No More Learning

SATURDAY, MAY 11, 1751.

Redditum Cyri solio Phraaten.
Dissidens plebi, numero beatorum
Eiimit virtus, populumque falsis
Dedocet uti
Vocibus. --HOR. Lib. ii. Od. ii. 17.

True virtue can the crowd unteach
Their false mistaken forms of speech;
Virtue, to crowds a foe profest,
Disdains to number with the blest
Phraates, by his slaves ador'd,
And to the Parthian crown restor'd. FRANCIS.

In the reign of Jenghiz Can, conqueror of the east, in the city of
Samarcand, lived Nouradin the merchant, renowned throughout all the
regions of India, for the extent of his commerce, and the integrity of
his dealings. His warehouses were filled with all the commodities of the
remotest nations; every rarity of nature, every curiosity of art,
whatever was valuable, whatever was useful, hasted to his hand. The
streets were crowded with his carriages; the sea was covered with his
ships; the streams of Oxus were wearied with conveyance, and every
breeze of the sky wafted wealth to Nouradin.

At length Nouradin felt himself seized with a slow malady, which he
first endeavoured to divert by application, and afterwards to relieve by
luxury and indulgence; but finding his strength every day less, he was
at last terrified, and called for help upon the sages of physick; they
filled his apartments with alexipharmicks, restoratives, and essential
virtues; the pearls of the ocean were dissolved, the spices of Arabia
were distilled, and all the powers of nature were employed to give new
spirits to his nerves, and new balsam to his blood. Nouradin was for
some time amused with promises, invigorated with cordials, or soothed
with anodynes; but the disease preyed upon his vitals, and he soon
discovered with indignation, that health was not to be bought. He was
confined to his chamber, deserted by his physicians, and rarely visited
by his friends; but his unwillingness to die flattered him long with
hopes of life.

At length, having passed the night in tedious languor, he called to him
Almamoulin, his only son, and dismissing his attendants, "My son," says
he, "behold here the weakness and fragility of man; look backward a few
days, thy father was great and happy, fresh as the vernal rose, and
strong as the cedar of the mountain; the nations of Asia drank his dews,
and art and commerce delighted in his shade. Malevolence beheld me, and
sighed: 'His root,' she cried, 'is fixed in the depths; it is watered by
the fountains of Oxus; it sends out branches afar, and bids defiance to
the blast; prudence reclines against his trunk, and prosperity dances on
his top. ' Now, Almamoulin, look upon me withering and prostrate; look
upon me, and attend. I have trafficked, I have prospered, I have rioted
in gain; my house is splendid, my servants are numerous; yet I displayed
only a small part of my riches; the rest, which I was hindered from
enjoying by the fear of raising envy, or tempting rapacity, I have piled
in towers, I have buried in caverns, I have hidden in secret
repositories, which this scroll will discover. My purpose was, after ten
months more spent in commerce, to have withdrawn my wealth to a safer
country; to have given seven years to delight and festivity, and the
remaining part of my days to solitude and repentance; but the hand of
death is upon me; a frigorifick torpor encroaches upon my veins; I am
now leaving the produce of my toil, which it must be thy business to
enjoy with wisdom. " The thought of leaving his wealth filled Nouradin
with such grief, that he fell into convulsions, became delirious, and
expired.

Almamoulin, who loved his father, was touched a while with honest
sorrow, and sat two hours in profound meditation, without perusing the
paper which he held in his hand. He then retired to his own chamber, as
overborne with affliction, and there read the inventory of his new
possessions, which swelled his heart with such transports, that he no
longer lamented his father's death. He was now sufficiently composed to
order a funeral of modest magnificence, suitable at once to the rank of
Nouradin's profession, and the reputation of his wealth. The two next
nights he spent in visiting the tower and the caverns, and found the
treasures greater to his eye than to his imagination.

Almamoulin had been bred to the practice of exact frugality, and had
often looked with envy on the finery and expenses of other young men: he
therefore believed, that happiness was now in his power, since he could
obtain all of which he had hitherto been accustomed to regret the want.
He resolved to give a loose to his desires, to revel in enjoyment, and
feel pain or uneasiness no more.

He immediately procured a splendid equipage, dressed his servants in
rich embroidery, and covered his horses with golden caparisons. He
showered down silver on the populace, and suffered their acclamations to
swell him with insolence. The nobles saw him with anger, the wise men of
the state combined against him, the leaders of armies threatened his
destruction. Almamoulin was informed of his danger: he put on the robe
of mourning in the presence of his enemies, and appeased them with gold,
and gems, and supplication.

He then sought to strengthen himself by an alliance with the princes of
Tartary, and offered the price of kingdoms for a wife of noble birth.
His suit was generally rejected, and his presents refused; but the
princess of Astracan once condescended to admit him to her presence. She
received him, sitting on a throne, attired in the robe of royalty, and
shining with the jewels of Golconda; command sparkled in her eyes, and
dignity towered on her forehead. Almamoulin approached and trembled. She
saw his confusion and disdained him: "How," says she, "dares the wretch
hope my obedience, who thus shrinks at my glance? Retire, and enjoy thy
riches in sordid ostentation; thou wast born to be wealthy, but never
canst be great. "

He then contracted his desires to more private and domestick pleasures.
He built palaces, he laid out gardens[d], he changed the face of the
land, he transplanted forests, he levelled mountains, opened prospects
into distant regions, poured fountains from the tops of turrets, and
rolled rivers through new channels.

These amusements pleased him for a time; but languor and weariness soon
invaded him. His bowers lost their fragrance, and the waters murmured
without notice. He purchased large tracts of land in distant provinces,
adorned them with houses of pleasure, and diversified them with
accommodations for different seasons. Change of place at first relieved
his satiety, but all the novelties of situation were soon exhausted; he
found his heart vacant, and his desires, for want of external objects,
ravaging himself.

He therefore returned to Samarcand, and set open his doors to those whom
idleness sends out in search of pleasure. His tables were always covered
with delicacies; wines of every vintage sparkled in his bowls, and his
lamps scattered perfumes. The sound of the lute, and the voice of the
singer, chased away sadness; every hour was crowded with pleasure; and
the day ended and began with feasts and dances, and revelry and
merriment. Almamoulin cried out, "I have at last found the use of
riches; I am surrounded by companions, who view my greatness without
envy; and I enjoy at once the raptures of popularity, and the safety of
an obscure station. What trouble can he feel, whom all are studious to
please, that they may be repaid with pleasure? What danger can he dread,
to whom every man is a friend? "

Such were the thoughts of Almamoulin, as he looked down from a gallery
upon the gay assembly regaling at his expense; but, in the midst of this
soliloquy, an officer of justice entered the house, and in the form of
legal citation, summoned Almamoulin to appear before the emperor. The
guests stood awhile aghast, then stole imperceptibly away, and he was
led off without a single voice to witness his integrity. He now found
one of his most frequent visitants accusing him of treason, in hopes of
sharing his confiscation; yet, unpatronized and unsupported, he cleared
himself by the openness of innocence, and the consistence of truth; he
was dismissed with honour, and his accuser perished in prison.

