No More Learning

There are, indeed, few kinds of composition from which an author,
however learned or ingenious, can hope a long continuance of fame. He
who has carefully studied human nature, and can well describe it, may
with most reason flatter his ambition. Bacon, among all his pretensions
to the regard of posterity, seems to have pleased himself chiefly with
his Essays, _which come home to men's business and bosoms_, and of
which, therefore, he declares his expectation, that they _will live as
long as books last_. It may, however, satisfy an honest and benevolent
mind to have been useful, though less conspicuous; nor will he that
extends his hope to higher rewards, be so much anxious to obtain praise,
as to discharge the duty which Providence assigns him.



No. 107. TUESDAY, MARCH 26, 1751.

_Alternis igitur contendere versibns ambo
Coepere: alternos Musoe meminisse volebant_. VIRG. Ec. vii. 18

On themes alternate now the swains recite;
The muses in alternate themes delight. ELPHINSTON.

Among the various censures, which the unavoidable comparison of my
performances with those of my predecessors has produced, there is none
more general than that of uniformity. Many of my readers remark the want
of those changes of colours, which formerly fed the attention with
unexhausted novelty, and of that intermixture of subjects, or
alternation of manner, by which other writers relieved weariness, and
awakened expectation.

I have, indeed, hitherto avoided the practice of uniting gay and solemn
subjects in the same paper, because it seems absurd for an author to
counteract himself, to press at once with equal force upon both parts of
the intellectual balance, or give medicines, which, like the double
poison of Dryden, destroy the force of one another. I have endeavoured
sometimes to divert, and sometimes to elevate; but have imagined it an
useless attempt to disturb merriment by solemnity, or interrupt
seriousness by drollery. Yet I shall this day publish two letters of
very different tendency, which I hope, like tragi-comedy, may chance to
please even when they are not critically approved.

TO THE RAMBLER.

DEAR SIR,

Though, as my mamma tells me, I am too young to talk at the table, I
have great pleasure in listening to the conversation of learned men,
especially when they discourse of things which I do not understand; and
have, therefore, been of late particularly delighted with many disputes
about the _alteration of the stile_, which, they say, is to be made by
act of parliament.

One day when my mamma was gone out of the room, I asked a very great
scholar what the style was. He told me he was afraid I should hardly
understand him when he informed me, that it was the stated and
established method of computing time. It was not, indeed, likely that I
should understand him; for I never yet knew time computed in my life,
nor can imagine why we should be at so much trouble to count what we
cannot keep. He did not tell me whether we are to count the time past,
or the time to come; but I have considered them both by myself, and
think it as foolish to count time that is gone, as money that is spent;
and as for the time which is to come, it only seems further off by
counting; and therefore, when any pleasure is promised me, I always
think of the time as little as I can.

I have since listened very attentively to every one that talked upon
this subject, of whom the greater part seem not to understand it better
than myself; for though they often hint how much the nation has been
mistaken, and rejoice that we are at last growing wiser than our
ancestors, I have never been able to discover from them, that any body
has died sooner, or been married later, for counting time wrong; and,
therefore, I began to fancy that there was a great bustle with little
consequence.

At last, two friends of my papa, Mr. Cycle, and Mr. Starlight, being, it
seems, both of high learning, and able to make an almanack, began to
talk about the new style. Sweet Mr. Starlight--I am sure I shall love
his name as long as I live; for he told Cycle roundly, with a fierce
look, that we should never be right without a _year of confusion_. Dear
Mr. Rambler, did you ever hear any thing so charming? a whole year of
confusion! When there has been a rout at mamma's, I have thought one
night of confusion worth a thousand nights of rest; and if I can but see
a year of confusion, a whole year, of cards in one room, and dancings in
another, here a feast, and there a masquerade, and plays, and coaches,
and hurries, and messages, and milliners, and raps at the door, and
visits, and frolicks, and new fashions, I shall not care what they do
with the rest of the time, nor whether they count it by the old style or
the new; for I am resolved to break loose from the nursery in the
tumult, and play my part among the rest; and it will be strange if I
cannot get a husband and a chariot in the year of confusion.

Cycle, who is neither so young nor so handsome as Starlight, very
gravely maintained, that all the perplexity may he avoided by leaping
over eleven days in the reckoning; and, indeed, if it should come only
to this, I think the new style is a delightful thing; for my mamma says
I shall go to court when I am sixteen, and if they can but contrive
often to leap over eleven days together, the months of restraint will
soon be at an end. It is strange, that with all the plots that have been
laid against time, they could never kill it by act of parliament before.
Dear sir, if you have any vote or interest, get them but for once to
destroy eleven months, and then I shall be as old as some married
ladies. But this is desired only if you think they will not comply with
Mr. Starlight's scheme; for nothing surely could please me like a year
of confusion, when I shall no longer be fixed this hour to my pen, and
the next to my needle, or wait at home for the dancing-master one day,
and the next for the musick-master; but run from ball to ball, and from
drum to drum; and spend all my time without tasks, and without account,
and go out without telling whither, and come home without regard to
prescribed hours, or family rules.

I am, sir,

Your humble servant,

PROPERANTIA.

MR. RAMBLER,

I was seized this morning with an unusual pensiveness, and, finding that
books only served to heighten it, took a ramble into the fields, in
hopes of relief and invigoration from the keenness of the air and
brightness of the sun.

As I wandered wrapped up in thought, my eyes were struck with the
hospital for the reception of deserted infants, which I surveyed with
pleasure, till, by a natural train of sentiment, I began to reflect on
the fate of the mothers. For to what shelter can they fly? Only to the
arms of their betrayer, which, perhaps, are now no longer open to
receive them; and then how quick must be the transition from deluded
virtue to shameless guilt, and from shameless guilt to hopeless
wretchedness?

The anguish that I felt, left me no rest till I had, by your means,
addressed myself to the publick on behalf of those forlorn creatures,
the women of the town; whose misery here might satisfy the most rigorous
censor, and whose participation of our common nature might surely induce
us to endeavour, at least, their preservation from eternal punishment.

These were all once, if not virtuous, at least innocent; and might still
have continued blameless and easy, but for the arts and insinuations of
those whose rank, fortune, or education, furnished them with means to
corrupt or to delude them. Let the libertine reflect a moment on the
situation of that woman, who, being forsaken by her betrayer, is reduced
to the necessity of turning prostitute for bread, and judge of the
enormity of his guilt by the evils which it produces.

It cannot be doubted but that numbers follow this dreadful course of
life, with shame, horrour, and regret; but where can they hope for
refuge: "_The world is not their friend, nor the world's law_. " Their
sighs, and tears, and groans, are criminal in the eye of their tyrants,
the bully and the bawd, who fatten on their misery, and threaten them
with want or a gaol, if they show the least design of escaping from
their bondage.

"To wipe all tears from off all faces," is a task too hard for mortals;
but to alleviate misfortunes is often within the most limited power: yet
the opportunities which every day affords of relieving the most wretched
of human beings are overlooked and neglected, with equal disregard of
policy and goodness.

There are places, indeed, set apart, to which these unhappy creatures
may resort, when the diseases of incontinence seize upon them; but if
they obtain a cure, to what are they reduced? Either to return with the
small remains of beauty to their former guilt, or perish in the streets
with nakedness and hunger.

How frequently have the gay and thoughtless, in their evening frolicks,
seen a band of those miserable females, covered with rags, shivering
with cold, and pining with hunger; and, without either pitying their
calamities, or reflecting upon the cruelty of those who, perhaps, first
seduced them by caresses of fondness, or magnificence of promises, go on
to reduce others to the same wretchedness by the same means!

