No More Learning

I
asked the question with no other intention than to set him free from the
necessity of silence, and give him an opportunity of mingling on equal
terms with a polite assembly, from which, however uneasy, he could not
then escape, by a kind introduction of the only subject on which I
believed him able to speak with propriety.

I am, &c.

GENEROSA.



No. 127. TUESDAY, JUNE 4, 1751.

_Capisti meliust, quam desinis. Ultima primis
Cedunt: dissimiles hic vir et ille puer_. Ovid. Ep. ix. 24.

Succeeding years thy early fame destroy;
Thou, who began'st a man, wilt end a boy.

Politian, a name eminent among the restorers of polite literature, when
he published a collection of epigrams, prefixed to many of them the year
of his age at which they were composed. He might design, by this
information, either to boast the early maturity of his genius, or to
conciliate indulgence to the puerility of his performances. But whatever
was his intent, it is remarked by Scaliger, that he very little promoted
his own reputation, because he fell below the promise which his first
productions had given, and, in the latter part of his life, seldom
equalled the sallies of his youth.

It is not uncommon for those who, at their first entrance into the
world, were distinguished for attainments or abilities, to disappoint
the hopes which they had raised, and to end in neglect and obscurity
that life which they began in celebrity and honour. To the long
catalogue of the inconveniencies of old age, which moral and satirical
writers have so copiously displayed, may be often added the loss of
fame.

The advance of the human mind towards any object of laudable pursuit,
may be compared to the progress of a body driven by a blow. It moves,
for a time, with great velocity and vigour, but the force of the first
impulse is perpetually decreasing, and though it should encounter no
obstacle capable of quelling it by a sudden stop, the resistance of the
medium through which it passes, and the latent inequalities of the
smoothest surface, will, in a short time, by continued retardation,
wholly overpower it. Some hindrances will be found in every road of
life, but he that fixes his eyes upon any thing at a distance,
necessarily loses sight of all that fills up the intermediate space, and
therefore sets forward with alacrity and confidence, nor suspects a
thousand obstacles, by which he afterwards finds his passage embarrassed
and obstructed. Some are indeed stopt at once in their career by a
sudden shock of calamity, or diverted to a different direction by the
cross impulse of some violent passion; but far the greater part languish
by slow degrees, deviate at first into slight obliquities, and
themselves scarcely perceive at what time their ardour forsook them, or
when they lost sight of their original design.

Weariness and negligence are perpetually prevailing by silent
encroachments, assisted by different causes, and not observed till they
cannot, without great difficulty, be opposed. Labour necessarily
requires pauses of ease and relaxation, and the deliciousness of ease
commonly makes us unwilling to return to labour. We, perhaps, prevail
upon ourselves to renew our attempts, but eagerly listen to every
argument for frequent interpositions of amusement; for, when indolence
has once entered upon the mind, it can scarcely be dispossessed but by
such efforts as very few are willing to exert.

It is the fate of industry to be equally endangered by miscarriage and
success, by confidence and despondency. He that engages in a great
undertaking, with a false opinion of its facility, or too high
conceptions of his own strength, is easily discouraged by the first
hindrance of his advances, because he had promised himself an equal and
perpetual progression without impediment or disturbance; when unexpected
interruptions break in upon him, he is in the state of a man surprised
by a tempest, where he purposed only to bask in the calm, or sport in
the shallows.

It is not only common to find the difficulty of an enterprize greater,
but the profit less, than hope had pictured it. Youth enters the world
with very happy prejudices in her own favour. She imagines herself not
only certain of accomplishing every adventure, but of obtaining those
rewards which the accomplishment may deserve. She is not easily
persuaded to believe that the force of merit can be resisted by
obstinacy and avarice, or its lustre darkened by envy and malignity. She
has not yet learned that the most evident claims to praise or preferment
may be rejected by malice against conviction, or by indolence without
examination; that they may be sometimes defeated by artifices, and
sometimes overborne by clamour; that, in the mingled numbers of mankind,
many need no other provocation to enmity than that they find themselves
excelled; that others have ceased their curiosity, and consider every
man who fills the mouth of report with a new name, as an intruder upon
their retreat, and disturber of their repose; that some are engaged in
complications of interest which they imagine endangered by every
innovation; that many yield themselves up implicitly to every report
which hatred disseminates or folly scatters; and that whoever aspires to
the notice of the publick, has in almost every man an enemy and a rival;
and must struggle with the opposition of the daring, and elude the
stratagems of the timorous, must quicken the frigid and soften the
obdurate, must reclaim perverseness and inform stupidity.

It is no wonder that when the prospect of reward has vanished, the zeal
of enterprize should cease; for who would persevere to cultivate the
soil which he has, after long labour, discovered to be barren? He who
hath pleased himself with anticipated praises, and expected that he
should meet in every place with patronage or friendship, will soon remit
his vigour, when he finds that, from those who desire to be considered
as his admirers, nothing can be hoped but cold civility, and that many
refuse to own his excellence, lest they should be too justly expected to
reward it.