Almamoulin now perceived with how little reason he had hoped for justice
or fidelity from those who live only to gratify their senses; and, being
now weary with vain experiments upon life and fruitless researches after
felicity, he had recourse to a sage, who, after spending his youth in
travel and observation, had retired from all human cares, to a small
habitation on the banks of Oxus, where he conversed only with such as
solicited his counsel. "Brother," said the philosopher, "thou hast
suffered thy reason to be deluded by idle hopes, and fallacious
appearances. Having long looked with desire upon riches, thou hadst
taught thyself to think them more valuable than nature designed them,
and to expect from them, what experience has now taught thee, that they
cannot give. That they do not confer wisdom, thou mayest be convinced,
by considering at how dear a price they tempted thee, upon thy first
entrance into the world, to purchase the empty sound of vulgar
acclamation. That they cannot bestow fortitude or magnanimity, that man
may be certain, who stood trembling at Astracan, before a being not
naturally superior to himself. That they will not supply unexhausted
pleasure, the recollection of forsaken palaces, and neglected gardens,
will easily inform thee. That they rarely purchase friends, thou didst
soon discover, when thou wert left to stand thy trial uncountenanced and
alone. Yet think not riches useless; there are purposes to which a wise
man may be delighted to apply them; they may, by a rational distribution
to those who want them, ease the pains of helpless disease, still the
throbs of restless anxiety, relieve innocence from oppression, and raise
imbecility to cheerfulness and vigour. This they will enable thee to
perform, and this will afford the only happiness ordained for our
present state, the confidence of Divine favour, and the hope of future
rewards. "

[Footnote d: See Vathek. ]



No. 121. TUESDAY, MAY 14, 1751.

O imitatores, servum pecus! Hor. Lib. i. Ep. xix. 19.

Away, ye imitators, servile herd! ELPHINSTON.

I have been informed by a letter from one of the universities, that
among the youth from whom the next swarm of reasoners is to learn
philosophy, and the next flight of beauties to hear elegies and sonnets,
there are many, who, instead of endeavouring by books and meditation to
form their own opinions, content themselves with the secondary
knowledge, which a convenient bench in a coffee-house can supply; and
without any examination or distinction, adopt the criticisms and
remarks, which happen to drop from those who have risen, by merit or
fortune, to reputation and authority.

These humble retailers of knowledge my correspondent stigmatises with
the name of Echoes; and seems desirous that they should be made ashamed
of lazy submission, and animated to attempts after new discoveries and
original sentiments.

It is very natural for young men to be vehement, acrimonious, and
severe. For, as they seldom comprehend at once all the consequences of a
position, or perceive the difficulties by which cooler and more
experienced reasoners are restrained from confidence, they form their
conclusions with great precipitance. Seeing nothing that can darken or
embarrass the question, they expect to find their own opinion
universally prevalent, and are inclined to impute uncertainty and
hesitation to want of honesty, rather than of knowledge. I may, perhaps,
therefore, be reproached by my lively correspondent, when it shall be
found, that I have no inclination to persecute these collectors of
fortuitous knowledge with the severity required; yet, as I am now too
old to be much pained by hasty censure, I shall not be afraid of taking
into protection those whom I think condemned without a sufficient
knowledge of their cause.

He that adopts the sentiments of another, whom he has reason to believe
wiser than himself, is only to be blamed when he claims the honours
which are not due but to the author, and endeavours to deceive the world
into praise and veneration; for, to learn, is the proper business of
youth; and whether we increase our knowledge by books or by
conversation, we are equally indebted to foreign assistance.

The greater part of students are not born with abilities to construct
systems, or advance knowledge; nor can have any hope beyond that of
becoming intelligent hearers in the schools of art, of being able to
comprehend what others discover, and to remember what others teach. Even
those to whom Providence hath allotted greater strength of
understanding, can expect only to improve a single science. In every
other part of learning, they must be content to follow opinions, which
they are not able to examine; and, even in that which they claim as
peculiarly their own, can seldom add more than some small particle of
knowledge, to the hereditary stock devolved to them from ancient times,
the collective labour of a thousand intellects.

In science, which, being fixed and limited, admits of no other variety
than such as arises from new methods of distribution, or new arts of
illustration, the necessity of following the traces of our predecessors
is indisputably evident; but there appears no reason, why imagination
should be subject to the same restraint. It might be conceived, that of
those who profess to forsake the narrow paths of truth, every one may
deviate towards a different point, since, though rectitude is uniform
and fixed, obliquity may be infinitely diversified. The roads of science
are narrow, so that they who travel them, must either follow or meet one
another; but in the boundless regions of possibility, which fiction
claims for her dominion, there are surely a thousand recesses
unexplored, a thousand flowers unplucked, a thousand fountains
unexhausted, combinations of imagery yet unobserved, and races of ideal
inhabitants not hitherto described.

Yet, whatever hope may persuade, or reason evince, experience can boast
of very few additions to ancient fable. The wars of Troy, and the
travels of Ulysses, have furnished almost all succeeding poets with
incidents, characters, and sentiments. The Romans are confessed to have
attempted little more than to display in their own tongue the inventions
of the Greeks. There is, in all their writings, such a perpetual
recurrence of allusions to the tales of the fabulous age, that they must
be confessed often to want that power of giving pleasure which novelty
supplies; nor can we wonder that they excelled so much in the graces of
diction, when we consider how rarely they were employed in search of new
thoughts.

The warmest admirers of the great Mantuan poet can extol him for little
more than the skill with which he has, by making his hero both a
traveller and a warrior, united the beauties of the Iliad and the
Odyssey in one composition: yet his judgment was perhaps sometimes
overborne by his avarice of the Homeric treasures; and, for fear of
suffering a sparkling ornament to be lost, he has inserted it where it
cannot shine with its original splendour.