To stop the increase of this deplorable multitude, is undoubtedly the
first and most pressing consideration. To prevent evil is the great end
of government, the end for which vigilance and severity are properly
employed. But surely those whom passion or interest has already
depraved, have some claim to compassion, from beings equally frail and
fallible with themselves. Nor will they long groan in their present
afflictions, if none were to refuse them relief, but those that owe
their exemption from the same distress only to their wisdom and their
virtue.

I am, &c.

AMICUS[a].

[Footnote a: The letter from Amicus was from an unknown correspondent.
It breathes a tenderness of spirit worthy of Johnson himself. But he
practised the lesson which it inculcates;--a harder task! Sterne could
_write_ sentiment. ]



No. 108. SATURDAY, MARCH 30, 1751.

_--Sapere aude:
Incipe. Vivendi recte qui prorogat horam,
Rusticus expectat dum defluat amnis; at ille
Labitur et labetur in omne volubilis aevum_. HOR. Lib. i. Ep. ii. 39.

Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise;
He who defers this work from day to day,
Does on a river's bank expecting stay,
Till the whole stream, which stopp'd him, should be gone,
That runs, and as it runs, for ever will run on. COWLEY.

An ancient poet, unreasonably discontented at the present state of
things, which his system of opinions obliged him to represent in its
worst form, has observed of the earth, "that its greater part is covered
by the uninhabitable ocean; that of the rest some is encumbered with
naked mountains, and some lost under barren sands; some scorched with
unintermitted heat, and some petrified with perpetual frost; so that
only a few regions remain for the production of fruits, the pasture of
cattle, and the accommodation of man. "

The same observation may be transferred to the time allotted us in our
present state. When we have deducted all that is absorbed in sleep, all
that is inevitably appropriated to the demands of nature, or
irresistibly engrossed by the tyranny of custom; all that passes in
regulating the superficial decorations of life, or is given up in the
reciprocations of civility to the disposal of others; all that is torn
from us by the violence of disease, or stolen imperceptibly away by
lassitude and languor; we shall find that part of our duration very
small of which we can truly call ourselves masters, or which we can
spend wholly at our own choice. Many of our hours are lost in a rotation
of petty cares, in a constant recurrence of the same employments; many
of our provisions for ease or happiness are always exhausted by the
present day; and a great part of our existence serves no other purpose,
than that of enabling us to enjoy the rest.

Of the few moments which are left in our disposal, it may reasonably be
expected, that we should be so frugal, as to let none of them slip from
us without some equivalent; and perhaps it might be found, that as the
earth, however straitened by rocks and waters, is capable of producing
more than all its inhabitants are able to consume, our lives, though
much contracted by incidental distraction, would yet afford us a large
space vacant to the exercise of reason and virtue; that we want not
time, but diligence, for great performances; and that we squander much
of our allowance, even while we think it sparing and insufficient.

This natural and necessary comminution of our lives, perhaps, often
makes us insensible of the negligence with which we suffer them to slide
away. We never consider ourselves as possessed at once of time
sufficient for any great design, and therefore indulge ourselves, in
fortuitous amusements. We think it unnecessary to take an account of a
few supernumerary moments, which, however employed, could have produced
little advantage, and which were exposed to a thousand chances of
disturbance and interruption.

It is observable, that, either by nature or by habit, our faculties are
fitted to images of a certain extent, to which we adjust great things by
division, and little things by accumulation. Of extensive surfaces we
can only take a survey, as the parts succeed one another; and atoms we
cannot perceive till they are united into masses. Thus we break the vast
periods of time into centuries and years; and thus, if we would know the
amount of moments, we must agglomerate them into days and weeks.

The proverbial oracles of our parsimonious ancestors have informed us,
that the fatal waste of fortune is by small expenses, by the profusion
of sums too little singly to alarm our caution, and which we never
suffer ourselves to consider together. Of the same kind is the
prodigality of life; he that hopes to look back hereafter with
satisfaction upon past years, must learn to know the present value of
single minutes, and endeavour to let no particle of time fall useless to
the ground.

It is usual for those who are advised to the attainment of any new
qualification, to look upon themselves as required to change the general
course of their conduct, to dismiss business, and exclude pleasure, and
to devote their days and nights to a particular attention. But all
common degrees of excellence are attainable at a lower price; he that
should steadily and resolutely assign to any science or language those
interstitial vacancies which intervene in the most crowded variety of
diversion or employment, would find every day new irradiations of
knowledge, and discover how much more is to be hoped from frequency and
perseverance, than from violent efforts and sudden desires; efforts
which are soon remitted when they encounter difficulty, and desires,
which, if they are indulged too often, will shake off the authority of
reason, and range capriciously from one object to another.

The disposition to defer every important design to a time of leisure,
and a state of settled uniformity, proceeds generally from a false
estimate of the human powers. If we except those gigantic and stupendous
intelligences who are said to grasp a system by intuition, and bound
forward from one series of conclusions to another, without regular steps
through intermediate propositions, the most successful students make
their advances in knowledge by short flights, between each of which the
mind may lie at rest. For every single act of progression a short time
is sufficient; and it is only necessary, that whenever that time is
afforded, it be well employed.

Few minds will be long confined to severe and laborious meditation; and
when a successful attack on knowledge has been made, the student
recreates himself with the contemplation of his conquest, and forbears
another incursion, till the new-acquired truth has become familiar, and
his curiosity calls upon him for fresh gratifications. Whether the time
of intermission is spent in company, or in solitude, in necessary
business, or in voluntary levities, the understanding is equally
abstracted from the object of inquiry; but, perhaps, if it be detained
by occupations less pleasing, it returns again to study with greater
alacrity than when it is glutted with ideal pleasures, and surfeited
with intemperance of application. He that will not suffer himself to be
discouraged by fancied impossibilities, may sometimes find his abilities
invigorated by the necessity of exerting them in short intervals, as the
force of a current is increased by the contraction of its channel.

From some cause like this, it has probably proceeded, that, among those
who have contributed to the advancement of learning, many have risen to
eminence in opposition to all the obstacles which external circumstances
could place in their way, amidst the tumult of business, the distresses
of poverty, or the dissipations of a wandering and unsettled state. A
great part of the life of Erasmus was one continual peregrination; ill
supplied with the gifts of fortune, and led from city to city, and from
kingdom to kingdom, by the hopes of patrons and preferment, hopes which
always flattered and always deceived him; he yet found means, by
unshaken constancy, and a vigilant improvement of those hours, which, in
the midst of the most restless activity, will remain unengaged, to write
more than another in the same condition would have hoped to read.
Compelled by want to attendance and solicitation, and so much versed in
common life, that he has transmitted to us the most perfect delineation
of the manners of his age, he joined to his knowledge of the world such
application to books, that he will stand for ever in the first rank of
literary heroes. How this proficiency was obtained he sufficiently
discovers, by informing us, that the "Praise of Folly," one of his most
celebrated performances, was composed by him on the road to Italy; _ne
totum illud tempus quo equo fuit insidendum, illiteratis fabulis
terreretur_: "lest the hours which he was obliged to spend on horseback
should be tattled away without regard to literature. "

An Italian philosopher expressed in his motto, that _time was his
estate_; an estate, indeed, which will produce nothing without
cultivation, but will always abundantly repay the labours of industry,
and satisfy the most extensive desires, if no part of it be suffered to
lie waste by negligence, to be over-run with noxious plants, or laid out
for shew, rather than for use.



No. 109. TUESDAY, APRIL 2, 1751.

_Gratum est, quod patriæ civem populoque dedisti,
Si facis, ut patriæ sit idoneus, utilis agris,
Utilis et bellorum et pacis rebus agendis.
Plurimum enim intererit, quibus artibus, et quibus hunc tu
Moribus instituas_ Juv. SAT, xiv. 70.

