No More Learning

Euphues has turned on his exterior
appearance, that attention which would always have produced esteem, had
it been fixed upon his mind; and though his virtues and abilities have
preserved him from the contempt which he has so diligently solicited, he
has, at least, raised one impediment to his reputation; since all can
judge of his dress, but few of his understanding; and many who discern
that he is a fop, are unwilling to believe that he can be wise.

There is one instance in which the ladies are particularly unwilling to
observe the rule of Chilo. They are desirous to hide from themselves
the advances of age, and endeavour too frequently to supply the
sprightliness and bloom of youth by artificial beauty and forced
vivacity. They hope to inflame the heart by glances which have lost
their fire, or melt it by languor which is no longer delicate; they play
over the airs which pleased at a time when they were expected only to
please, and forget that airs in time ought to give place to virtues.
They continue to trifle, because they could once trifle agreeably, till
those who shared their early pleasures are withdrawn to more serious
engagements; and are scarcely awakened from their dream of perpetual
youth, but by the scorn of those whom they endeavoured to rival[40].

[Footnote 40: It is said by Mrs. Piozzi, that by Gelidus, in this paper,
the author intended to represent Mr. Coulson, the gentleman under whose
care Mr. Garrick was placed when he entered at Lincoln's Inn. But the
character which Davies gives of him in his Life of Garrick, undoubtedly
inspected by Dr. Johnson, renders this conjecture improbable. ]




No. 25. TUESDAY, JUNE 12, 1750.


_Possunt, quia posse videntur. _
VIRGIL, Æn. v. 231.

For they can conquer who believe they can.
DRYDEN.


There are some vices and errours which, though often fatal to those in
whom they are found, have yet, by the universal consent of mankind, been
considered as intitled to some degree of respect, or have, at least,
been exempted from contemptuous infamy, and condemned by the severest
moralists with pity rather than detestation.

A constant and invariable example of this general partiality will be
found in the different regard which has always been shewn to rashness
and cowardice, two vices, of which, though they may be conceived equally
distant from the middle point, where true fortitude is placed, and may
equally injure any publick or private interest, yet the one is never
mentioned without some kind of veneration, and the other always
considered as a topick of unlimited and licentious censure, on which all
the virulence of reproach may be lawfully exerted.

The same distinction is made, by the common suffrage, between profusion
and avarice, and, perhaps, between many other opposite vices; and, as
I have found reason to pay great regard to the voice of the people, in
cases where knowledge has been forced upon them by experience, without
long deductions or deep researches, I am inclined to believe that this
distribution of respect is not without some agreement with the nature
of things; and that in the faults, which are thus invested with
extraordinary privileges, there are generally some latent principles of
merit, some possibilities of future virtue, which may, by degrees, break
from obstruction, and by time and opportunity be brought into act.

It may be laid down as an axiom, that it is more easy to take away
superfluities than to supply defects; and, therefore, he that is
culpable, because he has passed the middle point of virtue, is always
accounted a fairer object of hope, than he who fails by falling short.
The one has all that perfection requires, and more, but the excess may
be easily retrenched; the other wants the qualities requisite to
excellence, and who can tell how he shall obtain them? We are certain
that the horse may be taught to keep pace with his fellows, whose fault
is that he leaves them behind. We know that a few strokes of the axe
will lop a cedar; but what arts of cultivation can elevate a shrub?

To walk with circumspection and steadiness in the right path, at an
equal distance between the extremes of errour, ought to be the constant
endeavour of every reasonable being; nor can I think those teachers of
moral wisdom much to be honoured as benefactors to mankind, who are
always enlarging upon the difficulty of our duties, and providing rather
excuses for vice, than incentives to virtue.

But, since to most it will happen often, and to all sometimes, that
there will be a deviation towards one side or the other, we ought always
to employ our vigilance, with most attention, on that enemy from which
there is the greatest danger, and to stray, if we must stray, towards
those parts from whence we may quickly and easily return.

Among other opposite qualities of the mind, which may become dangerous,
though in different degrees, I have often had occasion to consider the
contrary effects of presumption and despondency; of heady confidence,
which promises victory without contest, and heartless pusillanimity,
which shrinks back from the thought of great undertakings, confounds
difficulty with impossibility, and considers all advancement towards any
new attainment as irreversibly prohibited.

Presumption will be easily corrected. Every experiment will teach
caution, and miscarriages will hourly show, that attempts are not always
rewarded with success. The most precipitate ardour will, in time, be
taught the necessity of methodical gradation and preparatory measures;
and the most daring confidence be convinced, that neither merit nor
abilities can command events.

It is the advantage of vehemence and activity, that they are always
hastening to their own reformation; because they incite us to try
whether our expectations are well grounded, and, therefore, detect the
deceits which they are apt to occasion. But timidity is a disease of
the mind more obstinate and fatal; for a man once persuaded that any
impediment is insuperable, has given it, with respect to himself, that
strength and weight which it had not before. He can scarcely strive with
vigour and perseverance, when he has no hope of gaining the victory; and
since he never will try his strength, can never discover the
unreasonableness of his fears.

There is often to be found in men devoted to literature a kind of
intellectual cowardice, which, whoever converses much among them, may
observe frequently to depress the alacrity of enterprise, and, by
consequence, to retard the improvement of science. They have annexed to
every species of knowledge some chimerical character of terrour and
inhibition, which they transmit, without much reflection, from one to
another; they first fright themselves, and then propagate the panick to
their scholars and acquaintance. One study is inconsistent with a lively
imagination, another with a solid judgment: one is improper in the early
parts of life, another requires so much time, that it is not to be
attempted at an advanced age; one is dry and contracts the sentiments,
another is diffuse and overburdens the memory; one is insufferable to
taste and delicacy, and another wears out life in the study of words,
and is useless to a wise man, who desires only the knowledge of things.

But of all the bugbears by which the _Infantes barbati_, boys both young
and old, have been hitherto frighted from digressing into new tracts of
learning, none has been more mischievously efficacious than an opinion
that every kind of knowledge requires a peculiar genius, or mental
constitution, framed for the reception of some ideas, and the exclusion
of others; and that to him whose genius is not adapted to the study
which he prosecutes, all labour shall be vain and fruitless, vain as an
endeavour to mingle oil and water, or, in the language of chemistry, to
amalgamate bodies of heterogeneous principles.

This opinion we may reasonably suspect to have been propagated, by
vanity, beyond the truth. It is natural for those who have raised a
reputation by any science, to exalt themselves as endowed by heaven
with peculiar powers, or marked out by an extraordinary designation
for their profession; and to fright competitors away by representing
the difficulties with which they must contend, and the necessity of
qualities which are supposed to be not generally conferred, and which
no man can know, but by experience, whether he enjoys.

To this discouragement it may be possibly answered, that since a genius,
whatever it be, is like fire in the flint, only to be produced by
collison with a proper subject, it is the business of every man to try
whether his faculties may not happily co-operate with his desires; and
since they whose proficiency he admires, knew their own force only by
the event, he needs but engage in the same undertaking with equal
spirit, and may reasonably hope for equal success.

There is another species of false intelligence, given by those who
profess to shew the way to the summit of knowledge, of equal tendency
to depress the mind with false distrust of itself, and weaken it by
needless solicitude and dejection. When a scholar whom they desire to
animate, consults them at his entrance on some new study, it is common
to make flattering representations of its pleasantness and facility.
Thus they generally attain one of two ends almost equally desirable;
they either incite his industry by elevating his hopes, or produce a
high opinion of their own abilities, since they are supposed to relate
only what they have found, and to have proceeded with no less ease than
they promise to their followers.

The student, inflamed by this encouragement, sets forward in the new
path, and proceeds a few steps with great alacrity, but he soon finds
asperities and intricacies of which he has not been forewarned, and
imagining that none ever were so entangled or fatigued before him, sinks
suddenly into despair, and desists as from an expedition in which fate
opposes him. Thus his terrours are multiplied by his hopes, and he is
defeated without resistance, because he had no expectation of an enemy.

