No More Learning

The garlands gained by the heroes of literature must be gathered from
summits equally difficult to climb with those that bear the civick or
triumphal wreaths, they must be worn with equal envy, and guarded with
equal care from those hands that are always employed in efforts to tear
them away; the only remaining hope is, that their verdure is more lasting,
and that they are less likely to fade by time, or less obnoxious to the
blasts of accident.

Even this hope will receive very little encouragement from the examination
of the history of learning, or observation of the fate of scholars in
the present age. If we look back into past times, we find innumerable
names of authors once in high reputation, read perhaps by the beautiful,
quoted by the witty, and commented on by the grave; but of whom we now
know only that they once existed. If we consider the distribution of
literary fame in our own time, we shall find it a possession of very
uncertain tenure; sometimes bestowed by a sudden caprice of the publick,
and again transferred to a new favourite, for no other reason than that
he is new; sometimes refused to long labour and eminent desert, and
sometimes granted to very slight pretensions; lost sometimes by security
and negligence, and sometimes by too diligent endeavours to retain it.

A successful author is equally in danger of the diminution of his fame,
whether he continues or ceases to write. The regard of the publick
is not to be kept but by tribute, and the remembrance of past service
will quickly languish, unless successive performances frequently revive
it. Yet in every new attempt there is new hazard, and there are few who
do not at some unlucky time, injure their own characters by attempting
to enlarge them.

There are many possible causes of that inequality which we may so
frequently observe in the performances of the same man, from the influence
of which no ability or industry is sufficiently secured, and which have
so often sullied the splendour of genius, that the wit, as well as the
conqueror, may be properly cautioned not to indulge his pride with too
early triumphs, but to defer to the end of life his estimate of happiness.

_------Ultima semper_
_Expectanda dies homini, dicique beatus_
_Ante obitum nemo supremaque funera debet. _
OVID, Met. iii. 135.

But no frail man, however great or high,
Can be concluded blest before he die.
ADDISON.

Among the motives that urge an author to undertakings by which his
reputation is impaired, one of the most frequent must be mentioned
with tenderness, because it is not to be counted among his follies,
but his miseries. It very often happens that the works of learning
or of wit are performed at the direction of those by whom they are
to be rewarded; the writer has not always the choice of his subject,
but is compelled to accept any task which is thrown before him without
much consideration of his own convenience, and without time to prepare
himself by previous studies.

Miscarriages of this kind are likewise frequently the consequence of
that acquaintance with the great, which is generally considered as
one of the chief privileges of literature and genius. A man who has
once learned to think himself exalted by familiarity with those whom
nothing but their birth, or their fortunes, or such stations as are
seldom gained by moral excellence, set above him, will not be long
without submitting his understanding to their conduct; he will suffer
them to prescribe the course of his studies, and employ him for their
own purposes either of diversion or interest, His desire of pleasing
those whose favour he has weakly made necessary to himself, will not
suffer him always to consider how little he is qualified for the work
imposed. Either his vanity will tempt him to conceal his deficiencies,
or that cowardice, which always encroaches fast upon such as spend their
lives in the company of persons higher than themselves, will not leave
him resolution to assert the liberty of choice.

But, though we suppose that a man by his fortune can avoid the necessity
of dependance, and by his spirit can repel the usurpations of patronage,
yet he may easily, by writing long, happen to write ill. There is
a general succession of events in which contraries are produced by
periodical vicissitudes; labour and care are rewarded with success,
success produces confidence, confidence relaxes industry, and negligence
ruins that reputation which accuracy had raised.

He that happens not to be lulled by praise into supineness, may be
animated by it to undertakings above his strength, or incited to fancy
himself alike qualified for every kind of composition, and able to
comply with the publick taste through all its variations. By some
opinion like this, many men have been engaged, at an advanced age, in
attempts which they had not time to complete, and after a few weak
efforts, sunk into the grave with vexation to see the rising generation
gain ground upon them. From these failures the highest genius is not
exempt; that judgment which appears so penetrating, when it is employed
upon the works of others, very often fails where interest or passion can
exert their power. We are blinded in examining our own labours by
innumerable prejudices. Our juvenile compositions please us, because
they bring to our minds the remembrance of youth; our later performances
we are ready to esteem, because we are unwilling to think that we have
made no improvement; what flows easily from the pen charms us, because
we read with pleasure that which flatters our opinion of our own powers;
what was composed with great struggles of the mind we do not easily
reject, because we cannot bear that so much labour should be fruitless.
But the reader has none of these prepossessions, and wonders that the
author is so unlike himself, without considering that the same soil
will, with different culture, afford different products.