When Ulysses visited the infernal regions, he found among the heroes
that perished at Troy, his competitor, Ajax, who, when the arms of
Achilles were adjudged to Ulysses, died by his own hand in the madness
of disappointment. He still appeared to resent, as on earth, his loss
and disgrace, Ulysses endeavoured to pacify him with praises and
submission; but Ajax walked away without reply. This passage has always
been considered as eminently beautiful; because Ajax, the haughty chief,
the unlettered soldier, of unshaken courage, of immovable constancy, but
without the power of recommending his own virtues by eloquence, or
enforcing his assertions by any other argument than the sword, had no
way of making his anger known, but by gloomy sullenness and dumb
ferocity. His hatred of a man whom he conceived to have defeated him
only by volubility of tongue, was therefore naturally shewn by silence
more contemptuous and piercing than any words that so rude an orator
could have found, and by which he gave his enemy no opportunity of
exerting the only power in which he was superior.

When Æneas is sent by Virgil to the shades, he meets Dido the queen of
Carthage, whom his perfidy had hurried to the grave; he accosts her with
tenderness and excuses; but the lady turns away like Ajax in mute
disdain. She turns away like Ajax; but she resembles him in none of
those qualities which give either dignity or propriety to silence. She
might, without any departure from the tenour of her conduct, have burst
out like other injured women into clamour, reproach, and denunciation;
but Virgil had his imagination full of Ajax, and therefore could not
prevail on himself to teach Dido any other mode of resentment.

If Virgil could be thus seduced by imitation, there will be little hope,
that common wits should escape; and accordingly we find, that besides
the universal and acknowledged practice of copying the ancients, there
has prevailed in every age a particular species of fiction. At one time
all truth was conveyed in allegory; at another, nothing was seen but in
a vision; at one period all the poets followed sheep, and every event
produced a pastoral; at another they busied themselves wholly in giving
directions to a painter.

It is indeed easy to conceive why any fashion should become popular, by
which idleness is favoured, and imbecility assisted; but surely no man
of genius can much applaud himself for repeating a tale with which the
audience is already tired, and which could bring no honour to any but
its inventor.

There are, I think, two schemes of writing, on which the laborious wits
of the present time employ their faculties. One is the adaptation of
sense to all the rhymes which our language can supply to some word, that
makes the burden of the stanza; but this, as it has been only used in a
kind of amorous burlesque, can scarcely be censured with much acrimony.
The other is the imitation of Spenser, which, by the influence of some
men of learning and genius, seems likely to gain upon the age, and
therefore deserves to be more attentively considered.

To imitate the fictions and sentiments of Spenser can incur no reproach,
for allegory is perhaps one of the most pleasing vehicles of
instruction. But I am very far from extending the same respect to his
diction or his stanza. His style was in his own time allowed to be
vicious, so darkened with old words and peculiarities of phrase, and so
remote from common use, that Jonson boldly pronounces him _to have
written no language_. His stanza is at once difficult and unpleasing;
tiresome to the ear by its uniformity, and to the attention by its
length. It was at first formed in imitation of the Italian poets,
without due regard to the genius of our language. The Italians have
little variety of termination, and were forced to contrive such a stanza
as might admit the greatest number of similar rhymes; but our words end
with so much diversity, that it is seldom convenient for us to bring
more than two of the same sound together. If it be justly observed by
Milton, that rhyme obliges poets to express their thoughts in improper
terms, these improprieties must always be multiplied, as the difficulty
of rhyme is increased by long concatenations.

The imitators of Spenser are indeed not very rigid censors of
themselves, for they seem to conclude, that when they have disfigured
their lines with a few obsolete syllables, they have accomplished their
design, without considering that they ought not only to admit old words,
but to avoid new. The laws of imitation are broken by every word
introduced since the time of Spenser, as the character of Hector is
violated by quoting Aristotle in the play. It would, indeed, be
difficult to exclude from a long poem all modern phrases, though it is
easy to sprinkle it with gleanings of antiquity. Perhaps, however, the
style of Spenser might by long labour be justly copied; but life is
surely given us for higher purposes than to gather what our ancestors
have wisely thrown away, and to learn what is of no value, but because
it has been forgotten.



No. 122. SATURDAY, MAY 18, 1751.

Nescio qua natale solum dulcedine captos
Ducit. OVID, Ex Pon. Lib. i. Ep. iii. 35.

By secret charms our native land attracts.

Nothing is more subject to mistake and disappointment than anticipated
judgment concerning the easiness or difficulty of any undertaking,
whether we form our opinion from the performances of others, or from
abstracted contemplation of the thing to be attempted.

Whatever is done skilfully appears to be done with ease; and art, when
it is once matured to habit, vanishes from observation. We are therefore
more powerfully excited to emulation, by those who have attained the
highest degree of excellence, and whom we can therefore with least
reason hope to equal.

In adjusting the probability of success by a previous consideration of
the undertaking, we are equally in danger of deceiving ourselves. It is
never easy, nor often possible, to comprise the series of any process
with all its circumstances, incidents, and variations, in a speculative
scheme. Experience soon shows us the tortuosities of imaginary
rectitude, the complications of simplicity, and the asperities of
smoothness. Sudden difficulties often start up from the ambushes of art,
stop the career of activity, repress the gaiety of confidence, and when
we imagine ourselves almost at the end of our labours, drive us back to
new plans and different measures.

There are many things which we every day see others unable to perform,
and perhaps have even ourselves miscarried in attempting; and yet can
hardly allow to be difficult; nor can we forbear to wonder afresh at
every new failure, or to promise certainty of success to our next essay;
but when we try, the same hindrances recur, the same inability is
perceived, and the vexation of disappointment must again be suffered.

Of the various kinds of speaking or writing, which serve necessity, or
promote pleasure, none appears so artless or easy as simple narration;
for what should make him that knows the whole order and progress of an
affair unable to relate it? Yet we hourly find such as endeavour to
entertain or instruct us by recitals, clouding the facts which they
intend to illustrate, and losing themselves and their auditors in wilds
and mazes, in digression and confusion. When we have congratulated
ourselves upon a new opportunity of inquiry, and new means of
information, it often happens, that without designing either deceit or
concealment, without ignorance of the fact, or unwillingness to disclose
it, the relator fills the ear with empty sounds, harasses the attention
with fruitless impatience, and disturbs the imagination by a tumult of
events, without order of time, or train of consequence.

It is natural to believe, upon the same principle, that no writer has a
more easy task than the historian. The philosopher has the works of
omniscience to examine; and is therefore engaged in disquisitions, to
which finite intellects are utterly unequal. The poet trusts to his
invention, and is not only in danger of those inconsistencies, to which
every one is exposed by departure from truth; but may be censured as
well for deficiencies of matter, as for irregularity of disposition, or
impropriety of ornament. But the happy historian has no other labour
than of gathering what tradition pours down before him, or records
treasure for his use. He has only the actions and designs of men like
himself to conceive and to relate; he is not to form, but copy
characters, and therefore is not blamed for the inconsistency of
statesmen, the injustice of tyrants, or the cowardice of commanders. The
difficulty of making variety consistent, or uniting probability with
surprise, needs not to disturb him; the manners and actions of his
personages are already fixed; his materials are provided and put into
his hands, and he is at leisure to employ all his powers in arranging
and displaying them.