Grateful the gift! a member to the state,
If you that member useful shall create;
Train'd both to war, and, when the war shall cease,
As fond, as fit t'improve the arts of peace.
For much it boots which way you train your boy,
The hopeful object of your future joy. ELPHINSTON.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Though you seem to have taken a view sufficiently extensive of the
miseries of life, and have employed much of your speculation on mournful
subjects, you have not yet exhausted the whole stock of human
infelicity. There is still a species of wretchedness which escapes your
observation, though it might supply you with many sage remarks, and
salutary cautions.

I cannot but imagine the start of attention awakened by this welcome
hint; and at this instant see the Rambler snuffing his candle, rubbing
his spectacles, stirring his fire, locking out interruption, and
settling himself in his easy chair, that he may enjoy a new calamity
without disturbance. For, whether it be that continued sickness or
misfortune has acquainted you only with the bitterness of being; or that
you imagine none but yourself able to discover what I suppose has been
seen and felt by all the inhabitants of the world; whether you intend
your writings as antidotal to the levity and merriment with which your
rivals endeavour to attract the favour of the publick; or fancy that you
have some particular powers of dolorous declamation, and _warble out
your groans_ with uncommon elegance or energy; it is certain, that
whatever be your subject, melancholy for the most part bursts in upon
your speculation, your gaiety is quickly overcast, and though your
readers may be flattered with hopes of pleasantry, they are seldom
dismissed but with heavy hearts.

That I may therefore gratify you with an imitation of your own syllables
of sadness, I will inform you that I was condemned by some disastrous
influence to be an only son, born to the apparent prospect of a large
fortune, and allotted to my parents at that time of life when satiety of
common diversions allows the mind to indulge parental affection with
greater intenseness. My birth was celebrated by the tenants with feasts,
and dances, and bag-pipes: congratulations were sent from every family
within ten miles round; and my parents discovered in my first cries such
tokens of future virtue and understanding, that they declared themselves
determined to devote the remaining part of life to my happiness and the
increase of their estate.

The abilities of my father and mother were not perceptibly unequal, and
education had given neither much advantage over the other. They had both
kept good company, rattled in chariots, glittered in playhouses, and
danced at court, and were both expert in the games that were in their
time called in as auxiliaries against the intrusion of thought.

When there is such a parity between two persons associated for life, the
dejection which the husband, if he be not completely stupid, must always
suffer for want of superiority, sinks him to submissiveness. My mamma
therefore governed the family without controul; and except that my
father still retained some authority in the stables, and, now and then,
after a supernumerary bottle, broke a looking-glass or china dish to
prove his sovereignty, the whole course of the year was regulated by her
direction, the servants received from her all their orders, and the
tenants were continued or dismissed at her discretion.

She, therefore, thought herself entitled to the superintendence of her
son's education; and when my father, at the instigation of the parson,
faintly proposed that I should be sent to school, very positively told
him, that she should not suffer so fine a child to be ruined; that she
never knew any boys at a grammar-school that could come into a room
without blushing, or sit at table without some awkward uneasiness; that
they were always putting themselves into danger by boisterous plays, or
vitiating their behaviour with mean company, and that, for her part, she
would rather follow me to the grave, than see me tear my clothes, and
hang down my head, and sneak about with dirty shoes, and blotted
fingers, my hair unpowdered, and my hat uncocked.

My father, who had no other end in his proposal than to appear wise and
manly, soon acquiesced, since I was not to live by my learning; for,
indeed, he had known very few students that had not some stiffness in
their manner. They, therefore, agreed, that a domestick tutor should be
procured, and hired an honest gentleman of mean conversation and narrow
sentiments, but whom, having passed the common forms of literary
education, they implicitly concluded qualified to teach all that was to
be learned from a scholar. He thought himself sufficiently exalted by
being placed at the same table with his pupil, and had no other view
than to perpetuate his felicity by the utmost flexibility of submission
to all my mother's opinions and caprices. He frequently took away my
book, lest I should mope with too much application, charged me never to
write without turning up my ruffles, and generally brushed my coat
before he dismissed me into the parlour. He had no occasion to complain
of too burdensome an employment: for my mother very judiciously
considered, that I was not likely to grow politer in his company, and
suffered me not to pass any more time in his apartment than my lesson
required. When I was summoned to my task, she enjoined me not to get any
of my tutor's ways, who was seldom mentioned before me but for practices
to be avoided. I was every moment admonished not to lean on my chair,
cross my legs, or swing my hands like my tutor; and once my mother very
seriously deliberated upon his total dismission, because I began, she
said, to learn his manner of sticking on my hat, and had his bend in my
shoulders, and his totter in my gait.

Such, however, was her care, that I escaped all these depravities; and
when I was only twelve years old, had rid myself of every appearance of
childish diffidence. I was celebrated round the country for the
petulance of my remarks, and the quickness of my replies; and many a
scholar, five years older than myself, have I dashed into confusion by
the steadiness of my countenance, silenced by my readiness of repartee,
and tortured with envy by the address with which I picked up a fan,
presented a snuff-box, or received an empty tea-cup.

At fourteen I was completely skilled in all the niceties of dress, and I
could not only enumerate all the variety of silks, and distinguish the
product of a French loom, but dart my eye through a numerous company,
and observe every deviation from the reigning mode. I was universally
skilful in all the changes of expensive finery; but as every one, they
say, has something to which he is particularly born, was eminently
knowing in Brussels' lace.

The next year saw me advanced to the trust and power of adjusting the
ceremonial of an assembly. All received their partners from my hand, and
to me every stranger applied for introduction. My heart now disdained
the instructions of a tutor, who was rewarded with a small annuity for
life, and left me qualified, in my own opinion, to govern myself.

In a short time I came to London, and as my father was well known among
the higher classes of life, soon obtained admission to the most splendid
assemblies and most crowded card-tables. Here I found myself universally
caressed and applauded; the ladies praised the fancy of my clothes, the
beauty of my form, and the softness of my voice; endeavoured in every
place to force themselves to my notice; and invited, by a thousand
oblique solicitations, my attendance to the playhouse, and my
salutations in the park. I was now happy to the utmost extent of my
conception; I passed every morning in dress, every afternoon in visits,
and every night in some select assemblies, where neither care nor
knowledge were suffered to molest us.

After a few years, however, these delights became familiar, and I had
leisure to look round me with more attention. I then found that my
flatterers had very little power to relieve the languor of satiety, or
recreate weariness, by varied amusement; and therefore endeavoured to
enlarge the sphere of my pleasures, and to try what satisfaction might
be found in the society of men. I will not deny the mortification with
which I perceived, that every man whose name I had heard mentioned with
respect, received me with a kind of tenderness, nearly bordering on
compassion; and that those whose reputation was not well established,
thought it necessary to justify their understandings, by treating me
with contempt. One of these witlings elevated his crest, by asking me in
a full coffee-house the price of patches; and another whispered that he
wondered why Miss Frisk did not keep me that afternoon to watch her
squirrel.

When I found myself thus hunted from all masculine conversation by those
who were themselves barely admitted, I returned to the ladies, and
resolved to dedicate my life to their service and their pleasure. But I
find that I have now lost my charms. Of those with whom I entered the
gay world, some are married, some have retired, and some have so much
changed their opinion, that they scarcely pay any regard to my
civilities, if there is any other man in the place. The new flight of
beauties to whom I have made my addresses, suffer me to pay the treat,
and then titter with boys. So that I now find myself welcome only to a
few grave ladies, who, unacquainted with all that gives either use or
dignity to life, are content to pass their hours between their bed and
their cards, without esteem from the old, or reverence from the young.