No. 22. SATURDAY, JUNE 2, 1750.


_----Ego nec studium sine divite venû,_
_Nec rude quid prosit video ingenium; alterius sic_
_Altera poscit opem res, et conjurat amice. _
HOR. Ars. Poet. 409.

Without a genius learning soars in vain;
And without learning genius sinks again;
Their force united crowns the sprightly reign.
ELPHINSTON.


Wit and Learning were the children of Apollo, by different mothers; Wit
was the offspring of Euphrosyne, and resembled her in cheerfulness and
vivacity; Learning was born of Sophia, and retained her seriousness and
caution. As their mothers were rivals, they were bred up by them from
their birth in habitual opposition, and all means were so incessantly
employed to impress upon them a hatred and contempt of each other, that
though Apollo, who foresaw the ill effects of their discord, endeavoured
to soften them, by dividing his regard equally between them, yet his
impartiality and kindness were without effect; the maternal animosity
was deeply rooted, having been intermingled with their first ideas, and
was confirmed every hour, as fresh opportunities occurred of exerting
it. No sooner were they of age to be received into the apartments of
the other celestials, than Wit began to entertain Venus at her toilet,
by aping the solemnity of Learning, and Learning to divert Minerva at
her loom, by exposing the blunders and ignorance of Wit.

Thus they grew up, with malice perpetually increasing, by the
encouragement which each received from those whom their mothers had
persuaded to patronize and support them; and longed to be admitted to
the table of Jupiter, not so much for the hope of gaining honour, as of
excluding a rival from all pretensions to regard, and of putting an
everlasting stop to the progress of that influence which either believed
the other to have obtained by mean arts and false appearances.

At last the day came, when they were both, with the usual solemnities,
received into the class of superior deities, and allowed to take nectar
from the hand of Hebe. But from that hour Concord lost her authority at
the table of Jupiter. The rivals, animated by their new dignity, and
incited by the alternate applauses of the associate powers, harassed
each other by incessant contests, with such a regular vicissitude of
victory, that neither was depressed.

It was observable, that, at the beginning of every debate, the
advantage was on the side of Wit; and that, at the first sallies,
the whole assembly sparkled, according to Homer's expression, with
unextinguishable merriment. But Learning would reserve her strength till
the burst of applause was over, and the languor with which the violence
of joy is always succeeded, began to promise more calm and patient
attention. She then attempted her defence, and, by comparing one part
of her antagonist's objections with another, commonly made him confute
himself; or, by shewing how small a part of the question he had taken
into his view, proved that his opinion could have no weight. The audience
began gradually to lay aside their prepossessions, and rose, at last,
with great veneration for Learning, but with greater kindness for Wit.


Their conduct was, whenever they desired to recommend themselves to
distinction, entirely opposite. Wit was daring and adventurous; Learning
cautious and deliberate. Wit thought nothing reproachful but dulness;
Learning was afraid of no imputation but that of errour. Wit answered
before he understood, lest his quickness of apprehension should be
questioned; Learning paused, where there was no difficulty, lest any
insidious sophism should lie undiscovered. Wit perplexed every debate
by rapidity and confusion; Learning tired the hearers with endless
distinctions, and prolonged the dispute without advantage, by proving
that which never was denied. Wit, in hopes of shining, would venture
to produce what he had not considered, and often succeeded beyond his
own expectation, by following the train of a lucky thought; learning would
reject every new notion, for fear of being entangled in consequences
which she could not foresee, and was often hindered, by her caution,
from pressing her advantages, and subduing her opponent.