Yet, even with these advantages, very few in any age have been able to
raise themselves to reputation by writing histories; and among the
innumerable authors, who fill every nation with accounts of their
ancestors, or undertake to transmit to futurity the events of their own
time, the greater part, when fashion and novelty have ceased to
recommend them, are of no other use than chronological memorials, which
necessity may sometimes require to be consulted, but which fright away
curiosity, and disgust delicacy.

It is observed, that our nation, which has produced so many authors
eminent for almost every other species of literary excellence, has been
hitherto remarkably barren of historical genius; and so far has this
defect raised prejudices against us, that some have doubted whether an
Englishman can stop at that mediocrity of style, or confine his mind to
that even tenour of imagination, which narrative requires.

They who can believe that nature has so capriciously distributed
understanding, have surely no claim to the honour of serious
confutation. The inhabitants of the same country have opposite
characters in different ages; the prevalence or neglect of any
particular study can proceed only from the accidental influence of some
temporary cause; and if we have failed in history, we can have failed
only because history has not hitherto been diligently cultivated.

But how is it evident, that we have not historians among us, whom we may
venture to place in comparison with any that the neighbouring nations
can produce? The attempt of Raleigh is deservedly celebrated for the
labour of his researches, and the elegance of his style; but he has
endeavoured to exert his judgment more than his genius, to select facts,
rather than adorn them; and has produced an historical dissertation, but
seldom risen to the majesty of history.

The works of Clarendon deserve more regard. His diction is indeed
neither exact in itself, nor suited to the purpose of history. It is the
effusion of a mind crowded with ideas, and desirous of imparting them;
and therefore always accumulating words, and involving one clause and
sentence in another. But there is in his negligence a rude inartificial
majesty, which, without the nicety of laboured elegance, swells the mind
by its plenitude and diffusion. His narration is not perhaps
sufficiently rapid, being stopped too frequently by particularities,
which, though they might strike the author who was present at the
transactions, will not equally detain the attention of posterity. But
his ignorance or carelessness of the art of writing is amply compensated
by his knowledge of nature and of policy; the wisdom of his maxims, the
justness of his reasonings, and the variety, distinctness, and strength
of his characters.

But none of our writers can, in my opinion, justly contest the
superiority of Knolles, who, in his history of the Turks, has displayed
all the excellencies that narration can admit. His style, though
somewhat obscured by time, and sometimes vitiated by false wit, is pure,
nervous, elevated, and clear. A wonderful multiplicity of events is so
artfully arranged, and so distinctly explained, that each facilitates
the knowledge of the next. Whenever a new personage is introduced, the
reader is prepared by his character for his actions; when a nation is
first attacked, or city besieged, he is made acquainted with its
history, or situation; so that a great part of the world is brought into
view. The descriptions of this author are without minuteness, and the
digressions without ostentation. Collateral events are so artfully woven
into the contexture of his principal story, that they cannot be
disjoined without leaving it lacerated and broken. There is nothing
turgid in his dignity, nor superfluous in his copiousness. His orations
only, which he feigns, like the ancient historians, to have been
pronounced on remarkable occasions, are tedious and languid; and since
they are merely the voluntary sports of imagination, prove how much the
most judicious and skilful may be mistaken in the estimate of their own
powers.

Nothing could have sunk this author in obscurity, but the remoteness and
barbarity of the people, whose story he relates. It seldom happens, that
all circumstances concur to happiness or fame. The nation which produced
this great historian, has the grief of seeing his genius employed upon a
foreign and uninteresting subject; and that writer who might have
secured perpetuity to his name, by a history of his own country, has
exposed himself to the danger of oblivion, by recounting enterprises and
revolutions, of which none desire to be informed.


No. 123. TUESDAY, MAY 21, 1751.

_Quo semet est imbuta recens, servabit odorem
Testa din_. --HOR. Lib. i. Ep. ii. 69.

What season'd first the vessel, keeps the taste. CREECH.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Though I have so long found myself deluded by projects of honour and
distinction, that I often resolve to admit them no more into my heart;
yet how determinately soever excluded, they always recover their
dominion by force or stratagem; and whenever, after the shortest
relaxation of vigilance, reason and caution return to their charge, they
find hope again in possession, with all her train of pleasures dancing
about her.

Even while I am preparing to write a history of disappointed
expectations, I cannot forbear to flatter myself, that you and your
readers are impatient for my performance; and that the sons of learning
have laid down several of your late papers with discontent, when they
found that Misocapelus had delayed to continue his narrative.

But the desire of gratifying the expectations that I have raised, is not
the only motive of this relation, which, having once promised it, I
think myself no longer at liberty to forbear. For, however I may have
wished to clear myself from every other adhesion of trade, I hope I
shall be always wise enough to retain my punctuality, and amidst all my
new arts of politeness, continue to despise negligence, and detest
falsehood.

When the death of my brother had dismissed me from the duties of a shop,
I considered myself as restored to the rights of my birth, and entitled
to the rank and reception which my ancestors obtained. I was, however,
embarrassed with many difficulties at my first re-entrance into the
world; for my haste to be a gentleman inclined me to precipitate
measures; and every accident that forced me back towards my old station,
was considered by me as an obstruction of my happiness.

It was with no common grief and indignation, that I found my former
companions still daring to claim my notice, and the journeymen and
apprentices sometimes pulling me by the sleeve as I was walking in the
street, and without any terrour of my new sword, which was,
notwithstanding, of an uncommon size, inviting me to partake of a bottle
at the old house, and entertaining me with histories of the girls in the
neighbourhood. I had always, in my officinal state, been kept in awe by
lace and embroidery; and imagined that, to fright away these unwelcome
familiarities, nothing was necessary, but that I should, by splendour of
dress, proclaim my re-union with a higher rank. I, therefore, sent for
my tailor; ordered a suit with twice the usual quantity of lace; and
that I might not let my persecutors increase their confidence, by the
habit of accosting me, staid at home till it was made.

This week of confinement I passed in practising a forbidding frown, a
smile of condescension, a slight salutation, and an abrupt departure;
and in four mornings was able to turn upon my heel, with so much levity
and sprightliness, that I made no doubt of discouraging all publick
attempts upon my dignity. I therefore issued forth in my new coat, with
a resolution of dazzling intimacy to a fitter distance; and pleased
myself with the timidity and reverence, which I should impress upon all
who had hitherto presumed to harass me with their freedoms. But,
whatever was the cause, I did not find myself received with any new
degree of respect; those whom I intended to drive from me, ventured to
advance with their usual phrases of benevolence; and those whose
acquaintance I solicited, grew more supercilious and reserved. I began
soon to repent the expense, by which I had procured no advantage, and to
suspect that a shining dress, like a weighty weapon, has no force in
itself, but owes all its efficacy to him that wears it.

