when he thinks on the wife bewailing her husband, or the children
begging the bread which their father would have earned. If there are any
made so obdurate by avarice or cruelty, as to revolve these consequences
without dread or pity, I must leave them to be awakened by some other
power, for I write only to human beings[2].


[1] This number was, at that time, confidently published; but the author
has since found reason to question the calculation.

[2] A series of Essays, entitled the Farrago, was published in 1792, for
the benefit of the society for the discharge and relief of persons
imprisoned for small debts. See Dr. Drake's Essays on the Rambler,
&c. vol. ii. p. 427. The Congress of the United States passed a law
in 1824, abolishing arrest and imprisonment for debt. The measure
has yet to stand the test of practice and experience. See Idler 22.
and note.




No. 39. SATURDAY, JANUARY 13, 1759.

_Nec genus ornatus unun est: quod quamque decebit,
Eligat_--OVID. Ars. Am. iii. 135.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

As none look more diligently about them than those who have nothing to
do, or who do nothing, I suppose it has not escaped your observation,
that the bracelet, an ornament of great antiquity, has been for some
years revived among the English ladies.

The genius of our nation is said, I know not for what reason, to appear
rather in improvement than invention. The bracelet was known in the
earliest ages; but it was formerly only a hoop of gold, or a cluster of
jewels, and showed nothing but the wealth or vanity of the wearer, till
our ladies, by carrying pictures on their wrists, made their ornaments
works of fancy and exercises of judgment.

This addition of art to luxury is one of the innumerable proofs that
might be given of the late increase of female erudition; and I have
often congratulated myself that my life has happened at a time when
those, on whom so much of human felicity depends, have learned to think
as well as speak, and when respect takes possession of the ear, while
love is entering at the eye.

I have observed, that, even by the suffrages of their own sex, those
ladies are accounted wisest, who do not yet disdain to be taught; and,
therefore, I shall offer a few hints for the completion of the bracelet,
without any dread of the fate of Orpheus.

To the ladies, who wear the pictures of their husbands or children, or
any other relations, I can offer nothing more decent or more proper. It
is reasonable to believe that she intends at least to perform her duty,
who carries a perpetual excitement to recollection and caution, whose
own ornaments must upbraid her with every failure, and who, by an open
violation of her engagements, must for ever forfeit her bracelet.

Yet I know not whether it is the interest of the husband to solicit very
earnestly a place on the bracelet. If his image be not in the heart, it
is of small avail to hang it on the hand. A husband encircled with
diamonds and rubies may gain some esteem, but will never excite love. He
that thinks himself most secure of his wife, should be fearful of
persecuting her continually with his presence. The joy of life is
variety; the tenderest love requires to be rekindled by intervals of
absence; and Fidelity herself will be wearied with transferring her eye
only from the same man to the same picture.

In many countries the condition of every woman is known by her dress.
Marriage is rewarded with some honourable distinction, which celibacy is
forbidden to usurp. Some such information a bracelet might afford. The
ladies might enrol themselves in distinct classes, and carry in open
view the emblems of their order. The bracelet of the authoress may
exhibit the Muses in a grove of laurel; the housewife may show Penelope
with her web; the votaress of a single life may carry Ursula with her
troop of virgins; the gamester may have Fortune with her wheel; and
those women _that have no character at all_ may display a field of white
enamel, as imploring help to fill up the vacuity.

There is a set of ladies who have outlived most animal pleasures, and,
having nothing rational to put in their place, solace with cards the
loss of what time has taken away, and the want of what wisdom, having
never been courted, has never given. For these I know not how to provide
a proper decoration. They cannot be numbered among the gamesters; for
though they are always at play, they play for nothing, and never rise to
the dignity of hazard or the reputation of skill. They neither love nor
are loved, and cannot be supposed to contemplate any human image with
delight. Yet, though they despair to please, they always wish to be
fine, and, therefore, cannot be without a bracelet. To this sisterhood I
can recommend nothing more likely to please them than the king of clubs,
a personage very comely and majestick, who will never meet their eyes
without reviving the thought of some past or future party, and who may
be displayed, in the act of dealing, with grace and propriety.

But the bracelet which might be most easily introduced into general use
is a small convex mirror, in which the lady may see herself whenever she
shall lift her hand. This will be a perpetual source of delight. Other
ornaments are of use only in publick, but this will furnish
gratifications to solitude. This will show a face that must always
please; she who is followed by admirers will carry about her a perpetual
justification of the publick voice; and she who passes without notice
may appeal from prejudice to her own eyes.

But I know not why the privilege of the bracelet should be confined to
women; it was in former ages worn by heroes in battle; and, as modern
soldiers are always distinguished by splendour of dress, I should
rejoice to see the bracelet added to the cockade.