Both had prejudices, which, in some degree, hindered their progress
towards perfection, and left them open to attacks. Novelty was the
darling of wit, and antiquity of learning. To wit, all that was new was
specious; to learning, whatever was ancient was venerable. Wit, however,
seldom failed to divert those whom he could not convince, and to
convince was not often his ambition; learning always supported her
opinion with so many collateral truths, that, when the cause was decided
against her, her arguments were remembered with admiration.

Nothing was more common, on either side, than to quit their proper
characters, and to hope for a complete conquest by the use of the
weapons which had been employed against them. Wit would sometimes
labour a syllogism, and learning distort her features with a jest; but
they always suffered by the experiment, and betrayed themselves to
confutation or contempt. The seriousness of wit was without dignity,
and the merriment of learning without vivacity.


Their contests, by long continuance, grew at last important, and the
divinities broke into parties. Wit was taken into protection of the
laughter-loving Venus, had a retinue allowed him of smiles and jests, and
was often permitted to dance among the graces. Learning still continued
the favourite of Minerva, and seldom went out of her palace without
a train of the severer virtues, chastity, temperance, fortitude, and
labour. Wit, cohabiting with malice, had a son named satire, who followed
him, carrying a quiver filled with poisoned arrows, which, where they
once drew blood, could by no skill ever be extracted. These arrows he
frequently shot at learning, when she was most earnestly or usefully
employed, engaged in abstruse inquiries, or giving instructions to her
followers. Minerva, therefore, deputed criticism to her aid, who generally
broke the point of satire's arrows, turned them aside, or retorted them
on himself.

Jupiter was at last angry that the peace of the heavenly regions should
be in perpetual danger of violation, and resolved to dismiss these
troublesome antagonists to the lower world. Hither, therefore, they came,
and carried on their ancient quarrel among mortals, nor was either long
without zealous votaries. Wit, by his gaiety, captivated the young;
and learning, by her authority, influenced the old. Their power quickly
appeared by very eminent effects; theatres were built for the reception
of wit, and colleges endowed for the residence of learning. Each party
endeavoured to outvie the other in cost and magnificence, and to propagate
an opinion, that it was necessary, from the first entrance into life,
to enlist in one of the factions; and that none could hope for the regard
of either divinity, who had once entered the temple of the rival power.

There were, indeed, a class of mortals, by whom wit and learning
were equally disregarded: these were the devotees of Plutus, the god
of riches; among these it seldom happened that the gaiety of wit could
raise a smile, or the eloquence of learning procure attention. In revenge
of this contempt they agreed to incite their followers against them;
but the forces that were sent on those expeditions frequently betrayed
their trust; and, in contempt of the orders which they had received,
flattered the rich in publick, while they scorned them in their hearts;
and when, by this treachery, they had obtained the favour of Plutus,
affected to look with an air of superiority on those who still remained
in the service of wit and learning.

Disgusted with these desertions, the two rivals, at the same time,
petitioned Jupiter for readmission to their native habitations. Jupiter
thundered on the right hand, and they prepared to obey the happy
summons. Wit readily spread his wings and soared aloft, but not being
able to see far, was bewildered in the pathless immensity of the ethereal
spaces. Learning, who knew the way, shook her pinions; but for want of
natural vigour could only take short flights: so, after many efforts,
they both sunk again to the ground, and learned, from their mutual
distress, the necessity of union. They therefore joined their hands,
and renewed their flight: Learning was borne up by the vigour of Wit,
and Wit guided by the perspicacity of Learning. They soon reached the
dwellings of Jupiter, and were so endeared to each other, that they lived
afterwards in perpetual concord. Wit persuaded Learning to converse with
the Graces, and Learning engaged Wit in the service of the Virtues. They
were now the favourites of all the powers of heaven, and gladdened every
banquet by their presence. They soon after married, at the command of
Jupiter, and had a numerous progeny of Arts and Sciences.




No. 23. TUESDAY, JUNE 5, 1750.


_Tres mihi convivæ prope dissentire videntur;_
_Poscentur vario multum diversa palato. _
HOR. lib. ii. Ep. ii. 61.

Three guests I have, dissenting at my feast,
Requiring each to gratify his taste
With different food.
FRANCIS.