Of these treacherous instructors, the one destroys industry, by
declaring that industry is vain, the other by representing it as
needless; the one cuts away the root of hope, the other raises it only
to be blasted: the one confines his pupil to the shore, by telling him
that his wreck is certain, the other sends him to sea, without preparing
him for tempests.

False hopes and false terrours are equally to be avoided. Every man who
proposes to grow eminent by learning, should carry in his mind, at once,
the difficulty of excellence, and the force of industry; and remember
that fame is not conferred but as the recompence of labour, and that
labour vigorously continued, has not often failed of its reward.




No. 26. SATURDAY, JUNE 14, 1750.


_Ingentes dominos, et clara nomina famæ,_
_Illustrique graves nobilitate domos_
_Derita, et longe cautus fuge; contrahe vela,_
_Et te littoribus cymba propinqua vehat. _
SENECA.

Each mighty lord, big with a pompous name,
And each high house of fortune and of fame,
With caution fly; contract thy ample sails,
And near the shore improve the gentle gales.
ELPHINSTON.


MR. RAMBLER,

It is usual for men, engaged in the same pursuits, to be inquisitive
after the conduct and fortune of each other; and, therefore, I suppose
it will not be unpleasing to you, to read an account of the various
changes which have happened in part of a life devoted to literature. My
narrative will not exhibit any great variety of events, or extraordinary
revolutions; but may, perhaps, be not less useful, because I shall
relate nothing which is not likely to happen to a thousand others.

I was born heir to a very small fortune, and left by my father, whom I
cannot remember, to the care of an uncle. He having no children, always
treated me as his son, and finding in me those qualities which old men
easily discover in sprightly children, when they happen to love them,
declared that a genius like mine should never be lost for want of
cultivation. He therefore placed me, for the usual time, at a great
school, and then sent me to the university, with a larger allowance
than my own patrimony would have afforded, that I might not keep mean
company, but learn to become my dignity when I should be made lord
chancellor, which he often lamented, that the increase of his
infirmities was very likely to preclude him from seeing.

This exuberance of money displayed itself in gaiety of appearance, and
wantonness of expense, and introduced me to the acquaintance of those
whom the same superfluity of fortune betrayed to the same licence and
ostentation: young heirs, who pleased themselves with a remark very
frequent in their mouths, that though they were sent by their fathers
to the university, they were not under the necessity of living by their
learning.

Among men of this class I easily obtained the reputation of a great
genius, and was persuaded, that with such liveliness of imagination, and
delicacy of sentiment, I should never be able to submit to the drudgery
of the law. I therefore gave myself wholly to the more airy and elegant
parts of learning, and was often so much elated with my superiority to
the youths with whom I conversed, that I began to listen, with great
attention, to those that recommended to me a wider and more conspicuous
theatre; and was particularly touched with an observation made by one of
my friends; That it was not by lingering in the university that Prior
became ambassador, or Addison secretary of state.

This desire was hourly increased by the solicitation of my companions,
who removing one by one to London, as the caprice of their relations
allowed them, or the legal dismission from the hands of their guardians
put it in their power, never failed to send an account of the beauty and
felicity of the new world, and to remonstrate how much was lost by every
hour's continuance in a place of retirement and constraint.

My uncle in the mean time frequently harassed me with monitory letters,
which I sometimes neglected to open for a week after I received them,
generally read in a tavern, with such comments as might shew how much I
was superior to instruction or advice. I could not but wonder how a man
confined to the country, and unacquainted with the present system of
things, should imagine himself qualified to instruct a rising genius,
born to give laws to the age, refine its taste, and multiply its
pleasures.

The postman, however, still continued to bring me new remonstrances; for
my uncle was very little depressed by the ridicule and reproach which he
never heard. But men of parts have quick resentments; it was impossible
to bear his usurpations for ever; and I resolved, once for all, to make
him an example to those who imagine themselves wise because they are
old, and to teach young men, who are too tame under representation, in
what manner grey-bearded insolence ought to be treated. I therefore one
evening took my pen in hand, and after having animated myself with a
catch, wrote a general answer to all his precepts with such vivacity
of turn, such elegance of irony, and such asperity of sarcasm, that
I convulsed a large company with universal laughter, disturbed the
neighbourhood with vociferations of applause, and five days afterwards
was answered, that I must be content to live on my own estate.

This contraction of my income gave me no disturbance; for a genius like
mine was out of the reach of want. I had friends that would be proud to
open their purses at my call, and prospects of such advancement as would
soon reconcile my uncle, whom, upon mature deliberation, I resolved to
receive into favour without insisting on any acknowledgment of his
offence, when the splendour of my condition should induce him to wish
for my countenance. I therefore went up to London, before I had shewn
the alteration of my condition by any abatement of my way of living,
and was received by all my academical acquaintance with triumph and
congratulation. I was immediately introduced among the wits and men of
spirit; and in a short time had divested myself of all my scholar's
gravity, and obtained the reputation of a pretty fellow.

You will easily believe that I had no great knowledge of the world; yet
I had been hindered, by the general disinclination every man feels to
confess poverty, from telling to any one the resolution of my uncle, and
for some time subsisted upon the stock of money which I had brought with
me, and contributed my share as before to all our entertainments. But my
pocket was soon emptied, and I was obliged to ask my friends for a small
sum. This was a favour, which we had often reciprocally received from
one another; they supposed my wants only accidental, and therefore
willingly supplied them. In a short time I found a necessity of asking
again, and was again treated with the same civility; but the third time
they began to wonder what that old rogue my uncle could mean by sending
a gentleman to town without money; and when they gave me what I asked
for, advised me to stipulate for more regular remittances.

This somewhat disturbed my dream of constant affluence; but I was three
days after completely awaked; for entering the tavern where they met
every evening, I found the waiters remitted their complaisance, and,
instead of contending to light me up stairs, suffered me to wait for
some minutes by the bar. When I came to my company, I found them
unusually grave and formal, and one of them took the hint to turn the
conversation upon the misconduct of young men, and enlarged upon the
folly of frequenting the company of men of fortune, without being able
to support the expense, an observation which the rest contributed either
to enforce by repetition, or to illustrate by examples. Only one of them
tried to divert the discourse, and endeavoured to direct my attention to
remote questions, and common topicks.

A man guilty of poverty easily believes himself suspected. I went,
however, next morning to breakfast with him who appeared ignorant of the
drift of the conversation, and by a series of inquiries, drawing still
nearer to the point, prevailed on him, not, perhaps, much against his
will, to inform me that Mr. _Dash_, whose father was a wealthy attorney
near my native place, had, the morning before, received an account of my
uncle's resentment, and communicated his intelligence with the utmost
industry of groveling insolence.

It was now no longer practicable to consort with my former friends,
unless I would be content to be used as an inferior guest, who was to
pay for his wine by mirth and flattery; a character which, if I could
not escape it, I resolved to endure only among those who had never known
me in the pride of plenty. I changed my lodgings, and frequented the
coffee-houses in a different region of the town; where I was very
quickly distinguished by several young gentlemen of high birth, and
large estates, and began again to amuse my imagination with hopes of
preferment, though not quite so confidently as when I had less
experience.

The first great conquest which this new scene enabled me to gain over
myself was, when I submitted to confess to a party, who invited me to
an expensive diversion, that my revenues were not equal to such golden
pleasures; they would not suffer me, however, to stay behind, and with
great reluctance I yielded to be treated. I took that opportunity of
recommending myself to some office or employment, which they unanimously
promised to procure me by their joint interest.