Many were the mortifications and calamities which I was condemned to
suffer in my initiation to politeness. I was so much tortured by the
incessant civilities of my companions, that I never passed through that
region of the city but in a chair with the curtains drawn; and at last
left my lodgings, and fixed myself in the verge of the court. Here I
endeavoured to be thought a gentleman just returned from his travels,
and was pleased to have my landlord believe that I was in some danger
from importunate creditors; but this scheme was quickly defeated by a
formal deputation sent to offer me, though I had now retired from
business, the freedom of my company.

I was now detected in trade, and therefore resolved to stay no longer. I
hired another apartment, and changed my servants.
Here I lived very
happily for three months, and, with secret satisfaction, often overheard
the family celebrating the greatness and felicity of the esquire; though
the conversation seldom ended without some complaint of my covetousness,
or some remark upon my language, or my gait. I now began to venture in
the publick walks, and to know the faces of nobles and beauties; but
could not observe, without wonder, as I passed by them, how frequently
they were talking of a tailor. I longed, however, to be admitted to
conversation, and was somewhat weary of walking in crowds without a
companion, yet continued to come and go with the rest, till a lady whom
I endeavoured to protect in a crowded passage, as she was about to step
into her chariot, thanked me for my civility, and told me, that, as she
had often distinguished me for my modest and respectful behaviour,
whenever I set up for myself, I might expect to see her among my first
customers.

Here was an end of all my ambulatory projects. I indeed sometimes
entered the walks again, but was always blasted by this destructive
lady, whose mischievous generosity recommended me to her acquaintance.
Being therefore forced to practise my adscititious character upon
another stage, I betook myself to a coffee-house frequented by wits,
among whom I learned in a short time the cant of criticism, and talked
so loudly and volubly of nature, and manners, and sentiment, and
diction, and similies, and contrasts, and action, and pronunciation,
that I was often desired to lead the hiss and clap, and was feared and
hated by the players and the poets. Many a sentence have I hissed, which
I did not understand, and many a groan have I uttered, when the ladies
were weeping in the boxes. At last a malignant author, whose performance
I had persecuted through the nine nights, wrote an epigram upon Tape the
critick, which drove me from the pit for ever.

My desire to be a fine gentleman still continued: I therefore, after a
short suspense, chose a new set of friends at the gaming-table, and was
for some time pleased with the civility and openness with which I found
myself treated. I was indeed obliged to play; but being naturally
timorous and vigilant, was never surprised into large sums. What might
have been the consequence of long familiarity with these plunderers, I
had not an opportunity of knowing; for one night the constables entered
and seized us, and I was once more compelled to sink into my former
condition, by sending for my old master to attest my character.

When I was deliberating to what new qualifications I should aspire, I
was summoned into the country, by an account of my father's death. Here
I had hopes of being able to distinguish myself, and to support the
honour of my family. I therefore bought guns and horses, and, contrary
to the expectation of the tenants, increased the salary of the huntsman.
But when I entered the field, it was soon discovered, that I was not
destined to the glories of the chase. I was afraid of thorns in the
thicket, and of dirt in the marsh; I shivered on the brink of a river
while the sportsmen crossed it, and trembled at the sight of a five-bar
gate. When the sport and danger were over, I was still equally
disconcerted; for I was effeminate, though not delicate, and could only
join a feeble whispering voice in the clamours of their triumph.

A fall, by which my ribs were broken, soon recalled me to domestick
pleasures, and I exerted all my art to obtain the favour of the
neighbouring ladies; but wherever I came, there was always some unlucky
conversation upon ribands, fillets, pins, or thread, which drove all my
stock of compliments out of my memory, and overwhelmed me with shame and
dejection.

Thus I passed the ten first years after the death of my brother, in
which I have learned at last to repress that ambition, which I could
never gratify; and, instead of wasting more of my life in vain
endeavours after accomplishments, which, if not early acquired, no
endeavours can obtain, I shall confine my care to those higher
excellencies which are in every man's power, and though I cannot enchant
affection by elegance and ease, hope to secure esteem by honesty and
truth.

I am, &c.

MISOCAPELUS.



No. 124. SATURDAY, MAY 25, 1751.

--Taciturn sylvas inter reptare salubres,
Curantem quicquid dignim sapiente bonoque est?
HOR. Lib. i. Ep. iv. 4.

To range in silence through each healthful wood,
And muse what's worthy of the wise and good. ELPHINSTON.

The season of the year is now come, in which the theatres are shut, and
the card-tables forsaken; the regions of luxury are for a while
unpeopled, and pleasure leads out her votaries to groves and gardens, to
still scenes and erratick gratifications. Those who have passed many
months in a continual tumult of diversion; who have never opened their
eyes in the morning, but upon some new appointment; nor slept at night
without a dream of dances, musick, and good hands, or of soft sighs and
humble supplications; must now retire to distant provinces, where the
syrens of flattery are scarcely to be heard, where beauty sparkles
without praise or envy, and wit is repeated only by the echo.

As I think it one of the most important duties of social benevolence to
give warning of the approach of calamity, when by timely prevention it
may be turned aside, or by preparatory measures be more easily endured,
I cannot feel the increasing warmth, or observe the lengthening days,
without considering the condition of my fair readers, who are now
preparing to leave all that has so long filled up their hours, all from
which they have been accustomed to hope for delight; and who, till
fashion proclaims the liberty of returning to the seats of mirth and
elegance, must endure the rugged 'squire, the sober housewife, the loud
huntsman, or the formal parson, the roar of obstreperous jollity, or the
dulness of prudential instruction; without any retreat, but to the gloom
of solitude, where they will yet find greater inconveniencies, and must
learn, however unwillingly, to endure themselves.

In winter, the life of the polite and gay may be said to roll on with a
strong and rapid current; they float along from pleasure to pleasure,
without the trouble of regulating their own motions, and pursue the
course of the stream in all the felicity of inattention; content that
they find themselves in progression, and careless whither they are
going. But the months of summer are a kind of sleeping stagnation
without wind or tide, where they are left to force themselves forward by
their own labour, and to direct their passage by their own skill; and
where, if they have not some internal principle of activity, they must
be stranded upon shallows, or lie torpid in a perpetual calm.