In hope of this ornamental innovation, I have spent some thoughts upon
military bracelets. There is no passion more heroick than love; and,
therefore, I should be glad to see the sons of England marching in the
field, every man with the picture of a woman of honour bound upon his
hand. But since in the army, as every where else, there will always be
men who love nobody but themselves, or whom no woman of honour will
permit to love her, there is a necessity of some other distinctions and
devices.

I have read of a prince who, having lost a town, ordered the name of it
to be every morning shouted in his ear till it should be recovered. For
the same purpose I think the prospect of Minorca might be properly worn
on the hands of some of our generals: others might delight their
countrymen, and dignify themselves, with a view of Rochfort as it
appeared to them at sea: and those that shall return from the conquest
of America, may exhibit the warehouse of Frontenac, with an inscription
denoting, that it was taken in less than three years by less than twenty
thousand men.

I am, Sir, &c.

TOM TOY.




No. 40. SATURDAY, JANUARY 20, 1759.

The practice of appending to the narratives of publick transactions more
minute and domestick intelligence, and filling the newspapers with
advertisements, has grown up by slow degrees to its present state.

Genius is shown only by invention. The man who first took advantage of
the general curiosity that was excited by a siege or battle, to betray
the readers of news into the knowledge of the shop where the best puffs
and powder were to be sold, was undoubtedly a man of great sagacity, and
profound skill in the nature of man. But when he had once shown the way,
it was easy to follow him; and every man now knows a ready method of
informing the publick of all that he desires to buy or sell; whether his
wares be material or intellectual; whether he makes clothes, or teaches
the mathematicks; whether he be a tutor that wants a pupil, or a pupil
that wants a tutor.

Whatever is common is despised. Advertisements are now so numerous that
they are very negligently perused, and it is, therefore, become
necessary to gain attention by magnificence of promises, and by
eloquence sometimes sublime and sometimes pathetick.

Promise, large promise, is the soul of an advertisement. I remember a
_wash-ball_ that had a quality truly wonderful--it gave an _exquisite
edge to the razor_. And there are now to be sold, _for ready money
only_, some _duvets for bed-coverings, of down, beyond comparison
superior to what is called otter-down_, and indeed such, that its _many
excellencies cannot be here set forth_. With one excellence we are made
acquainted--_it is warmer than four or five blankets, and lighter than
one. _

There are some, however, that know the prejudice of mankind in favour of
modest sincerity. The vender of the _beautifying fluid_ sells a lotion
that repels pimples, washes away freckles, smooths the skin, and plumps
the flesh; and yet, with a generous abhorrence of ostentation,
confesses, that it will not _restore the bloom of fifteen to a lady of
fifty_.

The true pathos of advertisements must have sunk deep into the heart of
every man that remembers the zeal shown by the seller of the _anodyne
necklace_, for the ease and safety of _poor teething infants_, and the
affection with which he warned every mother, that _she would never
forgive herself_, if her infant should perish without a necklace.

I cannot but remark to the celebrated author who gave, in his
notifications of the camel and dromedary, so many specimens of the
genuine sublime, that there is now arrived another subject yet more
worthy of his pen. _A famous Mohawk Indian warrior, who took_ Dieskaw
_the French general prisoner, dressed in the same manner with the native
Indians when they go to war, with his face and body painted, with his
scalping-knife, tom-axe, and all other implements of war! a sight worthy
the curiosity of every true Briton! _ This is a very powerful
description; but a critick of great refinement would say, that it
conveys rather _horrour_ than _terrour_. An Indian, dressed as he goes
to war, may bring company together; but if he carries the scalping-knife
and tom-axe, there are many true Britons that will never be persuaded to
see him but through a grate.

It has been remarked by the severer judges, that the salutary sorrow of
tragick scenes is too soon effaced by the merriment of the epilogue; the
same inconvenience arises from the improper disposition of
advertisements. The noblest objects may be so associated as to be made
ridiculous. The camel and dromedary themselves might have lost much of
their dignity between _the true flower of mustard_ and the _original
Daffy's elixir_; and I could not but feel some indignation when I found
this illustrious Indian warrior immediately succeeded by _a fresh parcel
of Dublin butter_.

The trade of advertising is now so near to perfection, that it is not
easy to propose any improvement. But as every art ought to be exercised
in due subordination to the publick good, I cannot but propose it as a
moral question to these masters of the publick ear, Whether they do not
sometimes play too wantonly with our passions, as when the registrar of
lottery-tickets invites us to his shop by an account of the prize which
he sold last year; and whether the advertising controvertists do not
indulge asperity of language without any adequate provocation; as in the
dispute about _straps for razors_, now happily subsided, and in the
altercation which at present subsists concerning _eau de luce_?

In an advertisement it is allowed to every man to speak well of himself,
but I know not why he should assume the privilege of censuring his
neighbour. He may proclaim his own virtue or skill, but ought not to
exclude others from the same pretensions.

Every man that advertises his own excellence should write with some
consciousness of a character which dares to call the attention of the
publick. He should remember that his name is to stand in the same paper
with those of the king of Prussia and the emperour of Germany, and
endeavour to make himself worthy of such association.