I had now entered into a state of dependence, and had hopes, or fears,
from almost every man I saw. If it be unhappy to have one patron, what
is his misery who has many? I was obliged to comply with a thousand
caprices, to concur in a thousand follies, and to countenance a thousand
errours. I endured innumerable mortifications, if not from cruelty, at
least from negligence, which will creep in upon the kindest and most
delicate minds, when they converse without the mutual awe of equal
condition. I found the spirit and vigour of liberty every moment sinking
in me, and a servile fear of displeasing stealing by degrees upon all
my behaviour, till no word, or look, or action, was my own. As the
solicitude to please increased, the power of pleasing grew less, and
I was always clouded with diffidence where it was most my interest and
wish to shine.

My patrons, considering me as belonging to the community, and,
therefore, not the charge of any particular person, made no scruple of
neglecting any opportunity of promoting me, which every one thought more
properly the business of another. An account of my expectations and
disappointments, and the succeeding vicissitudes of my life I shall give
you in my following letter, which will be, I hope, of use to shew how ill
he forms his schemes, who expects happiness without freedom.

I am, &c.




No. 27. TUESDAY, JUNE 19, 1750.


_----Pauperiem veritus potiore metallis_
_Libertate caret. ----_
HOR. lib. i. Ep. x. 39.

So he, who poverty with horror views,
Who sells his freedom in exchange for gold,
(Freedom for mines of wealth too cheaply sold)
Shall make eternal servitude his fate,
And feel a haughty master's galling weight.
FRANCIS.


MR. RAMBLER,

As it is natural for every man to think himself of importance, your
knowledge of the world will incline you to forgive me, if I imagine your
curiosity so much excited by the former part of my narration, as to
make you desire that I should proceed without any unnecessary arts of
connexion. I shall, therefore, not keep you longer in such suspense,
as perhaps my performance may not compensate.

In the gay company with which I was now united, I found those
allurements and delights, which the friendship of young men always
affords; there was that openness which naturally produced confidence,
that affability which, in some measure, softened dependance, and that
ardour of profession which incited hope. When our hearts were dilated
with merriment, promises were poured out with unlimited profusion, and
life and fortune were but a scanty sacrifice to friendship; but when the
hour came, at which any effort was to be made, I had generally the
vexation to find that my interest weighed nothing against the slightest
amusement, and that every petty avocation was found a sufficient plea
for continuing me in uncertainty and want.

Their kindness was indeed sincere; when they promised, they had no
intention to deceive; but the same juvenile warmth which kindled their
benevolence, gave force in the same proportion to every other passion,
and I was forgotten as soon as any new pleasures seized on their
attention.

Vagario told me one evening, that all my perplexities should be soon at
an end, and desired me, from that instant, to throw upon him all care of
my fortune, for a post of considerable value was that day become vacant,
and he knew his interest sufficient to procure it in the morning. He
desired me to call on him early, that he might be dressed soon enough to
wait on the minister before any other application should be made. I came
as he appointed, with all the flame of gratitude, and was told by his
servant, that having found at his lodgings, when he came home, an
acquaintance who was going to travel, he had been persuaded to accompany
him to Dover, and that they had taken post-horses two hours before day.

I was once very near to preferment, by the kindness of Charinus, who, at
my request, went to beg a place, which he thought me likely to fill with
great reputation, and in which I should have many opportunities of
promoting his interest in return; and he pleased himself with imagining
the mutual benefits that we should confer, and the advances that we
should make by our united strength. Away therefore he went, equally warm
with friendship and ambition, and left me to prepare acknowledgments
against his return. At length he came back, and told me that he had met
in his way a party going to breakfast in the country, that the ladies
importuned him too much to be refused, and that having passed the
morning with them, he was come back to dress himself for a ball, to
which he was invited for the evening.

I have suffered several disappointments from tailors and periwig-makers,
who, by neglecting to perform their work, withheld my patrons from court;
and once failed of an establishment for life by the delay of a servant,
sent to a neighbouring shop to replenish a snuff-box.

At last I thought my solicitude at an end, for an office fell into the
gift of Hippodamus's father, who being then in the country, could not
very speedily fill it, and whose fondness would not have suffered him to
refuse his son a less reasonable request. Hippodamus therefore set
forward with great expedition, and I expected every hour an account of
his success. A long time I waited without any intelligence, but at last
received a letter from Newmarket, by which I was informed that the races
were begun, and I knew the vehemence of his passions too well to imagine
that he could refuse himself his favourite amusement.

You will not wonder that I was at last weary of the patronage of young
men, especially as I found them not generally to promise much greater
fidelity as they advanced in life; for I observed that what they gained
in steadiness they lost in benevolence, and grew colder to my interest
as they became more diligent to promote their own. I was convinced that
their liberality was only profuseness, that as chance directed, they
were equally generous to vice and virtue, that they were warm but
because they were thoughtless, and counted the support of a friend only
amongst other gratifications of passion.

My resolution was now to ingratiate myself with men whose reputation was
established, whose high stations enabled them to prefer me, and whose
age exempted them from sudden changes of inclination. I was considered
as a man of parts, and therefore easily found admission to the table of
Hilarius, the celebrated orator, renowned equally for the extent of his
knowledge, the elegance of his diction, and the acuteness of his wit.
Hilarius received me with an appearance of great satisfaction, produced
to me all his friends, and directed to me that part of his discourse in
which he most endeavoured to display his imagination. I had now learned
my own interest enough to supply him opportunities for smart remarks and
gay sallies, which I never failed to echo and applaud. Thus I was gaining
every hour on his affections, till unfortunately, when the assembly was
more splendid than usual, his desire of admiration prompted him to turn
his raillery upon me. I bore it for some time with great submission,
and success encouraged him to redouble his attacks; at last my vanity
prevailed over my prudence, I retorted his irony with such spirit, that
Hilarius, unaccustomed to resistance, was disconcerted, and soon found
means of convincing me that his purpose was not to encourage a rival,
but to foster a parasite.

I was then taken into the familiarity of Argutio, a nobleman eminent
for judgment and criticism. He had contributed to my reputation by the
praises which he had often bestowed upon my writings, in which he owned
that there were proofs of a genius that might rise to high degrees of
excellence, when time, or information, had reduced its exuberance. He
therefore required me to consult him before the publication of any new
performance, and commonly proposed innumerable alterations, without
sufficient attention to the general design, or regard to my form of
style, and mode of imagination. But these corrections he never failed
to press as indispensably necessary, and thought the least delay of
compliance an act of rebellion. The pride of an author made this
treatment insufferable, and I thought any tyranny easier to be borne
than that which took from me the use of my understanding.

My next patron was Eutyches, the statesman, who was wholly engaged in
public affairs, and seemed to have no ambition but to be powerful and
rich, I found his favour more permanent than that of the others; for
there was a certain price at which it might be bought; he allowed
nothing to humour, or to affection, but was always ready to pay
liberally for the service that he required. His demands were, indeed,
very often such as virtue could not easily consent to gratify; but
virtue is not to be consulted when men are to raise their fortunes by
the favour of the great. His measures were censured; I wrote in his
defence, and was recompensed with a place, of which the profits were
never received by me without the pangs of remembering that they were the
reward of wickedness--a reward which nothing but that necessity which
the consumption of my little estate in these wild pursuits had brought
upon me, hindered me from throwing back in the face of my corrupter.

At this time my uncle died without a will, and I became heir to a small
fortune. I had resolution to throw off the splendour which reproached
me to myself, and retire to an humbler state, in which I am now
endeavouring to recover the dignity of virtue, and hope to make some
reparation for my crime and follies, by informing others, who may be
led after the same pageants, that they are about to engage in a course
of life, in which they are to purchase, by a thousand miseries, the
privilege of repentance.

I am, &c.

EUBULUS.




No. 28. SATURDAY, JUNE 23, 1750.


_Illi mors gravis incubat,_
_Qui, notus nimis omnibus,_
_Ignotus moritur sibi. _
SENECÆ, Thyest. ii. 401.