There are, indeed, some to whom this universal dissolution of gay
societies affords a welcome opportunity of quitting, without disgrace,
the post which they have found themselves unable to maintain; and of
seeming to retreat only at the call of nature, from assemblies where,
after a short triumph of uncontested superiority, they are overpowered
by some new intruder of softer elegance or sprightlier vivacity. By
these, hopeless of victory, and yet ashamed to confess a conquest, the
summer is regarded as a release from the fatiguing service of celebrity,
a dismission to more certain joys and a safer empire. They now solace
themselves with the influence which they shall obtain, where they have
no rival to fear; and with the lustre which they shall effuse, when
nothing can be seen of brighter splendour. They imagine, while they are
preparing for their journey, the admiration with which the rusticks will
crowd about them; plan the laws of a new assembly; or contrive to delude
provincial ignorance with a fictitious mode. A thousand pleasing
expectations swarm in the fancy; and all the approaching weeks are
filled with distinctions, honours, and authority.

But others, who have lately entered the world, or have yet had no proofs
of its inconstancy and desertion, are cut off, by this cruel
interruption, from the enjoyment of their prerogatives, and doomed to
lose four months in inactive obscurity. Many complaints do vexation and
desire extort from those exiled tyrants of the town, against the
inexorable sun, who pursues his course without any regard to love or
beauty; and visits either tropick at the stated time, whether shunned or
courted, deprecated or implored.

To them who leave the places of publick resort in the full bloom of
reputation, and withdraw from admiration, courtship, submission, and
applause, a rural triumph can give nothing equivalent. The praise of
ignorance, and the subjection of weakness, are little regarded by
beauties who have been accustomed to more important conquests, and more
valuable panegyricks. Nor indeed should the powers which have made
havock in the theatres, or borne down rivalry in courts, be degraded to
a mean attack upon the untravelled heir, or ignoble contest with the
ruddy milkmaid.

How then must four long months be worn away? Four months, in which there
will be no routes, no shows, no ridottos; in which visits must be
regulated by the weather, and assemblies will depend upon the moon! The
Platonists imagine, that the future punishment of those who have in this
life debased their reason by subjection to their senses, and have
preferred the gross gratifications of lewdness and luxury, to the pure
and sublime felicity of virtue and contemplation, will arise from the
predominance and solicitations of the same appetites, in a state which
can furnish no means of appeasing them. I cannot but suspect that this
month, bright with sunshine, and fragrant with perfumes; this month,
which covers the meadow with verdure, and decks the gardens with all the
mixtures of colorifick radiance; this month, from which the man of fancy
expects new infusions of imagery, and the naturalist new scenes of
observation; this month will chain down multitudes to the Platonick
penance of desire without enjoyment, and hurry them from the highest
satisfactions, which they have yet learned to conceive, into a state of
hopeless wishes and pining recollection, where the eye of vanity will
look round for admiration to no purpose, and the hand of avarice shuffle
cards in a bower with ineffectual dexterity.

From the tediousness of this melancholy suspension of life, I would
willingly preserve those who are exposed to it, only by inexperience;
who want not inclination to wisdom or virtue, though they have been
dissipated by negligence, or misled by example; and who would gladly
find the way to rational happiness, though it should be necessary to
struggle with habit, and abandon fashion. To these many arts of spending
time might be recommended, which would neither sadden the present hour
with weariness, nor the future with repentance.

It would seem impossible to a solitary speculatist, that a human being
can want employment. To be born in ignorance with a capacity of
knowledge, and to be placed in the midst of a world filled with variety,
perpetually pressing upon the senses and irritating curiosity, is surely
a sufficient security against the languishment of inattention. Novelty
is indeed necessary to preserve eagerness and alacrity; but art and
nature have stores inexhaustible by human intellects; and every moment
produces something new to him, who has quickened his faculties by
diligent observation.

Some studies, for which the country and the summer afford peculiar
opportunities, I shall perhaps endeavour to recommend in a future essay;
but if there be any apprehension not apt to admit unaccustomed ideas, or
any attention so stubborn and inflexible, as not easily to comply with
new directions, even these obstructions cannot exclude the pleasure of
application; for there is a higher and nobler employment, to which all
faculties are adapted by Him who gave them. The duties of religion,
sincerely and regularly performed, will always be sufficient to exalt
the meanest, and to exercise the highest understanding. That mind will
never be vacant, which is frequently recalled by stated duties to
meditations on eternal interests; nor can any hour be long, which is
spent in obtaining some new qualification for celestial happiness.



No. 125. TUESDAY, MAY 28, 1751.

_Descriptas servare vices, operumque colores,
Cur ego, si nequeo ignoroque, poëta salutor? _ HOR. De Ar. Poet. 86.

But if, through weakness, or my want of art,
I can't to every different style impart
The proper strokes and colours it may claim,
Why am I honour'd with a poet's name? FRANCIS.

It is one of the maxims of the civil law, that _definitions are
hazardous_. Things modified by human understandings, subject to
varieties of complication, and changeable as experience advances
knowledge, or accident influences caprice, are scarcely to be included
in any standing form of expression, because they are always suffering
some alteration of their state. Definition is, indeed, not the province
of man; every thing is set above or below our faculties. The works and
operations of nature are too great in their extent, or too much diffused
in their relations, and the performances of art too inconstant and
uncertain, to be reduced to any determinate idea. It is impossible to
impress upon our minds an adequate and just representation of an object
so great that we can never take it into our view, or so mutable that it
is always changing under our eye, and has already lost its form while we
are labouring to conceive it.

Definitions have been no less difficult or uncertain in criticisms than
in law. Imagination, a licentious and vagrant faculty, unsusceptible of
limitations, and impatient of restraint, has always endeavoured to
baffle the logician, to perplex the confines of distinction, and burst
the inclosures of regularity. There is therefore scarcely any species of
writing, of which we can tell what is its essence, and what are its
constituents; every new genius produces some innovation, which, when
invented and approved, subverts the rules which the practice of
foregoing authors had established.

Comedy has been particularly unpropitious to definers; for though
perhaps they might properly have contented themselves, with declaring it
to be _such a dramatick representation of human life, as may excite
mirth_, they have embarrassed their definition with the means by which
the comick writers attain their end, without considering that the
various methods of exhilarating their audience, not being limited by
nature, cannot be comprised in precept. Thus, some make comedy a
representation of mean and others of bad men; some think that its
essence consists in the unimportance, others in the fictitiousness of
the transaction. But any man's reflections will inform him, that every
dramatick composition which raises mirth, is comick; and that, to raise
mirth, it is by no means universally necessary, that the personages
should be either mean or corrupt, nor always requisite, that the action
should be trivial, nor ever, that it should be fictitious.