I cannot but think, Mr. Rambler, that I have reason to complain; for
surely the females ought to pay some regard to the age of him whose
youth was passed in endeavours to please them. They that encourage folly
in the boy, have no right to punish it in the man. Yet I find that,
though they lavish their first fondness upon pertness and gaiety, they
soon transfer their regard to other qualities, and ungratefully abandon
their adorers to dream out their last years in stupidity and contempt.

I am, &c.

FLORENTULUS.



No. 110. SATURDAY, APRIL 6, 1751

At nobis vitæ dominum quærentibus unum
Lux iter est, et clara dies, et gratia simplex.
Spem sequimur, gradimurque fide, fruimurque futuris,
Ad quæ non veniunt præsentis gaudia vitæ,
Nec currunt pariter capta, et capienda voluptus.
PRUDENTIUS, Cont. Sym. ii. 904.

We through this maze of life one Lord obey;
Whose light and grace unerring lead the way.
By hope and faith secure of future bliss,
Gladly the joys of present life we miss:
For baffled mortals still attempt in vain,
Present and future bliss at once to gain. F. LEWIS.

That to please the Lord and Father of the universe, is the supreme
interest of created and dependent beings, as it is easily proved, has
been universally confessed; and since all rational agents are conscious
of having neglected or violated the duties prescribed to them, the fear
of being rejected, or punished by God, has always burdened the human
mind. The expiation of crimes, and renovation of the forfeited hopes of
divine favour, therefore constitute a large part of every religion.

The various methods of propitiation and atonement which fear and folly
have dictated, or artifice and interest tolerated in the different parts
of the world, however they may sometimes reproach or degrade humanity,
at least shew the general consent of all ages and nations in their
opinion of the placability of the divine nature. That God will forgive,
may, indeed, be established as the first and fundamental truth of
religion; for, though the knowledge of his existence is the origin of
philosophy, yet, without the belief of his mercy, it would have little
influence upon our moral conduct. There could be no prospect of enjoying
the protection or regard of him, whom the least deviation from rectitude
made inexorable for ever; and every man would naturally withdraw his
thoughts from the contemplation of a Creator, whom he must consider as a
governor too pure to be pleased, and too severe to be pacified; as an
enemy infinitely wise, and infinitely powerful, whom he could neither
deceive, escape, nor resist.

Where there is no hope, there can be no endeavour. A constant and
unfailing obedience is above the reach of terrestrial diligence; and
therefore the progress of life could only have been the natural descent
of negligent despair from crime to crime, had not the universal
persuasion of forgiveness, to be obtained by proper means of
reconciliation, recalled those to the paths of virtue, whom their
passions had solicited aside; and animated to new attempts, and firmer
perseverance, those whom difficulty had discouraged, or negligence
surprised.

In times and regions so disjoined from each other, that there can
scarcely be imagined any communication of sentiments either by commerce
or tradition, has prevailed a general and uniform expectation of
propitiating God by corporal austerities, of anticipating his vengeance
by voluntary inflictions, and appeasing his justice by a speedy and
cheerful submission to a less penalty, when a greater is incurred.

Incorporated minds will always feel some inclination towards exterior
acts and ritual observances. Ideas not represented by sensible objects
are fleeting, variable, and evanescent. We are not able to judge of the
degree of conviction which operated at any particular time upon our own
thoughts, but as it is recorded by some certain and definite effect. He
that reviews his life in order to determine the probability of his
acceptance with God, if he could once establish the necessary proportion
between crimes and sufferings, might securely rest upon his performance
of the expiation; but while safety remains the reward only of mental
purity, he is always afraid lest he should decide too soon in his own
favour; lest he should not have felt the pangs of true contrition; lest
he should mistake satiety for detestation, or imagine that his passions
are subdued when they are only sleeping.

From this natural and reasonable diffidence arose, in humble and
timorous piety, a disposition to confound penance with repentance, to
repose on human determinations, and to receive from some judicial
sentence the stated and regular assignment of reconciliatory pain. We
are never willing to be without resource: we seek in the knowledge of
others a succour for our own ignorance, and are ready to trust any that
will undertake to direct us when we have no confidence in ourselves.

This desire to ascertain by some outward marks the state of the soul,
and this willingness to calm the conscience by some settled method, have
produced, as they are diversified in their effects by various tempers
and principles, most of the disquisitions and rules, the doubts and
solutions, that have embarrassed the doctrine of repentance, and
perplexed tender and flexible minds with innumerable scruples concerning
the necessary measures of sorrow, and adequate degrees of
self-abhorrence; and these rules, corrupted by fraud, or debased by
credulity, have, by the common resiliency of the mind from one extreme
to another, incited others to an open contempt of all subsidiary
ordinances, all prudential caution, and the whole discipline of
regulated piety.

Repentance, however difficult to be practised, is, if it be explained
without superstition, easily understood. _Repentance is the
relinquishment of any practice, from the conviction that it has offended
God_. Sorrow, and fear, and anxiety, are properly not parts, but
adjuncts of repentance; yet they are too closely connected with it to be
easily separated; for they not only mark its sincerity, but promote its
efficacy.

No man commits any act of negligence or obstinacy, by which his safety
or happiness in this world is endangered, without feeling the pungency
of remorse. He who is fully convinced, that he suffers by his own
failure, can never forbear to trace back his miscarriage to its first
cause, to image to himself a contrary behaviour, and to form involuntary
resolutions against the like fault, even when he knows that he shall
never again have the power of committing it. Danger, considered as
imminent, naturally produces such trepidations of impatience as leave
all human means of safety behind them; he that has once caught an alarm
of terrour, is every moment seized with useless anxieties, adding one
security to another, trembling with sudden doubts, and distracted by the
perpetual occurrence of new expedients. If, therefore, he whose crimes
have deprived him of the favour of God, can reflect upon his conduct
without disturbance, or can at will banish the reflection; if he who
considers himself as suspended over the abyss of eternal perdition only
by the thread of life, which must soon part by its own weakness, and
which the wing of every minute may divide, can cast his eyes round him
without shuddering with horrour, or panting with security; what can he
judge of himself, but that he is not yet awakened to sufficient
conviction, since every loss is more lamented than the loss of the
divine favour, and every danger more dreadful than the danger of final
condemnation?

Retirement from the cares and pleasures of the world has been often
recommended as useful to repentance. This at least is evident, that
every one retires, whenever ratiocination and recollection are required
on other occasions; and surely the retrospect of life, the
disentanglement of actions complicated with innumerable circumstances,
and diffused in various relations, the discovery of the primary
movements of the heart, and the extirpation of lusts and appetites
deeply rooted and widely spread, may be allowed to demand some secession
from sport and noise, business and folly. Some suspension of common
affairs, some pause of temporal pain and pleasure, is doubtless
necessary to him that deliberates for eternity, who is forming the only
plan in which miscarriage cannot be repaired, and examining the only
question in which mistake cannot be rectified.

Austerities and mortifications are means by which the mind is
invigorated and roused, by which the attractions of pleasure are
interrupted, and the chains of sensuality are broken. It is observed by
one of the fathers, that _he who restrains himself in the use of things
lawful, will never encroach upon things forbidden_. Abstinence, if
nothing more, is, at least, a cautious retreat from the utmost verge of
permission, and confers that security which cannot be reasonably hoped
by him that dares always to hover over the precipice of destruction, or
delights to approach the pleasures which he knows it fatal to partake.
Austerity is the proper antidote to indulgence; the diseases of mind as
well as body are cured by contraries, and to contraries we should
readily have recourse, if we dreaded guilt as we dread pain.