To him, alas! to him, I fear,
The face of death will terrible appear,
Who in his life, flattering his senseless pride,
By being known to all the world beside,
Does not himself, when he is dying, know,
Nor what he is, nor whither he's to go.
COWLEY.


I have shewn, in a late essay, to what errours men are hourly betrayed
by a mistaken opinion of their own powers, and a negligent inspection of
their own character. But as I then confined my observations to common
occurrences and familiar scenes, I think it proper to inquire, how far a
nearer acquaintance with ourselves is necessary to our preservation from
crimes as well as follies, and how much the attentive study of our own
minds may contribute to secure to us the approbation of that Being, to
whom we are accountable for our thoughts and our actions, and whose
favour must finally constitute our total happiness.

If it be reasonable to estimate the difficulty of any enterprise by
frequent miscarriages, it may justly be concluded that it is not easy
for a man to know himself; for wheresoever we turn our view, we shall
find almost all with whom we converse so nearly as to judge of their
sentiments, indulging more favourable conceptions of their own virtue
than they have been able to impress upon others, and congratulating
themselves upon degrees of excellence, which their fondest admirers
cannot allow them to have attained.

Those representations of imaginary virtue are generally considered as
arts of hypocrisy, and as snares laid for confidence and praise. But I
believe the suspicion often unjust; those who thus propagate their own
reputation, only extend the fraud by which they have been themselves
deceived; for this failing is incident to numbers, who seem to live
without designs, competitions, or pursuits; it appears on occasions
which promise no accession of honour or of profit, and to persons from
whom very little is to be hoped or feared. It is, indeed, not easy to
tell how far we may be blinded by the love of ourselves, when we reflect
how much a secondary passion can cloud our judgment, and how few faults
a man, in the first raptures of love, can discover in the person or
conduct of his mistress.

To lay open all the sources from which errour flows in upon him who
contemplates his own character, would require more exact knowledge of
the human heart, than, perhaps, the most acute and laborious observers
have acquired. And since falsehood may be diversified without end, it is
not unlikely that every man admits an imposture in some respect peculiar
to himself, as his views have been accidentally directed, or his ideas
particularly combined.

Some fallacies, however, there are, more frequently insidious, which it
may, perhaps, not be useless to detect; because, though they are gross,
they may be fatal, and because nothing but attention is necessary to
defeat them.

One sophism by which men persuade themselves that they have those
virtues which they really want, is formed by the substitution of single
acts for habits. A miser who once relieved a friend from the danger of a
prison, suffers his imagination to dwell for ever upon his own heroic
generosity; he yields his heart up to indignation at those who are blind
to merit, or insensible to misery, and who can please themselves with
the enjoyment of that wealth, which they never permit others to partake.
From any censures of the world, or reproaches of his conscience, he has
an appeal to action and to knowledge: and though his whole life is a
course of rapacity and avarice, he concludes himself to be tender and
liberal, because he has once performed an act of liberality and
tenderness.

As a glass which magnifies objects by the approach of one end to the
eye, lessens them by the application of the other, so vices are
extenuated by the inversion of that fallacy, by which virtues are
augmented. Those faults which we cannot conceal from our own notice, are
considered, however frequent, not as habitual corruptions, or settled
practices, but as casual failures, and single lapses. A man who has from
year to year set his country to sale, either for the gratification of
his ambition or resentment, confesses that the heat of party now and
then betrays the severest virtue to measures that cannot be seriously
defended. He that spends his days and nights in riot and debauchery,
owns that his passions oftentimes overpower his resolutions. But each
comforts himself that his faults are not without precedent, for the best
and the wisest men have given way to the violence of sudden temptations.

There are men who always confound the praise of goodness with the
practice, and who believe themselves mild and moderate, charitable and
faithful, because they have exerted their eloquence in commendation of
mildness, fidelity, and other virtues. This is an errour almost universal
among those that converse much with dependants, with such whose fear or
interest disposes them to a seeming reverence for any declamation,
however enthusiastic, and submission to any boast, however arrogant.
Having none to recall their attention to their lives, they rate
themselves by the goodness of their opinions, and forget how much more
easily men may shew their virtue in their talk than in their actions.

The tribe is likewise very numerous of those who regulate their lives,
not by the standard of religion, but the measure of other men's virtue;
who lull their own remorse with the remembrance of crimes more atrocious
than their own, and seem to believe that they are not bad while another
can be found worse[41].

For escaping these and thousand other deceits, many expedients have been
proposed. Some have recommended the frequent consultation of a wise
friend, admitted to intimacy, and encouraged to sincerity. But this
appears a remedy by no means adapted to general use: for in order to
secure the virtue of one, it pre-supposes more virtue in two than will
generally be found. In the first, such a desire of rectitude and
amendment, as may incline him to hear his own accusation from the mouth
of him whom he esteems, and by whom, therefore, he will always hope that
his faults are not discovered; and in the second, such zeal and honesty,
as will make him content for his friend's advantage to loose his
kindness.

A long life may be passed without finding a friend in whose understanding
and virtue we can equally confide, and whose opinion we can value at
once for its justness and sincerity. A weak man, however honest, is
not qualified to judge. A man of the world, however penetrating, is not
fit to counsel. Friends are often chosen for similitude of manners, and
therefore each palliates the other's failings, because they are his own.
Friends are tender, and unwilling to give pain, or they are interested,
and fearful to offend.

These objections have inclined others to advise, that he who would know
himself, should consult his enemies, remember the reproaches that are
vented to his face, and listen for the censures that are uttered in
private. For his great business is to know his faults, and those
malignity will discover, and resentment will reveal. But this precept
may be often frustrated; for it seldom happens that rivals or opponents
are suffered to come near enough to know our conduct with so much
exactness as that conscience should allow and reflect the accusation.
The charge of an enemy is often totally false, and commonly so mingled
with falsehood, that the mind takes advantage from the failure of one
part to discredit the rest, and never suffers any disturbance afterward
from such partial reports.

Yet it seems that enemies have been always found by experience the most
faithful monitors; for adversity has ever been considered as the state
in which a man most easily becomes acquainted with himself, and this
effect it must produce by withdrawing flatterers, whose business it
is to hide our weaknesses from us, or by giving loose to malice, and
licence to reproach; or at least by cutting off those pleasures which
called us away from meditation on our own conduct, and repressing that
pride which too easily persuades us that we merit whatever we enjoy.

Part of these benefits it is in every man's power to procure to himself,
by assigning proper portions of his life to the examination of the rest,
and by putting himself frequently in such a situation, by retirement and
abstraction, as may weaken the influence of external objects. By this
practice he may obtain the solitude of adversity without its melancholy,
its instructions without its censures, and its sensibility without its
perturbations.

The necessity of setting the world at a distance from us, when we are
to take a survey of ourselves, has sent many from high stations to the
severities of a monastic life; and, indeed, every man deeply engaged in
business, if all regard to another state be not extinguished, must have
the conviction, though perhaps, not the resolution of Valdesso, who,
when he solicited Charles the Fifth to dismiss him, being asked, whether
he retired upon disgust, answered that he laid down his commission for
no other reason but because _there ought to be some time for sober
reflection between the life of a soldier and his death_.

There are few conditions which do not entangle us with sublunary hopes
and fears, from which it is necessary to be at intervals disencumbered,
that we may place ourselves in his presence who views effects in their
causes, and actions in their motives; that we may, as Chillingworth
expresses it, consider things as if there were no other beings in the
world but God and ourselves; or, to use language yet more awful, _may
commune with our own hearts, and be still_.