That every man should regulate his actions by his own conscience, without
any regard to the opinions of the rest of the world, is one of the first
precepts of moral prudence; justified not only by the suffrage of reason,
which declares that none of the gifts of heaven are to lie useless, but
by the voice likewise of experience, which will soon inform us that,
if we make the praise or blame of others the rule of our conduct, we
shall be distracted by a boundless variety of irreconcileable judgments,
be held in perpetual suspense between contrary impulses, and consult
for ever without determination.

I know not whether, for the same reason, it is not necessary for an
author to place some confidence in his own skill, and to satisfy himself
in the knowledge that he has not deviated from the established laws of
composition, without submitting his works to frequent examinations
before he gives them to the publick, or endeavouring to secure success
by a solicitous conformity to advice and criticism.

It is, indeed, quickly discoverable, that consultation and compliance
can conduce little to the perfection of any literary performance;
for whoever is so doubtful of his own abilities as to encourage the
remarks of others, will find himself every day embarrassed with new
difficulties, and will harass his mind, in vain, with the hopeless
labour of uniting heterogeneous ideas, digesting independent hints, and
collecting into one point the several rays of borrowed light, emitted
often with contrary directions.

Of all authors, those who retail their labours in periodical sheets
would be most unhappy, if they were much to regard the censures or the
admonitions of their readers; for, as their works are not sent into the
world at once, but by small parts in gradual succession, it is always
imagined, by those who think themselves qualified to give instructions,
that they may yet redeem their former failings by hearkening to better
judges, and supply the deficiencies of their plan, by the help of the
criticisms which are so liberally afforded.

I have had occasion to observe, sometimes with vexation, and sometimes
with merriment, the different temper with which the same man reads a
printed and manuscript performance. When a book is once in the hands
of the publick, it is considered as permanent and unalterable; and the
reader, if he be free from personal prejudices, takes it up with no
other intention than of pleasing or instructing himself: he accommodates
his mind to the author's design; and, having no interest in refusing the
amusement that is offered him, never interrupts his own tranquillity by
studied cavils, or destroys his satisfaction in that which is already
well, by an anxious inquiry how it might be better; but is often
contented without pleasure, and pleased without perfection.

But if the same man be called to consider the merit of a production yet
unpublished, he brings an imagination heated with objections to passages
which he has yet never heard; he invokes all the powers of criticism,
and stores his memory with Taste and Grace, Purity and Delicacy, Manners
and Unities, sounds which, having been once uttered by those that
understood them, have been since reechoed without meaning, and kept up
to the disturbance of the world, by a constant repercussion from one
coxcomb to another. He considers himself as obliged to shew, by some
proof of his abilities, that he is not consulted to no purpose, and
therefore watches every opening for objection, and looks round for every
opportunity to propose some specious alteration. Such opportunities a
very small degree of sagacity will enable him to find; for, in every
work of imagination, the disposition of parts, the insertion of
incidents, and use of decorations, may be varied a thousand ways with
equal propríety; and as in things nearly equal, that will always seem
best to every man which he himself produces; the critick, whose business
is only to propose, without the care of execution, can never want
the satisfaction of believing that he has suggested very important
improvements, nor the power of enforcing his advice by arguments, which,
as they appear convincing to himself, either his kindness or his vanity
will press obstinately and importunately, without suspicion that he may
possibly judge too hastily in favour of his own advice, or inquiry
whether the advantage of the new scheme be proportionate to the labour.

It is observed by the younger Pliny, that an orator ought not so much to
select the strongest arguments which his cause admits, as to employ all
which his imagination can afford: for, in pleading, those reasons are of
most value, which will most affect the judges; and the judges, says he,
will be always most touched with that which they had before conceived.
Every man who is called to give his opinion of a performance, decides
upon the same principle; he first suffers himself to form expectations,
and then is angry at his disappointment. He lets his imagination rove at
large, and wonders that another, equally unconfined in the boundless
ocean of possibility, takes a different course.

But, though the rule of Pliny be judiciously laid down, it is not
applicable to the writer's cause, because there always lies an appeal
from domestick criticism to a higher judicature, and the publick, which
is never corrupted, nor often deceived, is to pass the last sentence
upon literary claims.