The completion and sum of repentance is a change of life.
That sorrow
which dictates no caution, that fear which does not quicken our escape,
that austerity which fails to rectify our affections, are vain and
unavailing. But sorrow and terrour must naturally precede reformation;
for what other cause can produce it? He, therefore, that feels himself
alarmed by his conscience, anxious for the attainment of a better state,
and afflicted by the memory of his past faults, may justly conclude,
that the great work of repentance is begun, and hope by retirement and
prayer, the natural and religious means of strengthening his conviction,
to impress upon his mind such a sense of the divine presence, as may
overpower the blandishments of secular delights, and enable him to
advance from one degree of holiness to another, till death shall set him
free from doubt and contest, misery and temptation[b].

What better can we do than prostrate fall
Before him reverent; and there confess
Humbly our faults, and pardon beg; with tears
Wat'ring the ground, and with our sighs the air
Frequenting, sent from hearts contrite, in sign
Of sorrow unfeign'd, and humiliation meek? Par. Lost. B. x. 1087.



No. 111. TUESDAY, APRIL 9, 1751.

[Greek: phronein gar hoi tacheis, ouk asphaleis. ] SOPHOC.

Disaster always waits on early wit.

It has been observed, by long experience, that late springs produce the
greatest plenty. The delay of blooms and fragrance, of verdure and
breezes, is for the most part liberally recompensed by the exuberance
and fecundity of the ensuing seasons; the blossoms which lie concealed
till the year is advanced, and the sun is high, escape those chilling
blasts, and nocturnal frosts, which are often fatal to early luxuriance,
prey upon the first smiles of vernal beauty, destroy the feeble
principles of vegetable life, intercept the fruit in the gem, and beat
down the flowers unopened to the ground.

I am afraid there is little hope of persuading the young and sprightly
part of my readers, upon whom the spring naturally forces my attention,
to learn, from the great process of nature, the difference between
diligence and hurry, between speed and precipitation; to prosecute their
designs with calmness, to watch the concurrence of opportunity, and
endeavour to find the lucky moment which they cannot make. Youth is the
time of enterprize and hope: having yet no occasion of comparing our
force with any opposing power, we naturally form presumptions in our own
favour, and imagine that obstruction and impediment will give way before
us. The first repulses rather inflame vehemence than teach prudence; a
brave and generous mind is long before it suspects its own weakness, or
submits to sap the difficulties which it expected to subdue by storm.
Before disappointments have enforced the dictates of philosophy, we
believe it in our power to shorten the interval between the first cause
and the last effect; we laugh at the timorous delays of plodding
industry, and fancy that, by increasing the fire, we can at pleasure
accelerate the projection.

At our entrance into the world, when health and vigour give us fair
promises of time sufficient for the regular maturation of our schemes,
and a long enjoyment of our acquisitions, we are eager to seize the
present moment; we pluck every gratification within our reach, without
suffering it to ripen into perfection, and crowd all the varieties of
delight into a narrow compass; but age seldom fails to change our
conduct; we grow negligent of time in proportion as we have less
remaining, and suffer the last part of life to steal from us in languid
preparations for future undertakings, or slow approaches to remote
advantages, in weak hopes of some fortuitous occurrence, or drowsy
equilibrations of undetermined counsel: whether it be that the aged,
having tasted the pleasures of man's condition, and found them delusive,
become less anxious for their attainment; or that frequent miscarriages
have depressed them to despair, and frozen them to inactivity; or that
death shocks them more as it advances upon them, and they are afraid to
remind themselves of their decay, or to discover to their own hearts
that the time of trifling is past. A perpetual conflict with natural
desires seems to be the lot of our present state. In youth we require
something of the tardiness and frigidity of age; and in age we must
labour to recal the fire and impetuosity of youth; in youth we must
learn to expect, and in age to enjoy.

The torment of expectation is, indeed, not easily to be borne at a time
when every idea of gratification fires the blood, and flashes on the
fancy; when the heart is vacant to every fresh form of delight, and has
no rival engagements to withdraw it from the importunities of a new
desire. Yet, since the fear of missing what we seek must always be
proportionable to the happiness expected from possessing it, the
passions, even in this tempestuous state, might be somewhat moderated by
frequent inculcation of the mischief of temerity, and the hazard of
losing that which we endeavour to seize before our time.

He that too early aspires to honours, must resolve to encounter not only
the opposition of interest, but the malignity of envy. He that is too
eager to be rich, generally endangers his fortune in wild adventures,
and uncertain projects; and he that hastens too speedily to reputation,
often raises his character by artifices and fallacies, decks himself in
colours which quickly fade, or in plumes which accident may shake off,
or competition pluck away.

The danger of early eminence has been extended by some, even to the
gifts of nature; and an opinion has been long conceived, that quickness
of invention, accuracy of judgment, or extent of knowledge, appearing
before the usual time, presage a short life. Even those who are less
inclined to form general conclusions, from instances which by their own
nature must be rare, have yet been inclined to prognosticate no suitable
progress from the first sallies of rapid wits; but have observed, that
after a short effort they either loiter or faint, and suffer themselves
to be surpassed by the even and regular perseverance of slower
understandings.

It frequently happens, that applause abates diligence. Whoever finds
himself to have performed more than was demanded, will be contented to
spare the labour of unnecessary performances, and sit down to enjoy at
ease his superfluities of honour. He whom success has made confident of
his abilities, quickly claims the privilege of negligence, and looks
contemptuously on the gradual advances of a rival, whom he imagines
himself able to leave behind whenever he shall again summon his force to
the contest. But long intervals of pleasure dissipate attention, and
weaken constancy; nor is it easy for him that has sunk from diligence
into sloth, to rouse out of his lethargy, to recollect his notions,
rekindle his curiosity, and engage with his former ardour in the toils
of study.

Even that friendship which intends the reward of genius, too often tends
to obstruct it. The pleasure of being caressed, distinguished, and
admired, easily seduces the student from literary solitude. He is ready
to follow the call which summons him to hear his own praise, and which,
perhaps, at once flatters his appetite with certainty of pleasures, and
his ambition with hopes of patronage; pleasures which he conceives
inexhaustible, and hopes which he has not yet learned to distrust.

These evils, indeed, are by no means to be imputed to nature, or
considered as inseparable from an early display of uncommon abilities.
They may be certainly escaped by prudence and resolution, and must
therefore be recounted rather as consolations to those who are less
liberally endowed, than as discouragements to such as are born with
uncommon qualities. Beauty is well known to draw after it the
persecutions of impertinence, to incite the artifices of envy, and to
raise the flames of unlawful love; yet, among the ladies whom prudence
or modesty have made most eminent, who has ever complained of the
inconveniences of an amiable form? or would have purchased safety by the
loss of charms?

Neither grace of person, nor vigour of understanding, are to be regarded
otherwise than as blessings, as means of happiness indulged by the
Supreme Benefactor; but the advantages of either may be lost by too much
eagerness to obtain them. A thousand beauties in their first blossom, by
an imprudent exposure to the open world, have suddenly withered at the
blast of infamy; and men who might have subjected new regions to the
empire of learning, have been lured by the praise of their first
productions from academical retirement, and wasted their days in vice
and dependance. The virgin who too soon aspires to celebrity and
conquest, perishes by childish vanity, ignorant credulity, or guiltless
indiscretion. The genius who catches at laurels and preferment before
his time, mocks the hopes that he had excited, and loses those years
which might have been most usefully employed, the years of youth, of
spirit, and vivacity.

It is one of the innumerable absurdities of pride, that we are never
more impatient of direction, than in that part of life when we need it
most; we are in haste to meet enemies whom we have not strength to
overcome, and to undertake tasks which we cannot perform: and as he that
once miscarries does not easily persuade mankind to favour another
attempt, an ineffectual struggle for fame is often followed by perpetual
obscurity.