Death, says Seneca, falls heavy upon him who is too much known to
others, and too little to himself; and Pontanus, a man celebrated among
the early restorers of literature, thought the study of our own hearts
of so much importance, that he has recommended it from his tomb. _Sum_
Joannes Jovianus Pontanus, _quem amaverunt bonæ musæ, suspexerunt viri
probi, honestaverunt reges domini; jam scis qui sim, vel qui potius
fuerim; ego vero te, hospes, noscere in tenebris nequeo, sed teipsum
ut noscas rogo_. "I am Pontanus, beloved by the powers of literature,
admired by men of worth, and dignified by the monarchs of the world.
Thou knowest now who I am, or more properly who I was. For thee,
stranger, I who am in darkness cannot know thee, but I intreat thee
to know thyself. "

I hope every reader of this paper will consider himself as engaged to
the observation of a precept, which the wisdom and virtue of all ages
have concurred to enforce: a precept, dictated by philosophers,
inculcated by poets, and ratified by saints.

[Footnote 41: But they measuring themselves by themselves, and comparing
themselves among themselves, are not wise. 2 Cor. x. 12. ]




No. 29. TUESDAY, JUNE 26, 1750.


_Prudens futuri temporis exitum_
_Caliginosa nocte premit Deus;_
_Ridetque, si mortalis ultra_
_Fas trepidat----_
HOR. lib. iii. Od. xxix. 29.

But God has wisely hid from human sight
The dark decrees of human fate,
And sown their seeds in depth of night;
He laughs at all the giddy turns of state,
When mortals search too soon, and fear too late.
DRYDEN.


There is nothing recommended with greater frequency among the gayer
poets of antiquity, than the secure possession of the present hour, and
the dismission of all the cares which intrude upon our quiet, or hinder,
by importunate perturbations, the enjoyment of those delights which our
condition happens to set before us.

The ancient poets are, indeed, by no means unexceptionable teachers of
morality; their precepts are to be always considered as the sallies of
a genius, intent rather upon giving pleasure than instruction, eager to
take every advantage of insinuation, and, provided the passions can be
engaged on its side, very little solicitous about the suffrage of
reason.

The darkness and uncertainty through which the heathens were compelled
to wander in the pursuit of happiness, may, indeed, be alleged as an
excuse for many of their seducing invitations to immediate enjoyment,
which the moderns, by whom they have been imitated, have not to plead.
It is no wonder that such as had no promise of another state should
eagerly turn their thoughts upon the improvement of that which was
before them; but surely those who are acquainted with the hopes and
fears of eternity, might think it necessary to put some restraint upon
their imagination, and reflect that by echoing the songs of the ancient
bacchanals, and transmitting the maxims of past debauchery, they not
only prove that they want invention, but virtue, and submit to the
servility of imitation only to copy that of which the writer, if he was
to live now, would often be ashamed.

Yet as the errours and follies of a great genius are seldom without some
radiations of understanding, by which meaner minds may be enlightened,
the incitements to pleasure are, in those authors, generally mingled
with such reflections upon life, as well deserve to be considered
distinctly from the purposes for which they are produced, and to be
treasured up as the settled conclusions of extensive observation, acute
sagacity, and mature experience.

It is not without true judgment, that on these occasions they often
warn their readers against inquiries into futurity, and solicitude
about events which lie hid in causes yet unactive, and which time has
not brought forward into the view of reason. An idle and thoughtless
resignation to chance, without any struggle against calamity, or
endeavour after advantage, is indeed below the dignity of a reasonable
being, in whose power Providence has put a great part even of his
present happiness; but it shews an equal ignorance of our proper sphere,
to harass our thoughts with conjectures about things not yet in being.
How can we regulate events, of which we yet know not whether they will
ever happen? And why should we think, with painful anxiety, about that
on which our thoughts can have no influence?

It is a maxim commonly received, that a wise man is never surprised;
and, perhaps, this exemption from astonishment may be imagined to
proceed from such a prospect into futurity, as gave previous intimation
of those evils which often fall unexpected upon others that have less
foresight. But the truth is, that things to come, except when they
approach very nearly, are equally hidden from men of all degrees of
understanding; and if a wise man is not amazed at sudden occurrences,
it is not that he has thought more, but less upon futurity. He never
considered things not yet existing as the proper objects of his
attention; he never indulged dreams till he was deceived by their
phantoms, nor ever realized nonentities to his mind. He is not surprized,
because he is not disappointed; and he escapes disappointment, because
he never forms any expectations.

The concern about things to come, that is so justly censured, is not
the result of those general reflections on the variableness of fortune,
the uncertainty of life, and the universal insecurity of all human
acquisitions, which must always be suggested by the view of the world;
but such a desponding anticipation of misfortune, as fixes the mind upon
scenes of gloom and melancholy, and makes fear predominate in every
imagination.

Anxiety of this kind is nearly of the same nature with jealousy in love,
and suspicion in the general commerce of life; a temper which keeps the
man always in alarms; disposes him to judge of every thing in a manner
that least favours his own quiet, fills him with perpetual stratagems
of counteraction, wears him out in schemes to obviate evils which never
threatened him, and at length, perhaps, contributes to the production of
those mischiefs of which it had raised such dreadful apprehensions.

It has been usual in all ages for moralists to repress the swellings of
vain hope, by representations of the innumerable casualties to which
life is subject, and by instances of the unexpected defeat of the wisest
schemes of policy, and sudden subversions of the highest eminences of
greatness. It has, perhaps, not been equally observed, that all these
examples afford the proper antidote to fear as well as to hope, and may
be applied with no less efficacy as consolations to the timorous, than
as restraints to the proud.

Evil is uncertain in the same degree as good, and for the reason that
we ought not to hope too securely, we ought not to fear with too much
dejection. The state of the world is continually changing, and none
can tell the result of the next vicissitude. Whatever is afloat in the
stream of time, may, when it is very near us, be driven away by an
accidental blast, which shall happen to cross the general course of the
current. The sudden accidents by which the powerful are depressed, may
fall upon those whose malice we fear; and the greatness by which we
expect to be overborne, may become another proof of the false flatteries
of fortune. Our enemies may become weak, or we grow strong before our
encounter, or we may advance against each other without ever meeting.
There are, indeed, natural evils which we can flatter ourselves with
no hopes of escaping, and with little of delaying; but of the ills
which are apprehended from human malignity, or the opposition of rival
interests, we may always alleviate the terrour by considering that our
persecutors are weak and ignorant, and mortal like ourselves.

The misfortunes which arise from the concurrence of unhappy incidents
should never be suffered to disturb us before they happen; because, if
the breast be once laid open to the dread of mere possibilities of
misery, life must be given a prey to dismal solicitude, and quiet must
be lost for ever.

It is remarked by old Cornaro, that it is absurd to be afraid of the
natural dissolution of the body, because it must certainly happen, and
can, by no caution or artifice, be avoided. Whether this sentiment be
entirely just, I shall not examine; but certainly if it be improper to
fear events which must happen, it is yet more evidently contrary to
right reason to fear those which may never happen, and which, if they
should come upon us, we cannot resist.

As we ought not to give way to fear, any more than indulgence to hope,
because the objects both of fear and hope are yet uncertain, so we ought
not to trust the representations of one more than of the other, because
they are both equally fallacious; as hope enlarges happiness, fear
aggravates calamity. It is generally allowed, that no man ever found the
happiness of possession proportionate to that expectation which incited
his desire, and invigorated his pursuit; nor has any man found the evils
of life so formidable in reality, as they were described to him by his
own imagination: every species of distress brings with it some peculiar
supports, some unforeseen means of resisting, or power of enduring.
Taylor justly blames some pious persons, who indulge their fancies too
much, set themselves, by the force of imagination, in the place of the
ancient martyrs and confessors, and question the validity of their own
faith, because they shrink at the thoughts of flames and tortures. It
is, says he, sufficient that you are able to encounter the temptations
which now assault you; when God sends trials, he may send strength.