Of the great force of preconceived opinions I had many proofs, when
I first entered upon this weekly labour. My readers having, from the
performances of my predecessors, established an idea of unconnected
essays, to which they believed all future authors under a necessity of
conforming, were impatient of the least deviation from their system, and
numerous remonstrances were accordingly made by each, as he found his
favourite subject omitted or delayed. Some were angry that the Rambler
did not, like the Spectator, introduce himself to the acquaintance of
the publick, by an account of his own birth and studies, an enumeration
of his adventures, and a description of his physiognomy. Others soon
began to remark that he was a solemn, serious, dictatorial writer,
without sprightliness or gaiety, and called out with vehemence for mirth
and humour. Another admonished him to have a special eye upon the
various clubs of this great city, and informed him that much of the
Spectator's vivacity was laid out upon such assemblies. He has been
censured for not imitating the politeness of his predecessors, having
hitherto neglected to take the ladies under his protection, and give
them rules for the just opposition of colours, and the proper dimensions
of ruffles and pinners. He has been required by one to fix a particular
censure upon those matrons who play at cards with spectacles: and
another is very much offended whenever he meets with a speculation in
which naked precepts are comprised without the illustration of examples
and characters.

I make not the least question that all these monitors intend the
promotion of my design, and the instruction of my readers; but they
do not know, or do not reflect, that an author has a rule of choice
peculiar to himself; and selects those subjects which he is best
qualified to treat, by the course of his studies, or the accidents of
his life; that some topicks of amusement have been already treated with
too much success to invite a competition; and that he who endeavours
to gain many readers must try various arts of invitation, essay every
avenue of pleasure, and make frequent changes in his methods of
approach.

I cannot but consider myself, amidst this tumult of criticism, as a
ship in a poetical tempest, impelled at the same time by opposite
winds, and dashed by the waves from every quarter, but held upright
by the contrariety of the assailants, and secured in some measure
by multiplicity of distress. Had the opinion of my censurers been
unanimous, it might perhaps have overset my resolution; but since I find
them at variance with each other, I can, without scruple, neglect them,
and endeavour to gain the favour of the publick by following the
direction of my own reason, and indulging the sallies of my own
imagination.





No. 24. SATURDAY, JUNE 9, 1750.


_Nemo in sese tentat descendere. _
PERSIUS, Sat. iv. 23.

None, none descends into himself.
DRYDEN.


Among the precepts, or aphorisms, admitted by general consent, and
inculcated by frequent repetition, there is none more famous among the
masters of ancient wisdom, than that compendious lesson, Γνωθι σεαυτον,
_Be acquainted with thyself_; ascribed by some to an oracle, and by
others to Chilo of Lacedæmon.

This is, indeed, a dictate, which, in the whole extent of its meaning,
may be said to comprise all the speculation requisite to a moral agent.
For what more can be necessary to the regulation of life, than the
knowledge of our original, our end, our duties, and our relation to
other beings?

It is however very improbable that the first author, whoever he was,
intended to be understood in this unlimited and complicated sense; for
of the inquiries, which in so large an acceptation it would seem to
recommend, some are too extensive for the powers of man, and some
require light from above, which was not yet indulged to the heathen
world.

We might have had more satisfaction concerning the original import of
this celebrated sentence, if history had informed us, whether it was
uttered as a general instruction to mankind, or as a particular caution
to some private inquirer; whether it was applied to some single
occasion, or laid down as the universal rule of life.

There will occur, upon the slightest consideration, many possible
circumstances, in which this monition might very properly be inforced:
for every errour in human conduct must arise from ignorance in
ourselves, either perpetual or temporary; and happen either because we
do not know what is best and fittest, or because our knowledge is at the
time of action not present to the mind.

When a man employs himself upon remote and unnecessary subjects, and
wastes his life upon questions which cannot be resolved, and of which
the solution would conduce very little to the advancement of happiness;
when he lavishes his hours in calculating the weight of the terraqueous
globe, or in adjusting successive systems of worlds beyond the reach of
the telescope; he may be very properly recalled from his excursions by
this precept, and reminded, that there is a nearer being with which it
is his duty to be more acquainted; and from which his attention has
hitherto been withheld by studies to which he has no other motive than
vanity or curiosity.