Some regard is likewise to be paid to posterity. There are men of
diligence and curiosity who treasure up the papers of the day merely
because others neglect them, and in time they will be scarce. When these
collections shall be read in another century, how will numberless
contradictions be reconciled? and how shall fame be possibly distributed
among the tailors and bodice-makers of the present age?

Surely these things deserve consideration. It is enough for me to have
hinted my desire that these abuses may be rectified; but such is the
state of nature, that what all have the right of doing, many will
attempt without sufficient care or due qualifications[1].

[1] A history of newspapers, more diffuse than the chronological series
in Nichols' Literary Anecdotes, Vol. iv. is desirable. See Preface.




No. 41. SATURDAY, JANUARY 27, 1759.

The following letter relates to an affliction perhaps not necessary to
be imparted to the publick; but I could not persuade myself to suppress
it, because I think, I know the sentiments to be sincere, and I feel no
disposition to provide for this day any other entertainment.

At, tu quisquis eris, miseri qui cruda poetae
Credideris fletu funera digna tuo,
Haec postrema tibi sit flendi causa, fluatque
Lenis inoffenso vitaque morsque gradu. OVID.

Mr. Idler,

Notwithstanding the warnings of philosophers, and the daily examples of
losses and misfortunes which life forces upon our observation, such is
the absorption of our thoughts in the business of the present day, such
the resignation of our reason to empty hopes of future felicity, or such
our unwillingness to foresee what we dread, that every calamity comes
suddenly upon us, and not only presses us as a burden, but crushes as a
blow.

There are evils which happen out of the common course of nature, against
which it is no reproach not to be provided. A flash of lightning
intercepts the traveller in his way. The concussion of an earthquake
heaps the ruins of cities upon their inhabitants. But other miseries
time brings, though silently yet visibly, forward by its even lapse,
which yet approach us unseen, because we turn our eyes away, and seize
us unresisted, because we could not arm ourselves against them but by
setting them before us.

That it is vain to shrink from what cannot be avoided, and to hide that
from ourselves which must some time be found, is a truth which we all
know, but which all neglect, and, perhaps, none more than the
speculative reasoner, whose thoughts are always from home, whose eye
wanders over life, whose fancy dances after meteors of happiness kindled
by itself, and who examines every thing rather than his own state.

Nothing is more evident than that the decays of age must terminate in
death; yet there is no man, says Tully, who does not believe that he may
yet live another year; and there is none who does not, upon the same
principle, hope another year for his parent or his friend: but the
fallacy will be in time detected; the last year, the last day, must
come. It has come, and is past. The life which made my own life pleasant
is at an end, and the gates of death are shut upon my prospects.

The loss of a friend upon whom the heart was fixed, to whom every wish
and endeavour tended, is a state of dreary desolation, in which the mind
looks abroad impatient of itself, and finds nothing but emptiness and
horrour. The blameless life, the artless tenderness, the pious
simplicity, the modest resignation, the patient sickness, and the quiet
death, are remembered only to add value to the loss, to aggravate regret
for what cannot be amended, to deepen sorrow for what cannot be
recalled.

These are the calamities by which Providence gradually disengages us
from the love of life. Other evils fortitude may repel, or hope may
mitigate; but irreparable privation leaves nothing to exercise
resolution or flatter expectation. The dead cannot return, and nothing
is left us here but languishment and grief.

Yet such is the course of nature, that whoever lives long must outlive
those whom he loves and honours. Such is the condition of our present
existence, that life must one time lose its associations, and every
inhabitant of the earth must walk downward to the grave alone and
unregarded, without any partner of his joy or grief, without any
interested witness of his misfortunes or success.

Misfortune, indeed, he may yet feel; for where is the bottom of the
misery of man? But what is success to him that has none to enjoy it?
Happiness is not found in self-contemplation; it is perceived only when
it is reflected from another.

We know little of the state of departed souls, because such knowledge is
not necessary to a good life. Reason deserts us at the brink of the
grave, and can give no further intelligence. Revelation is not wholly
silent. "There is joy in the angels of Heaven over one sinner that
repenteth;" and, surely, this joy is not incommunicable to souls
disentangled from the body, and made like angels.

Let hope therefore dictate, what revelation does not confute, that the
union of souls may still remain; and that we who are struggling with
sin, sorrow, and infirmities, may have our part in the attention and
kindness of those who have finished their course, and are now receiving
their reward.

These are the great occasions which force the mind to take refuge in
religion: when we have no help in ourselves, what can remain but that we
look up to a higher and a greater Power? and to what hope may we not
raise our eyes and hearts, when we consider that the greatest POWER is
the BEST?

Surely there is no man who, thus afflicted, does not seek succour in the
_gospel_, which has brought _life and immortality to light_. The
precepts of Epicurus, who teaches us to endure what the laws of the
universe make necessary, may silence, but not content us.