All fear is in itself painful, and when it conduces not to safety is
painful without use. Every consideration therefore, by which groundless
terrours may be removed, adds something to human happiness. It is
likewise not unworthy of remark, that in proportion as our cares are
employed upon the future they are abstracted from the present, from the
only time which we can call our own, and of which if we neglect the
apparent duties, to make provision against visionary attacks, we shall
certainly counteract our own purpose; for he, doubtless, mistakes his
true interest, who thinks that he can increase his safety, when he
impairs his virtue.




No. 30. SATURDAY, JUNE 30, 1750.


_----Vultus ubi tuus_
_Affulsit, populo gratior it dies,_
_Et soles metius nitent. _
HOR. lib. iv. Ode v. 7.

Whene'er thy countenance divine
Th' attendant people cheers,
The genial suns more radiant shine,
The day more glad appears.
ELPHINSTON.


MR. RAMBLER,

There are few tasks more ungrateful than for persons of modesty to speak
their own praises. In some cases, however, this must be done for the
general good, and a generous spirit will on such occasions assert its
merit, and vindicate itself with becoming warmth.

My circumstances, Sir, are very hard and peculiar. Could the world be
brought to treat me as I deserve, it would be a publick benefit. This
makes me apply to you, that my case being fairly stated in a paper so
generally esteemed, I may suffer no longer from ignorant and childish
prejudices.

My elder brother was a Jew; a very respectable person, but somewhat
austere in his manner: highly and deservedly valued by his near
relations and intimates, but utterly unfit for mixing in a large
society, or gaining a general acquaintance among mankind. In a venerable
old age he retired from the world, and I in the bloom of youth came
into it, succeeding him in all his dignities, and formed, as I might
reasonably flatter myself, to be the object of universal love and
esteem. Joy and gladness were born with me; cheerfulness, good-humour,
and benevolence, always attended and endeared my infancy. That time is
long past. So long, that idle imaginations are apt to fancy me wrinkled,
old, and disagreeable; but, unless my looking-glass deceives me, I have
not yet lost one charm, one beauty of my earliest years. However, thus
far is too certain, I am to every body just what they choose to think
me, so that to very few I appear in my right shape; and though naturally
I am the friend of human kind, to few, very few comparatively, am I
useful or agreeable.

This is the more grievous, as it is utterly impossible for me to avoid
being in all sorts of places and companies; and I am therefore liable to
meet with perpetual affronts and injuries. Though I have as natural an
antipathy to cards and dice, as some people have to a cat, many and many
an assembly am I forced to endure; and though rest and composure are my
peculiar joy, am worn out and harassed to death with journeys by men and
women of quality, who never take one but when I can be of the party.
Some, on a contrary extreme, will never receive me but in bed, where
they spend at least half of the time I have to stay with them; and others
are so monstrously ill-bred as to take physick on purpose when they have
reason to expect me. Those who keep upon terms of more politeness with
me, are generally so cold and constrained in their behaviour, that I
cannot but perceive myself an unwelcome guest; and even among persons
deserving of esteem, and who certainly have a value for me, it is too
evident that generally whenever I come I throw a dulness over the whole
company, that I am entertained with a formal stiff civility, and that
they are glad when I am fairly gone.

How bitter must this kind of reception be to one formed to inspire
delight, admiration, and love! To one capable of answering and rewarding
the greatest warmth and delicacy of sentiments!

I was bred up among a set of excellent people, who affectionately loved
me, and treated me with the utmost honour and respect. It would be
tedious to relate the variety of my adventures, and strange vicissitudes
of my fortune in many different countries. Here in England there was a
time when I lived according to my heart's desire. Whenever I appeared,
public assemblies appointed for my reception were crowded with persons
of quality and fashion, early drest as for a court, to pay me their
devoirs. Cheerful hospitality every where crowned my board, and I was
looked upon in every country parish as a kind of social bond between the
'squire, the parson, and the tenants. The laborious poor every where
blest my appearance: they do so still, and keep their best clothes to do
me honour; though as much as I delight in the honest country folks, they
do now and then throw a pot of ale at my head, and sometimes an unlucky
boy will drive his cricket-ball full in my face.

Even in these my best days there were persons who thought me too demure
and grave. I must forsooth by all means be instructed by foreign
masters, and taught to dance and play. This method of education was so
contrary to my genius, formed for much nobler entertainments, that it
did not succeed at all.

I fell next into the hands of a very different set. They were so
excessively scandalized at the gaiety of my appearance, as not only to
despoil me of the foreign fopperies, the paint and the patches that I
had been tricked out with by my last misjudging tutors, but they robbed
me of every innocent ornament I had from my infancy been used to gather
in the fields and gardens; nay, they blacked my face, and covered me all
over with a habit of mourning, and that too very coarse and awkward.
I was now obliged to spend my whole life in hearing sermons; nor
permitted so much as to smile upon any occasion.

In this melancholy disguise I became a perfect bugbear to all children,
and young folks. Wherever I came there was a general hush, and immediate
stop to all pleasantness of look or discourse; and not being permitted
to talk with them in my own language at that time, they took such a
disgust to me in those tedious hours of yawning, that having transmitted
it to their children, I cannot now be heard, though it is long since
I have recovered my natural form, and pleasing tone of voice. Would they
but receive my visits kindly, and listen to what I could tell them--let
me say it without vanity--how charming a companion should I be! to every
one could I talk on the subjects most interesting and most pleasing.
With the great and ambitious, I would discourse of honours and
advancements, of distinctions to which the whole world should be
witness, of unenvied dignities and durable preferments. To the rich
I would tell of inexhaustible treasures, and the sure method to attain
them. I would teach them to put out their money on the best interest,
and instruct the lovers of pleasure how to secure and improve it to
the highest degree. The beauty should learn of me how to preserve an
everlasting bloom. To the afflicted I would administer comfort, and
relaxation to the busy.

As I dare promise myself you will attest the truth of all I have
advanced, there is no doubt but many will be desirous of improving their
acquaintance with me; and that I may not be thought too difficult, I will
tell you, in short, how I wish to be received.

You must know I equally hate lazy idleness and hurry. I would every
where be welcomed at a tolerable early hour with decent good-humour
and gratitude. I must be attended in the great halls, peculiarly
appropriated to me, with respect; but I do not insist upon finery:
propriety of appearance, and perfect neatness, is all I require. I must
at dinner be treated with a temperate, but cheerful social meal; both
the neighbours and the poor should be the better for me. Some time
I must have tête-à-tête with my kind entertainers, and the rest of
my visit should be spent in pleasant walks and airings among sets of
agreeable people, in such discourse as I shall naturally dictate, or
in reading some few selected out of those numberless books that are
dedicated to me, and go by my name. A name that, alas! as the world
stands at present, makes them oftener thrown aside than taken up. As
these conversations and books should be both well chosen, to give some
advice on that head may possibly furnish you with a future paper, and
any thing you shall offer on my behalf will be of great service to,

Good Mr. RAMBLER,

Your faithful Friend and Servant,

SUNDAY[42].

[Footnote 42: This paper was written by Miss Catherine Talbot. See the
Preface. ]




No. 31. TUESDAY, JULY 3, 1750.


_Non ego mendosos ausim defendere mores;_
_Falsaque pro vitiis arma movere meis. _
OVID, Am. ii, iv. 1.

Corrupted manners I shall ne'er defend;
Nor, falsely witty, for my faults contend.
ELPHINSTON.


Though the fallibility of man's reason, and the narrowness of his
knowledge, are very liberally confessed, yet the conduct of those who
so willingly admit the weakness of human nature, seems to discover that
this acknowledgment is not altogether sincere; at least, that most make
it with a tacit reserve in favour of themselves, and that with whatever
ease they give up the claim of their neighbours, they are desirous of
being thought exempt from faults in their own conduct, and from errour
in their opinions.