[Footnote b: The perusal of these profound remarks on penance and
repentance had so powerful an effect on one of the English Benedictine
monks (The Rev. James Compton) at Paris, as to lead him from the errours
of Popery! For an account of Dr. Johnson's true benevolence through the
whole of this interesting occasion, see Malone's note to Boswell's Life
of Johnson, vol. iv. p. 210--edit. 1822. ]



No. 112. SATURDAY, APRIL 13, 1751.

_In mea vesanas habui dispendia vires,
Et valui pænam fortis in ipse meain_. OVID, Am. Lib. i. vii. 25.

Of strength pernicious to myself I boast;
The pow'rs I have were given me to my cost. F. LEWIS.

We are taught by Celsus, that health is best preserved by avoiding
settled habits of life, and deviating sometimes into slight aberrations
from the laws of medicine; by varying the proportions of food and
exercise, interrupting the successions of rest and labour, and mingling
hardships with indulgence. The body, long accustomed to stated
quantities and uniform periods, is disordered by the smallest
irregularity; and since we cannot adjust every day by the balance or
barometer, it is fit sometimes to depart from rigid accuracy, that we
may be able to comply with necessary affairs, or strong inclinations. He
that too long observes nice punctualities, condemns himself to voluntary
imbecility, and will not long escape the miseries of disease.

The same laxity of regimen is equally necessary to intellectual health,
and to a perpetual susceptibility of occasional pleasure. Long
confinement to the same company which perhaps similitude of taste
brought first together, quickly contracts the faculties, and makes a
thousand things offensive that are in themselves indifferent; a man
accustomed to hear only the echo of his own sentiments, soon bars all
the common avenues of delight, and has no part in the general
gratifications of mankind.

In things which are not immediately subject to religious or moral
consideration, it is dangerous to be too rigidly in the right.
Sensibility may, by an incessant attention to elegance and propriety, be
quickened to a tenderness inconsistent with the condition of humanity,
irritable by the smallest asperity, and vulnerable by the gentlest
touch. He that pleases himself too much with minute exactness, and
submits to endure nothing in accommodations, attendance, or address,
below the point of perfection, will, whenever he enters the crowd of
life, be harassed with innumerable distresses, from which those who have
not in the same manner increased their sensations find no disturbance.
His exotick softness will shrink at the coarseness of vulgar felicity,
like a plant transplanted to northern nurseries, from the dews and
sunshine of the tropical regions.

There will always be a wide interval between practical and ideal
excellence; and, therefore, if we allow not ourselves to be satisfied
while we can perceive any errour or defect, we must refer our hopes of
ease to some other period of existence. It is well known, that, exposed
to a microscope, the smoothest polish of the most solid bodies discovers
cavities and prominences; and that the softest bloom of roseate
virginity repels the eye with excrescences and discolorations. The
perceptions as well as the senses may be improved to our own disquiet,
and we may, by diligent cultivation of the powers of dislike, raise in
time an artificial fastidiousness, which shall fill the imagination with
phantoms of turpitude, shew us the naked skeleton of every delight, and
present us only with the pains of pleasure, and the deformities of
beauty.

Peevishness, indeed, would perhaps very little disturb the peace of
mankind, were it always the consequence of superfluous delicacy; for it
is the privilege only of deep reflection, or lively fancy, to destroy
happiness by art and refinement. But by continual indulgence of a
particular humour, or by long enjoyment of undisputed superiority, the
dull and thoughtless may likewise acquire the power of tormenting
themselves and others, and become sufficiently ridiculous or hateful to
those who are within sight of their conduct, or reach of their
influence.

They that have grown old in a single state are generally found to be
morose, fretful, and captious; tenacious of their own practices and
maxims; soon offended by contradiction or negligence; and impatient of
any association, but with those that will watch their nod, and submit
themselves to unlimited authority. Such is the effect of having lived
without the necessity of consulting any inclination but their own.

The irascibility of this class of tyrants is generally exerted upon
petty provocations, such as are incident to understandings not far
extended beyond the instincts of animal life; but, unhappily, he that
fixes his attention on things always before him, will never have long
cessations of anger. There are many veterans of luxury upon whom every
noon brings a paroxysm of violence, fury, and execration; they never sit
down to their dinner without finding the meat so injudiciously bought,
or so unskilfully dressed, such blunders in the seasoning, or such
improprieties in the sauce, as can scarcely be expiated without blood;
and, in the transports of resentment, make very little distinction
between guilt and innocence, but let fly their menaces, or growl out
their discontent, upon all whom fortune exposes to the storm.

It is not easy to imagine a more unhappy condition than that of
dependance on a peevish man. In every other state of inferiority the
certainty of pleasing is perpetually increased by a fuller knowledge of
our duty; and kindness and confidence are strengthened by every new act
of trust, and proof of fidelity. But peevishness sacrifices to a
momentory offence the obsequiousness or usefulness of half a life, and,
as more is performed, increases her exactions.

Chrysalus gained a fortune by trade, and retired into the country; and,
having a brother burthened by the number of his children, adopted one of
his sons. The boy was dismissed with many prudent admonitions; informed
of his father's inability to maintain him in his native rank; cautioned
against all opposition to the opinions or precepts of his uncle; and
animated to perseverance by the hopes of supporting the honour of the
family, and overtopping his elder brother. He had a natural ductility of
mind, without much warmth of affection, or elevation of sentiment; and
therefore readily complied with every variety of caprice; patiently
endured contradictory reproofs; heard false accusations without pain,
and opprobrious reproaches without reply; laughed obstreperously at the
ninetieth repetition of a joke; asked questions about the universal
decay of trade; admired the strength of those heads by which the price
of stocks is changed and adjusted; and behaved with such prudence and
circumspection, that after six years the will was made, and Juvenculus
was declared heir. But unhappily, a month afterwards, retiring at night
from his uncle's chamber, he left the door open behind him: the old man
tore his will, and being then perceptibly declining, for want of time to
deliberate, left his money to a trading company.

When female minds are embittered by age or solitude, their malignity is
generally exerted in a rigorous and spiteful superintendance of domestic
trifles. Eriphile has employed her eloquence for twenty years upon the
degeneracy of servants, the nastiness of her house, the ruin of her
furniture, the difficulty of preserving tapestry from the moths, and the
carelessness of the sluts whom she employs in brushing it. It is her
business every morning to visit all the rooms, in hopes of finding a
chair without its cover, a window shut or open contrary to her orders, a
spot on the hearth, or a feather on the floor, that the rest of the day
may be justifiably spent in taunts of contempt, and vociferations of
anger. She lives for no other purpose but to preserve the neatness of a
house and gardens, and feels neither inclination to pleasure, nor
aspiration after virtue, while she is engrossed by the great employment
of keeping gravel from grass, and wainscot from dust. Of three amiable
nieces she has declared herself an irreconcileable enemy; to one,
because she broke off a tulip with her hoop; to another, because she
spilt her coffee on a Turkey carpet; and to the third, because she let a
wet dog run into the parlour. She has broken off her intercourse of
visits, because company makes a house dirty; and resolves to confine
herself more to her own affairs, and to live no longer in mire by
foolish lenity.

Peevishness is generally the vice of narrow minds, and, except when it
is the effect of anguish and disease, by which the resolution is broken,
and the mind made too feeble to bear the lightest addition to its
miseries, proceeds from an unreasonable persuasion of the importance of
trifles. The proper remedy against it is, to consider the dignity of
human nature, and the folly of suffering perturbation and uneasiness
from causes unworthy of our notice.

He that resigns his peace to little casualties, and suffers the course
of his life to be interrupted by fortuitous inadvertencies, or offences,
delivers up himself to the direction of the wind, and loses all that
constancy and equanimity which constitute the chief praise of a wise
man.