If the two kinds of dramatick poetry had been defined only by their
effects upon the mind, some absurdities might have been prevented, with
which the compositions of our greatest poets are disgraced, who, for
want of some settled ideas and accurate distinctions, have unhappily
confounded tragick with comick sentiments. They seem to have thought,
that as the meanest of personages constituted comedy, their greatness
was sufficient to form a tragedy; and that nothing was necessary but
that they should crowd the scene with monarchs, and generals, and
guards; and make them talk, at certain intervals, of the downfall of
kingdoms, and the rout of armies. They have not considered, that
thoughts or incidents, in themselves ridiculous, grow still more
grotesque by the solemnity of such characters; that reason and nature
are uniform and inflexible: and that what is despicable and absurd, will
not, by any association with splendid titles, become rational or great;
that the most important affairs, by an intermixture of an unseasonable
levity, may be made contemptible; and that the robes of royalty can give
no dignity to nonsense or to folly.

"Comedy," says Horace, "sometimes raises her voice;" and Tragedy may
likewise on proper occasions abate her dignity; but as the comick
personages can only depart from their familiarity of style, when the
more violent passions are put in motion, the heroes and queens of
tragedy should never descend to trifle, but in the hours of ease, and
intermissions of danger. Yet in the tragedy of Don Sebastian, when the
king of Portugal is in the hands of his enemy, and having just drawn the
lot, by which he is condemned to die, breaks out into a wild boast that
his dust shall take possession of Africk, the dialogue proceeds thus
between the captive and his conqueror:

_Muley Moluch_. What shall I do to conquer thee?

_Seb_. Impossible!
Souls know no conquerors.

_M. Mol_. I'll shew thee for a monster thro' my Afric.

_Seb_. No, thou canst only shew me for a man:
Afric is stored with monsters; man's a prodigy
Thy subjects have not seen.

_M. Mol_. Thou talk'st as if
Still at the head of battle.

_Seb_. Thou mistak'st,
For there I would not talk.

_Benducar, the Minister_. Sure he would sleep.
This conversation, with the sly remark of the minister, can only be
found not to be comick, because it wants the probability necessary to
representations of common life, and degenerates too much towards
buffoonery and farce.

The same play affords a smart return of the general to to the emperor,
who, enforcing his orders for the death of Sebastian, vents his
impatience in this abrupt threat:

--No more replies,
But see thou dost it: Or--

To which Dorax answers,

Choak in that threat: I can say Or as loud.

A thousand instances of such impropriety might be produced, were not one
scene in Aureng-Zebe sufficient to exemplify it. Indamora, a captive
queen, having Aureng-Zebe for her lover, employs Arimant, to whose
charge she had been entrusted, and whom she had made sensible of her
charms, to carry her message to his rival.

ARIMANT, _with a letter in his hand_: INDAMORA.

_Arim_. And I the messenger to him from you?
Your empire you to tyranny pursue:
You lay commands both cruel and unjust,
To serve my rival, and betray my trust.

_Ind_. You first betray'd your trust in loving me:
And should not I my own advantage see?
Serving my love, you may my friendship gain;
You know the rest of your pretences vain.
You must, my Arimant, you must be kind:
'Tis in your nature, and your noble mind.

_Arim_. I'll to the king, and straight my trust resign.

_Ind_. His trust you may, but you shall never mine.
Heaven made you love me for no other end,
But to become my confidant and friend:
As such, I keep no secret from your sight,
And therefore make you judge how ill I write:
Read it, and tell me freely then your mind,
If 'tis indited, as I meant it, kind.

Arim. _I ask not heaven my freedom to restore_--[Reading.
_But only for your sake_--I'll read no more.
And yet I must--
_Less for my own, than for your sorrow sad_--[Reading.
Another line like this, would make me mad--
Heav'n! she goes on--yet more--and yet more kind!
[--_As reading_.
Each sentence is a dagger to my mind.
_See me this night_--[Reading.
_Thank fortune who did such a friend provide;
For faithful Arimant shall be your guide_.
Not only to be made an instrument,
But pre-engaged without my own consent!

_Ind_. Unknown to engage you still augments my score,
And gives you scope of meriting the more.

_Arim_. The best of men
Some int'rest in their actions must confess;
None merit, but in hope they may possess:
The fatal paper rather let me tear,
Than, like Bellerophon, my own sentence hear.

_Ind_. You may; but 'twill not be your best advice:
'Twill only give me pains of writing twice.
You know you must obey me, soon or late:
Why should you vainly struggle with your fate?

_Arim_. I thank thee, heav'n! thou hast been wondrous kind!
Why am I thus to slavery design'd,
And yet am cheated with a free-born mind!
Or make thy orders with my reason suit,
Or let me live by sense, a glorious brute--[_She frowns_.
You frown, and I obey with speed, before
That dreadful sentence comes, _See me no more_.

In this scene, every circumstance concurs to turn tragedy to farce. The
wild absurdity of the expedient; the contemptible subjection of the
lover; the folly of obliging him to read the letter, only because it
ought to have been concealed from him; the frequent interruptions of
amorous impatience; the faint expostulations of a voluntary slave; the
imperious haughtiness of a tyrant without power; the deep reflection of
the yielding rebel upon fate and free-will; and his wise wish to lose
his reason as soon as he finds himself about to do what he cannot
persuade his reason to approve, are sufficient to awaken the most torpid
risibility.

There is scarce a tragedy of the last century which has not debased its
most important incidents, and polluted its most serious interlocutions,
with buffoonery and meanness; but though, perhaps, it cannot be
pretended that the present age has added much to the force and efficacy
of the drama, it has at least been able to escape many faults, which
either ignorance had overlooked, or indulgence had licensed. The later
tragedies, indeed, have faults of another kind, perhaps more destructive
to delight, though less open to censure. That perpetual tumour of phrase
with which every thought is now expressed by every personage, the
paucity of adventures which regularity admits, and the unvaried equality
of flowing dialogue, has taken away from our present writers almost all
that dominion over the passions which was the boast of their
predecessors. Yet they may at least claim this commendation, that they
avoid gross faults, and that if they cannot often move terrour or pity,
they are always careful not to provoke laughter.



No. 126. SATURDAY, JUNE 1, 1751.

_--Nihil est aliud magnum quam multa minuta_. VET. AUCT.

Sands form the mountain, moments make the year. YOUNG.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Among other topicks of conversation which your papers supply, I was
lately engaged in a discussion of the character given by Tranquilla of
her lover Venustulus, whom, notwithstanding the severity of his
mistress, the greater number seemed inclined to acquit of unmanly or
culpable timidity.