The certain and obstinate opposition, which we may observe made to
confutation however clear, and to reproof however tender, is an undoubted
argument, that some dormant privilege is thought to be attacked; for
as no man can lose what he neither possesses, nor imagines himself
to possess, or be defrauded of that to which he has no right, it is
reasonable to suppose that those who break out into fury at the softest
contradiction, or the slightest censure, since they apparently conclude
themselves injured, must fancy some ancient immunity violated, or some
natural prerogative invaded. To be mistake, if they thought themselves
liable to mistake, could not be considered either as shameful, or
wonderful, and they would not receive with so much emotion intelligence
which only informed them of what they knew before, nor struggle with such
earnestness against an attack that deprived them of nothing to which they
held themselves entitled.

It is related of one of the philosophers, that when an account was
brought him of his son's death, he received it only with this reflection,
_I knew that my son was mortal_. He that is convinced of an errour, if he
had the same knowledge of his own weakness, would, instead of straining
for artifices, and brooding malignity, only regard such oversights as the
appendages of humanity, and pacify himself with considering that he had
always known man to be a fallible being.

If it be true that most of our passions are excited by the novelty of
objects, there is little reason for doubting, that to be considered as
subject to fallacies of ratiocination, or imperfection of knowledge, is
to a great part of mankind entirely new; for it is impossible to fall
into any company where there is not some regular and established
subordination, without finding rage and vehemence produced only by
difference of sentiments about things in which neither of the disputants
have any other interest, than what proceeds from their mutual
unwillingness to give way to any opinion that may bring upon them the
disgrace of being wrong.

I have heard of one that, having advanced some erroneous doctrines in
philosophy, refused to see the experiments by which they were confuted:
and the observation of every day will give new proofs with how much
industry subterfuges and evations are sought to decline the pressure of
resistless arguments, how often the state of the question is altered,
how often the antagonist is wilfully misrepresented, and in how much
perplexity the clearest positions are involved by those whom they happen
to oppose.

Of all mortals none seem to have been more infected with this species
of vanity, than the race of writers, whose reputation arising solely
from their understanding, gives them a very delicate sensibility of any
violence attempted on their literary honour. It is not unpleasing to
remark with what solicitude men of acknowledged abilities will endeavour
to palliate absurdities and reconcile contradictions, only to obviate
criticisms to which all human performances must ever be exposed, and from
which they can never suffer, but when they teach the world, by a vain and
ridiculous impatience, to think them of importance.

Dryden, whose warmth of fancy, and haste of composition, very frequently
hurried him into inaccuracies, heard himself sometimes exposed to
ridicule for having said in one of his tragedies,

"I follow Fate, which does too fast pursue. "

That no man could at once follow and be followed was, it may be thought,
too plain to be long disputed; and the truth is, that Dryden was
apparently betrayed into the blunder by the double meaning of the word
Fate, to which in the former part of the verse he had annexed the idea
of Fortune, and in the latter that of Death; so that the sense only was,
_though pursued by_ Death, _I will not resign myself to despair, but will
follow_ Fortune, _and do and suffer what is appointed_. This, however,
was not completely expressed, and Dryden being determined not to give
way to his criticks, never confessed that he had been surprised by an
ambiguity; but finding luckily in Virgil an account of a man moving in
a circle, with this expression, _Et se sequiturque fugitque_, "Here,"
says he, "is the passage in imitation of which I wrote the line that my
criticks were pleased to condemn as nonsense; not but I may sometimes
write nonsense, though they have not the fortune to find it. "

Every one sees the folly of such mean doublings to escape the pursuit of
criticism; nor is there a single reader of this poet, who would not have
paid him greater veneration, had he shown consciousness enough of his own
superiority to set such cavils at defiance, and owned that he sometimes
slipped into errours by the tumult of his imagination, and the multitude
of his ideas.

It is happy when this temper discovers itself only in little things,
which may be right or wrong without any influence on the virtue or
happiness of mankind. We may, with very little inquietude, see a man
persist in a project which he has found to be impracticable, live in an
inconvenient house because it was contrived by himself, or wear a coat
of a particular cut, in hopes by perseverance to bring it into fashion.
These are indeed follies, but they are only follies, and, however wild
or ridiculous, can very little affect others.

But such pride, once indulged, too frequently operates upon more
important objects, and inclines men not only to vindicate their errours,
but their vices; to persist in practices which their own hearts condemn,
only lest they should seem to feel reproaches, or be made wiser by the
advice of others; or to search for sophisms tending to the confusion of
all principles, and the evacuation of all duties, that they may not appear
to act what they are not able to defend.

Let every man, who finds vanity so far predominant, as to betray him to
the danger of this last degree of corruption, pause a moment to consider
what will be the consequences of the plea which he is about to offer
for a practice to which he knows himself not led at first by reason,
but impelled by the violence of desire, surprised by the suddenness
of passion, or seduced by the soft approaches of temptation, and by
imperceptible gradations of guilt. Let him consider what he is going to
commit, by forcing his understanding to patronise those appetites, which
it is its chief business to hinder and reform.

The cause of virtue requires so little art to defend it, and good and
evil, when they have been once shewn, are so easily distinguished, that
such apologists seldom gain proselytes to their party, nor have their
fallacies power to deceive any but those whose desires have clouded their
discernment. All that the best faculties thus employed can perform is,
to persuade the hearers that the man is hopeless whom they only thought
vicious, that corruption has passed from his manners to his principles,
that all endeavours for his recovery are without prospect of success, and
that nothing remains but to avoid him as infectious, or hunt him down as
destructive.

But if it be supposed that he may impose on his audience by partial
representations of consequences, intricate deductions of remote causes,
or perplexed combinations of ideas, which having various relations appear
different as viewed on different sides; that he may sometimes puzzle the
weak and well-meaning, and now and then seduce, by the admiration of
his abilities, a young mind still fluctuating in unsettled notions, and
neither fortified by instruction nor enlightened by experience; yet what
must be the event of such a triumph! A man cannot spend all this life in
frolick: age, or disease, or solitude, will bring some hours of serious
consideration, and it will then afford no comfort to think, that he has
extended the dominion of vice, that he has loaded himself with the crimes
of others, and can never know the extent of his own wickedness, or make
reparation for the mischief that he has caused. There is not, perhaps,
in all the stores of ideal anguish, a thought more painful, than the
consciousness of having propagated corruption by vitiating principles, of
having not only drawn others from the paths of virtue, but blocked up the
way by which they should return, of having blinded them to every beauty
but the paint of pleasure, and deafened them to every call but the
alluring voice of the syrens of destruction.

There is yet another danger in this practice: men who cannot deceive
others, are very often successful in deceiving themselves; they weave
their sophistry till their own reason is entangled, and repeat their
positions till they are credited by themselves; by often contending,
they grow sincere in the cause; and by long wishing for demonstrative
arguments, they at last bring themselves to fancy that they have found
them. They are then at the uttermost verge of wickedness, and may die
without having that light rekindled in their minds, which their own pride
and contumacy have extinguished.

The men who can be charged with fewest failings, either with respect to
abilities or virtue, are generally most ready to allow them; for, not
to dwell on things of solemn and awful consideration, the humility of
confessors, the tears of saints, and the dying terrours of persons
eminent for piety and innocence, it is well known that Cæsar wrote an
account of the errours committed by him in his wars of Gaul, and that
Hippocrates, whose name is perhaps in rational estimation greater than
Cæsar's, warned posterity against a mistake into which he had fallen.
_So much_, says Celsus, _does the open and artless confession of an errour
become a man conscious that he has enough remaining to support his
character_.

As all errour is meanness, it is incumbent on every man who consults his
own dignity, to retract it as soon as he discovers it, without fearing
any censure so much as that of his own mind. As justice requires that all
injuries should be repaired, it is the duty of him who has seduced others
by bad practices or false notions, to endeavour that such as have adopted
his errours should know his retraction, and that those who have learned
vice by his example, should by his example be taught amendment.




No. 32. SATURDAY, JULY 7, 1750.