The province of prudence lies between the greatest things and the least;
some surpass our power by their magnitude, and some escape our notice by
their number and their frequency. But the indispensable business of life
will afford sufficient exercise to every understanding; and such is the
limitation of the human powers, that by attention to trifles we must let
things of importance pass unobserved: when we examine a mite with a
glass, we see nothing but a mite.

That it is every man's interest to be pleased, will need little proof:
that it is his interest to please others, experience will inform him. It
is therefore not less necessary to happiness than to virtue, that he rid
his mind of passions which make him uneasy to himself, and hateful to
the world, which enchain his intellects, and obstruct his improvement.



No. 113. TUESDAY, APRIL 16, 1751.

--_Uxorem, Postume, ducis?
Die, qua Tisiphone, quibus exagitere colubris? _ JUV. Sat. vi. 28.

A sober man like thee to change his life!
What fury would possess thee with a wife? DRYDEN.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

I know not whether it is always a proof of innocence to treat censure
with contempt. We owe so much reverence to the wisdom of mankind, as
justly to wish, that our own opinion of our merit may be ratified by the
concurrence of other suffrages; and since guilt and infamy must have the
same effect upon intelligences unable to pierce beyond external
appearance, and influenced often rather by example than precept, we are
obliged to refute a false charge, lest we should countenance the crime
which we have never committed. To turn away from an accusation with
supercilious silence, is equally in the power of him that is hardened by
villany, and inspirited by innocence. The wall of brass which Horace
erects upon a clear conscience, may be sometimes raised by impudence or
power; and we should always wish to preserve the dignity of virtue by
adorning her with graces which wickedness cannot assume.

For this reason I have determined no longer to endure, with either
patient or sullen resignation, a reproach, which is, at least in my
opinion, unjust; but will lay my case honestly before you, that you or
your readers may at length decide it.

Whether you will be able to preserve your boasted impartiality, when you
hear that I am considered as an adversary by half the female world, you
may surely pardon me for doubting, notwithstanding the veneration to
which you may imagine yourself entitled by your age, your learning, your
abstraction, or your virtue. Beauty, Mr. Rambler, has often overpowered
the resolutions of the firm, and the reasonings of the wise, roused the
old to sensibility, and subdued the rigorous to softness.

I am one of those unhappy beings, who have been marked out as husbands
for many different women, and deliberated a hundred times on the brink
of matrimony. I have discussed all the nuptial preliminaries so often,
that I can repeat the forms in which jointures are settled, pin-money
secured, and provisions for younger children ascertained; but am at last
doomed by general consent to everlasting solitude, and excluded by an
irreversible decree from all hopes of connubial felicity. I am pointed
out by every mother, as a man whose visits cannot be admitted without
reproach; who raises hopes only to embitter disappointment, and makes
offers only to seduce girls into a waste of that part of life, in which
they might gain advantageous matches, and become mistresses and mothers.

I hope you will think, that some part of this penal severity may justly
be remitted, when I inform you, that I never yet professed love to a
woman without sincere intentions of marriage; that I have never
continued an appearance of intimacy from the hour that my inclination
changed, but to preserve her whom I was leaving from the shock of
abruptness, or the ignominy of contempt; that I always endeavoured to
give the ladies an opportunity of seeming to discard me; and that I
never forsook a mistress for larger fortune, or brighter beauty, but
because I discovered some irregularity in her conduct, or some depravity
in her mind; not because I was charmed by another, but because I was
offended by herself.

I was very early tired of that succession of amusements by which the
thoughts of most young men are dissipated, and had not long glittered in
the splendour of an ample patrimomy [Transcriber's note: sic] before I
wished for the calm of domestick happiness. Youth is naturally delighted
with sprightliness and ardour, and therefore I breathed out the sighs of
my first affection at the feet of the gay, the sparkling, the vivacious
Ferocula. I fancied to myself a perpetual source of happiness in wit
never exhausted, and spirit never depressed; looked with veneration on
her readiness of expedients, contempt of difficulty, assurance of
address, and promptitude of reply; considered her as exempt by some
prerogative of nature from the weakness and timidity of female minds;
and congratulated myself upon a companion superior to all common
troubles and embarrassments. I was, indeed, somewhat disturbed by the
unshaken perseverance with which she enforced her demands of an
unreasonable settlement; yet I should have consented to pass my life in
union with her, had not my curiosity led me to a crowd gathered in the
street, where I found Ferocula, in the presence of hundreds, disputing
for six-pence with a chairman. I saw her in so little need of
assistance, that it was no breach of the laws of chivalry to forbear
interposition, and I spared myself the shame of owning her acquaintance.
I forgot some point of ceremony at our next interview, and soon provoked
her to forbid me her presence.

My next attempt was upon a lady of great eminence for learning and
philosophy. I had frequently observed the barrenness and uniformity of
connubial conversation, and therefore thought highly of my own prudence
and discernment, when I selected from a multitude of wealthy beauties,
the deep-read Misothea, who declared herself the inexorable enemy of
ignorant pertness, and puerile levity; and scarcely condescended to make
tea, but for the linguist, the geometrician, the astronomer, or the
poet. The queen of the Amazons was only to be gained by the hero who
could conquer her in single combat; and Misothea's heart was only to
bless the scholar who could overpower her by disputation. Amidst the
fondest transports of courtship she could call for a definition of
terms, and treated every argument with contempt that could not be
reduced to regular syllogism. You may easily imagine, that I wished this
courtship at an end; but when I desired her to shorten my torments, and
fix the day of my felicity, we were led into a long conversation, in
which Misothea endeavoured to demonstrate the folly of attributing
choice and self-direction to any human being. It was not difficult to
discover the danger of committing myself for ever to the arms of one who
might at any time mistake the dictates of passion, or the calls of
appetite, for the decree of fate; or consider cuckoldom as necessary to
the general system, as a link in the everlasting chain of successive
causes. I therefore told her, that destiny had ordained us to part, and
that nothing should have torn me from her but the talons of necessity.

I then solicited the regard of the calm, the prudent, the economical
Sophronia, a lady who considered wit as dangerous, and learning as
superfluous, and thought that the woman who kept her house clean, and
her accounts exact, took receipts for every payment, and could find them
at a sudden call, inquired nicely after the condition of the tenants,
read the price of stocks once a-week, and purchased every thing at the
best market, could want no accomplishments necessary to the happiness of
a wise man. She discoursed with great solemnity on the care and
vigilance which the superintendance of a family demands; observed how
many were ruined by confidence in servants; and told me, that she never
expected honesty but from a strong chest, and that the best storekeeper
was the mistress's eye. Many such oracles of generosity she uttered, and
made every day new improvements in her schemes for the regulations of
her servants, and the distribution of her time. I was convinced that,
whatever I might suffer from Sophronia, I should escape poverty; and we
therefore proceeded to adjust the settlements according to her own rule,
fair and softly. But one morning her maid came to me in tears to intreat
my interest for a reconciliation with her mistress, who had turned her
out at night for breaking six teeth in a tortoise-shell comb; she had
attended her lady from a distant province, and having not lived long
enough to save much money, was destitute among strangers, and, though of
a good family, in danger of perishing in the streets, or of being
compelled by hunger to prostitution. I made no scruple of promising to
restore her; but upon my first application to Sophronia, was answered
with an air which called for approbation, that if she neglected her own
affairs, I might suspect her of neglecting mine; that the comb stood her
in three half crowns; that no servant should wrong her twice; and that
indeed she took the first opportunity of parting with Phillida, because,
though she was honest, her constitution was bad, and she thought her
very likely to fall sick. Of our conferrence I need not tell you the
effect; it surely may be forgiven me, if on this occasion I forgot the
decency of common forms.