The great praise of Socrates is, that he drew the wits of Greece, by his
instruction and example, from the vain pursuit of natural philosophy to
moral inquiries, and turned their thoughts from stars and tides, and
matter and motion, upon the various modes of virtue, and relations of
life. All his lectures were but commentaries upon this saying; if we
suppose the knowledge of ourselves recommended by Chilo, in opposition
to other inquiries less suitable to the state of man.

The great fault of men of learning is still, that they offend against
this rule, and appear willing to study any thing rather than themselves;
for which reason they are often despised by those with whom they imagine
themselves above comparison; despised, as useless to common purposes, as
unable to conduct the most trivial affairs, and unqualified to perform
those offices by which the concatenation of society is preserved, and
mutual tenderness excited and maintained.

Gelidus is a man of great penetration and deep researches. Having a mind
naturally formed for the abstruser sciences, he can comprehend intricate
combinations without confusion, and being of a temper naturally cool and
equal, he is seldom interrupted by his passions in the pursuit of the
longest chain of unexpected consequences. He has, therefore, a long
time indulged hopes, that the solution of some problems, by which the
professors of science have been hitherto baffled, is reserved for his
genius and industry. He spends his time in the highest room of his
house, into which none of his family are suffered to enter; and when
he comes down to his dinner or his rest, he walks about like a stranger
that is there only for a day, without any tokens of regard or tenderness.
He has totally divested himself of all human sensations; he has neither
eye for beauty, nor ear for complaint; he neither rejoices at the good
fortune of his nearest friend, nor mourns for any publick or private
calamity. Having once received a letter, and given it his servant to
read, he was informed, that it was written by his brother, who, being
shipwrecked, had swum naked to land, and was destitute of necessaries
in a foreign country. Naked and destitute! says Gelidus, reach down the
last volume of meteorological observations, extract an exact account of
the wind, and note it carefully in the diary of the weather.

The family of Gelidus once broke into his study, to shew him that a town
at a small distance was on fire; and in a few moments a servant came to
tell him, that the flame had caught so many houses on both sides, that
the inhabitants were confounded, and began to think of rather escaping
with their lives, than saving their dwellings. What you tell me, says
Gelidus, is very probable, for fire naturally acts in a circle.

Thus lives this great philosopher, insensible to every spectacle of
distress, and unmoved by the loudest call of social nature, for want of
considering that men are designed for the succour and comfort of each
other; that though there are hours which may be laudably spent upon
knowledge not immediately useful, yet the first attention is due to
practical virtue; and that he may be justly driven out from the commerce
of mankind, who has so far abstracted himself from the species, as to
partake neither of the joys nor griefs of others, but neglects the
endearments of his wife and the caresses of his children, to count the
drops of rain, note the changes of the wind, and calculate the eclipses
of the moons of Jupiter.

I shall reserve to some future paper the religious and important meaning
of this epitome of wisdom, and only remark, that it may be applied to
the gay and light, as well as to the grave and solemn parts of life;
and that not only the philosopher may forfeit his pretences to real
learning, but the wit and beauty may miscarry in their schemes, by the
want of this universal requisite, the knowledge of themselves.

It is surely for no other reason, that we see such numbers resolutely
struggling against nature, and contending for that which they never can
attain, endeavouring to unite contradictions, and determined to excel
in characters inconsistent with each other; that stock-jobbers affect
dress, gaiety, and elegance, and mathematicians labour to be wits; that
the soldier teazes his acquaintance with questions in theology, and the
academick hopes to divert the ladies by a recital of his gallantries.
That absurdity of pride could proceed only from ignorance of themselves,
by which Garth attempted criticism, and Congreve waved his title to
dramatick reputation, and desired to be considered only as a gentleman.

Euphues, with great parts, and extensive knowledge, has a clouded
aspect, and ungracious form; yet it has been his ambition, from his
first entrance into life, to distinguish himself by particularities in
his dress, to outvie beaux in embroidery, to import new trimmings, and
to be foremost in the fashion. 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.