Ὁσσα τε δαιμονιησι τυχαις βροτοι αλγε' εχουσιν,
Ὁν αν μοιραν εχης, πραως φερε, μηδ' αγανακτει·
Ιασθαι δε πρεπει, καθοσον δυνη.
PYTH. Aur. Carm.

Of all the woes that load the mortal state,
Whate'er thy portion, mildly meet thy fate;
But ease it as thou canst. ----
ELPHINSTON.


So large a part of human life passes in a state contrary to our natural
desires, that one of the principal topicks of moral instruction is the
art of bearing calamities. And such is the certainty of evil, that it
is the duty of every man to furnish his mind with those principles that
may enable him to act under it with decency and propriety.

The sect of ancient philosophers, that boasted to have carried this
necessary science to the highest perfection, were the stoicks, or
scholars of Zeno, whose wild enthusiastick virtue pretended to an
exemption from the sensibilities of unenlightened mortals, and who
proclaimed themselves exalted, by the doctrines of their sect, above
the reach of those miseries which embitter life to the rest of the
world. They therefore removed pain, poverty, loss of friends, exile,
and violent death, from the catalogue of evils; and passed, in their
haughty style, a kind of irreversible decree, by which they forbad them
to be counted any longer among the objects of terrour or anxiety, or to
give any disturbance to the tranquillity of a wise man.

This edict was, I think, not universally observed; for though one of the
more resolute, when he was tortured by a violent disease, cried out,
that let pain harass him to its utmost power, it should never force him
to consider it as other than indifferent and neutral; yet all had not
stubbornness to hold out against their senses: for a weaker pupil of Zeno
is recorded to have confessed in the anguish of the gout, that _he now
found pain to be an evil_.

It may however be questioned, whether these philosophers can be very
properly numbered among the teachers of patience; for if pain be not
an evil, there seems no instruction requisite how it may be borne;
and therefore, when they endeavour to arm their followers with
arguments against it, they may be thought to have given up their first
position. But such inconsistencies are to be expected from the greatest
understandings, when they endeavour to grow eminent by singularity, and
employ their strength in establishing opinions opposite to nature.

The controversy about the reality of external evils is now at an end.
That life has many miseries, and that those miseries are, sometimes
at least, equal to all the powers of fortitude, is now universally
confessed; and therefore it is useful to consider not only how we
may escape them, but by what means those which either the accidents
of affairs, or the infirmities of nature, must bring upon us, may be
mitigated and lightened, and how we may make those hours less wretched,
which the condition of our present existence will not allow to be very
happy.

The cure for the greatest part of human miseries is not radical, but
palliative. Infelicity is involved in corporeal nature, and interwoven
with our being; all attempts therefore to decline it wholly are useless
and vain: the armies of pain send their arrows against us on every
side, the choice is only between those which are more or less sharp,
or tinged with poison of greater or less malignity; and the strongest
armour which reason can supply, will only blunt their points, but
cannot repel them.

The great remedy which heaven has put in our hands is patience, by which,
though we cannot lessen the torments of the body, we can in a great
measure preserve the peace of the mind, and shall suffer only the
natural and genuine force of an evil, without heightening its acrimony,
or prolonging its effects.

There is indeed nothing more unsuitable to the nature of man in any
calamity than rage and turbulence, which, without examining whether they
are not sometimes impious, are at least always offensive, and incline
others rather to hate and despise than to pity and assist us. If what
we suffer has been brought upon us by ourselves, it is observed by an
ancient poet, that patience is eminently our duty, since no one should
be angry at feeling that which he has deserved.

_Leniter ex merito quicquid patiare ferendum est. _

Let pain deserv'd without complaint be borne.

And surely, if we are conscious that we have not contributed to our
own sufferings, if punishment falls upon innocence, or disappointment
happens to industry and prudence, patience, whether more necessary or
not, is much easier, since our pain is then without aggravation, and we
have not the bitterness of remorse to add to the asperity of misfortune.

In those evils which are allotted to us by Providence, such as deformity,
privation of any of the senses, or old age, it is always to be
remembered, that impatience can have no present effect, but to deprive
us of the consolations which our condition admits, by driving away from
us those by whose conversation or advice we might be amused or helped;
and that with regard to futurity it is yet less to be justified, since,
without lessening the pain, it cuts off the hope of that reward which
he, by whom it is inflicted, will confer upon them that bear it well.

In all evils which admit a remedy, impatience is to be avoided, because
it wastes that time and attention in complaints, that, if properly
applied, might remove the cause. Turenne, among the acknowledgments which
he used to pay in conversation to the memory of those by whom he had been
instructed in the art of war, mentioned one with honour, who taught him
not to spend his time in regretting any mistake which he had made, but to
set himself immediately and vigorously to repair it.

Patience and submission are very carefully to be distinguished from
cowardice and indolence. We are not to repine, but we may lawfully
struggle; for the calamities of life, like the necessities of nature,
are calls to labour and exercises of diligence. When we feel any
pressure of distress, we are not to conclude that we can only obey the
will of heaven by languishing under it, any more than when we perceive
the pain of thirst, we are to imagine that water is prohibited. Of
misfortune it never can be certainly known whether, as proceeding from
the hand of God, it is an act of favour or of punishment: but since
all the ordinary dispensations of Providence are to be interpreted
according to the general analogy of things, we may conclude that we
have a right to remove one inconvenience as well as another; that we
are only to take care lest we purchase ease with guilt; and that our
Maker's purpose, whether of reward or severity, will be answered by the
labours which he lays us under the necessity of performing.

This duty is not more difficult in any state than in diseases intensely
painful, which may indeed suffer such exacerbations as seem to strain
the powers of life to their utmost stretch, and leave very little of
the attention vacant to precept or reproof. In this state the nature
of man requires some indulgence, and every extravagance but impiety
may be easily forgiven him. Yet, lest we should think ourselves too
soon entitled to the mournful privileges of irresistible misery, it
is proper to reflect, that the utmost anguish which human wit can
contrive, or human malice can inflict, has been borne with constancy;
and that if the pains of disease be, as I believe they are, sometimes
greater than those of artificial torture, they are therefore in their
own nature shorter: the vital frame is quickly broken, the union
between soul and body is for a time suspended by insensibility, and we
soon cease to feel our maladies when they once become too violent to be
borne. I think there is some reason for questioning whether the body
and mind are not so proportioned, that the one can bear all that can
be inflicted on the other, whether virtue cannot stand its ground as
long as life, and whether a soul well principled will not be separated
sooner than subdued.

In calamities which operate chiefly on our passions, such as diminution
of fortune, loss of friends, or declension of character, the chief
danger of impatience is upon the first attack, and many expedients
have been contrived, by which the blow may be broken. Of these the
most general precept is, not to take pleasure in any thing, of which
it is not in our power to secure the possession to ourselves. This
counsel, when we consider the enjoyment of any terrestrial advantage
as opposite to a constant and habitual solicitude for future felicity,
is undoubtedly just, and delivered by that authority which cannot be
disputed, but in any other sense, is it not like advice, not to walk
lest we should stumble, or not to see least our eyes should light
upon deformity? It seems to me reasonable to enjoy blessings with
confidence, as well as to resign them with submission, and to hope
for the continuance of good which we possess without insolence or
voluptuousness, as for the restitution of that which we lose without
despondency or murmurs.

The chief security against the fruitless anguish of impatience, must
arise from frequent reflection on the wisdom and goodness of the God
of nature, in whose hands are riches and poverty, honour and disgrace,
pleasure and pain, and life and death. A settled conviction of the
tendency of every thing to our good, and of the possibility of turning
miseries into happiness, by receiving them rightly, will incline us to
_bless the name of the_ LORD, _whether he gives or takes away_.




No. 33. TUESDAY, JULY 10, 1750.


_Quod caret alterna requie, durabile non est. _
OVID, Epist. iv.