From two more ladies I was disengaged by finding, that they entertained
my rivals at the same time, and determined their choice by the
liberality of our settlements. Another, I thought myself justified in
forsaking, because she gave my attorney a bribe to favour her in the
bargain; another because I could never soften her to tenderness, till
she heard that most of my family had died young; and another, because,
to increase her fortune by expectations, she represented her sister as
languishing and consumptive.

I shall in another letter give the remaining part of my history of
courtship. I presume that I should hitherto have injured the majesty of
female virtue, had I not hoped to transfer my affection to higher merit.

I am, &c.

HYMENAEUS.



No. 114. SATURDAY, APRIL 20, 1751.

--_Audi,
Nulla umquum de morte hominis cunctatio longa est. _ JUV. Sat. vi. 220.

--When man's life is in debate,
The judge can ne'er too long deliberate. DRYDEN.

Power and superiority are so flattering and delightful, that, fraught
with temptation, and exposed to danger, as they are, scarcely any virtue
is so cautious, or any prudence so timorous, as to decline them. Even
those that have most reverence for the laws of right, are pleased with
shewing that not fear, but choice, regulates their behaviour; and would
be thought to comply, rather than obey. We love to overlook the
boundaries which we do not wish to pass; and, as the Roman satirist
remarks, he that has no design to take the life of another, is yet glad
to have it in his hands.

From the same principle, tending yet more to degeneracy and corruption,
proceeds the desire of investing lawful authority with terrour, and
governing by force rather than persuasion. Pride is unwilling to believe
the necessity of assigning any other reason than her own will; and would
rather maintain the most equitable claims by violence and penalties,
than descend from the dignity of command to dispute and expostulation.

It may, I think, be suspected, that this political arrogance has
sometimes found its way into legislative assemblies, and mingled with
deliberations upon property and life. A slight perusal of the laws by
which the measures of vindictive and coercive justice are established,
will discover so many disproportions between crimes and punishments,
such capricious distinctions of guilt, and such confusion of remissness
and severity, as can scarcely be believed to have been produced by
publick wisdom, sincerely and calmly studious of publick happiness.

The learned, the judicious, the pious Boerhaave relates, that he never
saw a criminal dragged to execution without asking himself, "Who knows
whether this man is not less culpable than me? " On the days when the
prisons of this city are emptied into the grave, let every spectator of
the dreadful procession put the same question to his own heart. Few
among those that crowd in thousands to the legal massacre, and look with
carelessness, perhaps with triumph, on the utmost exacerbations of human
misery, would then be able to return without horrour and dejection. For,
who can congratulate himself upon a life passed without some act more
mischievous to the peace or prosperity of others, than the theft of a
piece of money?

It has been always the practice, when any particular species of robbery
becomes prevalent and common, to endeavour its suppression by capital
denunciations. Thus one generation of malefactors is commonly cut off,
and their successors are frighted into new expedients; the art of
thievery is augmented with greater variety of fraud, and subtilized to
higher degrees of dexterity, and more occult methods of conveyance. The
law then renews the pursuit in the heat of anger, and overtakes the
offender again with death. By this practice capital inflictions are
multiplied, and crimes, very different in their degrees of enormity, are
equally subjected to the severest punishment that man has the power of
exercising upon man.

The lawgiver is undoubtedly allowed to estimate the malignity of an
offence, not merely by the loss or pain which single acts may produce,
but by the general alarm and anxiety arising from the fear of mischief,
and insecurity of possession: he therefore exercises the right which
societies are supposed to have over the lives of those that compose
them, not simply to punish a transgression, but to maintain order, and
preserve quiet; he enforces those laws with severity, that are most in
danger of violation, as the commander of a garrison doubles the guard on
that side which is threatened by the enemy.

This method has been long tried, but tried with so little success, that
rapine and violence are hourly increasing, yet few seem willing to
despair of its efficacy; and of those who employ their speculations upon
the present corruption of the people, some propose the introduction of
more horrid, lingering, and terrifick punishments; some are inclined to
accelerate the executions; some to discourage pardons; and all seem to
think that lenity has given confidence to wickedness, and that we can
only be rescued from the talons of robbery by inflexible rigour, and
sanguinary justice.

Yet, since the right of setting an uncertain and arbitrary value upon
life has been disputed, and since experience of past times gives us
little reason to hope that any reformation will be effected by a
periodical havock of our fellow-beings, perhaps it will not be useless
to consider what consequences might arise from relaxations of the law,
and a more rational and equitable adaptation of penalties to offences.

Death is, as one of the ancients observes, [Greek: to ton phoberon
phoberotaton], _of dreadful things the most dreadful_: an evil, beyond
which nothing can be threatened by sublunary power, or feared from human
enmity or vengeance. This terrour should, therefore, be reserved as the
last resort of authority, as the strongest and most operative of
prohibitory sanctions, and placed before the treasure of life, to guard
from invasion what cannot be restored. To equal robbery with murder is
to reduce murder to robbery; to confound in common minds the gradations
of iniquity, and incite the commission of a greater crime to prevent the
detection of a less. If only murder were punished with death, very few
robbers would stain their hands in blood; but when, by the last act of
cruelty, no new danger is incurred, and greater security may be
obtained, upon what principle shall we bid them forbear?

It may be urged, that the sentence is often mitigated to simple robbery;
but surely this is to confess that our laws are unreasonable in our own
opinion; and, indeed, it may be observed, that all but murderers have,
at their last hour, the common sensations of mankind pleading in their
favour.

From this conviction of the inequality of the punishment to the offence,
proceeds the frequent solicitation of pardons. They who would rejoice at
the correction of a thief, are yet shocked at the thought of destroying
him. His crime shrinks to nothing, compared with his misery; and
severity defeats itself by exciting pity.

The gibbet, indeed, certainly disables those who die upon it from
infesting the community; but their death seems not to contribute more to
the reformation of their associates, than any other method of
separation. A thief seldom passes much of his time in recollection or
anticipation, but from robbery hastens to riot, and from riot to
robbery; nor, when the grave closes on his companion, has any other care
than to find another.

The frequency of capital punishments, therefore, rarely hinders the
commission of a crime, but naturally and commonly prevents its
detection, and is, if we proceed only upon prudential principles,
chiefly for that reason to be avoided. Whatever may be urged by casuists
or politicians, the greater part of mankind, as they can never think
that to pick the pocket and to pierce the heart is equally criminal,
will scarcely believe that two malefactors so different in guilt can be
justly doomed to the same punishment: nor is the necessity of submitting
the conscience to human laws so plainly evinced, so clearly stated, or
so generally allowed, but that the pious, the tender, and the just, will
always scruple to concur with the community in an act which their
private judgment cannot approve.

He who knows not how often rigorous laws produce total impunity, and how
many crimes are concealed and forgotten for fear of hurrying the
offender to that state in which there is no repentance, has conversed
very little with mankind. And whatever epithets of reproach or contempt
this compassion may incur from those who confound cruelty with firmness,
I know not whether any wise man would wish it less powerful, or less
extensive.

If those whom the wisdom of our laws has condemned to die, had been
detected in their rudiments of robbery, they might, by proper discipline
and useful labour, have been disentangled from their habits, they might
have escaped all the temptation to subsequent crimes, and passed their
days in reparation and penitence; and detected they might all have been,
had the prosecutors been certain that their lives would have been
spared. I believe, every thief will confess, that he has been more than
once seized and dismissed; and that he has sometimes ventured upon
capital crimes, because he knew, that those whom he injured would rather
connive at his escape, than cloud their minds with the horrours of his
death.

All laws against wickedness are ineffectual, unless some will inform,
and some will prosecute; but till we mitigate the penalties for mere
violations of property, information will always be hated, and
prosecution dreaded. The heart of a good man cannot but recoil at the
thought of punishing a slight injury with death; especially when he
remembers that the thief might have procured safety by another crime,
from which he was restrained only by his remaining virtue.