One of the company remarked that prudence ought to be distinguished from
fear; and that if Venustulus was afraid of nocturnal adventures, no man
who considered how much every avenue of the town was infested with
robbers could think him blameable; for why should life be hazarded
without prospect of honour or advantage? Another was of opinion, that a
brave man might be afraid of crossing the river in the calmest weather,
and declared, that, for his part, while there were coaches and a bridge,
he would never be seen tottering in a wooden case, out of which he might
be thrown by any irregular agitation, or which might be overset by
accident, or negligence, or by the force of a sudden gust, or the rush
of a larger vessel. It was his custom, he said, to keep the security of
daylight, and dry ground; for it was a maxim with him, that no wise man
ever perished by water, or was lost in the dark.

The next was humbly of opinion, that if Tranquilla had seen, like him,
the cattle run roaring about the meadows in the hot months, she would
not have thought meanly of her lover for not venturing his safety among
them. His neighbour then told us, that for his part he was not ashamed
to confess, that he could not see a rat, though it was dead, without
palpitation; that he had been driven six times out of his lodgings
either by rats or mice; and that he always had a bed in the closet for
his servant, whom he called up whenever the enemy was in motion. Another
wondered that any man should think himself disgraced by a precipitate
retreat from a dog; for there was always a possibility that a dog might
be mad; and that surely, though there was no danger but of being bit by
a fierce animal, there was more wisdom in flight than contest. By all
these declarations another was encouraged to confess, that if he had
been admitted to the honour of paying his addresses to Tranquilla, he
should have been likely to incur the same censure; for, among all the
animals upon which nature has impressed deformity and horrour, there is
none whom he durst not encounter rather than a beetle.

Thus, Sir, though cowardice is universally defined too close and anxious
an attention to personal safety, there will be found scarcely any fear,
however excessive in its degree, or unreasonable in its object, which
will be allowed to characterise a coward. Fear is a passion which every
man feels so frequently predominant in his own breast, that he is
unwilling to hear it censured with great asperity; and, perhaps, if we
confess the truth, the same restraint which would hinder a man from
declaiming against the frauds of any employment among those who profess
it, should withhold him from treating fear with contempt among human
beings.

Yet, since fortitude is one of those virtues which the condition of our
nature makes hourly necessary, I think you cannot better direct your
admonitions than against superfluous and panick terrours. Fear is
implanted in us as a preservative from evil; but its duty, like that of
other passions, is not to overbear reason, but to assist it; nor should
it be suffered to tyrannize in the imagination, to raise phantoms of
horrour, or beset life with supernumerary distresses.

To be always afraid of losing life is, indeed, scarcely to enjoy a life
that can deserve the care of preservation. He that once indulges idle
fears will never be at rest. Our present state admits only of a kind of
negative security; we must conclude ourselves safe when we see no
danger, or none inadequate to our powers of opposition. Death, indeed,
continually hovers about us, but hovers commonly unseen, unless we
sharpen our sight by useless curiosity.

There is always a point at which caution, however solicitous, must limit
its preservatives, because one terrour often counteracts another. I once
knew one of the speculatists of cowardice, whose reigning disturbance
was the dread of housebreakers. His inquiries were for nine years
employed upon the best method of barring a window, or a door; and many
an hour has he spent in establishing the preference of a bolt to a lock.
He had at last, by the daily superaddition of new expedients, contrived
a door which could never be forced; for one bar was secured by another
with such intricacy of subordination, that he was himself not always
able to disengage them in the proper method. He was happy in this
fortification, till being asked how he would escape if he was threatened
by fire, he discovered, that with all his care and expense, he had only
been assisting his own destruction. He then immediately tore off his
bolts, and now leaves at night his outer door half-locked, that he may
not by his own folly perish in the flames.

There is one species of terrour which those who are unwilling to suffer
the reproach of cowardice have wisely dignified with the name of
_antipathy_. A man who talks with intrepidity of the monsters of the
wilderness while they are out of sight, will readily confess his
antipathy to a mole, a weasel, or a frog. He has indeed no dread of harm
from an insect or a worm, but his antipathy turns him pale whenever they
approach him. He believes that a boat will transport him with as much
safety as his neighbours, but he cannot conquer his antipathy to the
water. Thus he goes on without any reproach from his own reflections,
and every day multiplies antipathies, till he becomes contemptible to
others, and burdensome to himself. It is indeed certain, that
impressions of dread may sometimes be unluckily made by objects not in
themselves justly formidable; but when fear is discovered to be
groundless, it is to be eradicated like other false opinions, and
antipathies are generally superable by a single effort. He that has been
taught to shudder at a mouse, if he can persuade himself to risk one
encounter, will find his own superiority, and exchange his terrours for
the pride of conquest.

I am, Sir, &c.

THRASO.

SIR, As you profess to extend your regard to the minuteness of decency,
as well as to the dignity of science, I cannot forbear to lay before you
a mode of persecution by which I have been exiled to taverns and
coffee-houses, and deterred from entering the doors of my friends. Among
the ladies who please themselves with splendid furniture, or elegant
entertainment, it is a practice very common, to ask every guest how he
likes the carved work of the cornice, or the figures of the tapestry;
the china at the table, or the plate on the side-board: and on all
occasions to inquire his opinion of their judgment and their choice.
Melania has laid her new watch in the window nineteen times, that she
may desire me to look upon it. Calista has an art of dropping her
snuff-box by drawing out her handkerchief, that when I pick it up I may
admire it; and Fulgentia has conducted me, by mistake, into the wrong
room, at every visit I have paid since her picture was put into a new
frame.

I hope, Mr. Rambler, you will inform them, that no man should be denied
the privilege of silence, or tortured to false declarations; and that
though ladies may justly claim to be exempt from rudeness, they have no
right to force unwilling civilities. To please is a laudable and elegant
ambition, and is properly rewarded with honest praise; but to seize
applause by violence, and call out for commendation, without knowing, or
caring to know, whether it be given from conviction, is a species of
tyranny by which modesty is oppressed, and sincerity corrupted. The
tribute of admiration, thus exacted by impudence and importunity,
differs from the respect paid to silent merit, as the plunder of a
pirate from the merchant's profit.

I am, &c.

MISOCOLAX



SIR,

Your great predecessor, the Spectator, endeavoured to diffuse among his
female readers a desire of knowledge; nor can I charge you, though you
do not seem equally attentive to the ladies, with endeavouring to
discourage them from any laudable pursuit. But however either he or you
may excite our curiosity, you have not yet informed us how it may be
gratified. The world seems to have formed an universal conspiracy
against our understandings; our questions are supposed not to expect
answers, our arguments are confuted with a jest, and we are treated like
beings who transgress the limits of our nature whenever we aspire to
seriousness or improvement.