A man, thus cut off from the prospect of that port to which his address
and fortitude had been employed to steer him, often abandons himself to
chance and to the wind, and glides careless and idle down the current of
life, without resolution to make another effort, till he is swallowed up
by the gulph of mortality.

Others are betrayed to the same desertion of themselves by a contrary
fallacy. It was said of Hannibal, that he wanted nothing to the
completion of his martial virtues, but that when he had gained a victory
he should know how to use it. The folly of desisting too soon from
successful labours, and the haste of enjoying advantages before they are
secured, are often fatal to men of impetuous desire, to men whose
consciousness of uncommon powers fills them with presumption, and who,
having borne opposition down before them, and left emulation panting
behind, are early persuaded to imagine that they have reached the
heights of perfection, and that now, being no longer in danger from
competitors, they may pass the rest of their days in the enjoyment of
their acquisitions, in contemplation of their own superiority, and in
attention to their own praises, and look unconcerned from their eminence
upon the toils and contentions of meaner beings.

It is not sufficiently considered in the hour of exultation, that all
human excellence is comparative; that no man performs much but in
proportion to what others accomplish, or to the time and opportunities
which have been allowed him; and that he who stops at any point of
excellence is every day sinking in estimation, because his improvement
grows continually more incommensurate to his life. Yet, as no man
willingly quits opinions favourable to himself, they who have once been
justly celebrated, imagine that they still have the same pretensions to
regard, and seldom perceive the diminution of their character while
there is time to recover it. Nothing then remains but murmurs and
remorse; for if the spendthrift's poverty be embittered by the
reflection that he once was rich, how must the idler's obscurity be
clouded by remembering that he once had lustre!

These errours all arise from an original mistake of the true motives of
action. He that never extends his view beyond the praises or rewards of
men will be dejected by neglect and envy, or infatuated by honours and
applause. But the consideration that life is only deposited in his hands
to be employed in obedience to a Master who will regard his endeavours,
not his success, would have preserved him from trivial elations and
discouragements, and enabled him to proceed with constancy and
cheerfulness, neither enervated by commendation, nor intimidated by
censure.



No. 128. SATURDAY, JUNE 8, 1751.

[Greek:
Aion d asphalaes
Ouk egent, out Aiakida para Paelei,
Oute par antitheo
Kadmo legontai man broton
Olbon hupertaton hoi
Schein. ] PIND. Py. iii. 153.

For not the brave, or wise, or great,
E'er yet had happiness complete:
Nor Peleus, grandson of the sky,
Nor Cadmus, scap'd the shafts of pain,
Though favour'd by the Pow'rs on high,
With every bliss that man can gain.

The writers who have undertaken the task of reconciling mankind to their
present state, and relieving the discontent produced by the various
distribution of terrestrial advantages, frequently remind us that we
judge too hastily of good and evil, that we view only the superfices of
life, and determine of the whole by a very small part; and that in the
condition of men it frequently happens, that grief and anxiety lie hid
under the golden robes of prosperity, and the gloom of calamity is
cheered by secret radiations of hope and comfort; as in the works of
nature the bog is sometimes covered with flowers, and the mine concealed
in the barren crags.

None but those who have learned the art of subjecting their senses as
well as reason to hypothetical systems, can be persuaded by the most
specious rhetorician that the lots of life are equal; yet it cannot be
denied that every one has his peculiar pleasures and vexations, that
external accidents operate variously upon different minds, and that no
man can exactly judge from his own sensations, what another would feel
in the same circumstances.

If the general disposition of things be estimated by the representation
which every one makes of his own estate, the world must be considered as
the abode of sorrow and misery; for how few can forbear to relate their
troubles and distresses? If we judge by the account which may be
obtained of every man's fortune from others, it may be concluded, that
we all are placed in an elysian region, overspread with the luxuriance
of plenty, and fanned by the breezes of felicity; since scarcely any
complaint is uttered without censure from those that hear it, and almost
all are allowed to have obtained a provision at least adequate to their
virtue or their understanding, to possess either more than they deserve,
or more than they enjoy.

We are either born with such dissimilitude of temper and inclination, or
receive so many of our ideas and opinions from the state of life in
which we are engaged, that the griefs and cares of one part of mankind
seem to the other hypocrisy, folly, and affectation. Every class of
society has its cant of lamentation, which is understood or regarded by
none but themselves; and every part of life has its uneasiness, which
those who do not feel them will not commiserate. An event which spreads
distraction over half the commercial world, assembles the trading
companies in councils and committees, and shakes the nerves of a
thousand stockjobbers, is read by the landlord and the farmer with
frigid indifference. An affair of love, which fills the young breast
with incessant alternations of hope and fear, and steals away the night
and day from every other pleasure or employment, is regarded by them
whose passions time has extinguished, as an amusement, which can
properly raise neither joy nor sorrow, and, though it may be suffered to
fill the vacuity of an idle moment, should always give way to prudence
or interest.

He that never had any other desire than to fill a chest with money, or
to add another manor to his estate, who never grieved but at a bad
mortgage, or entered a company but to make a bargain, would be
astonished to hear of beings known among the polite and gay by the
denomination of wits. How would he gape with curiosity, or grin with
contempt, at the mention of beings who have no wish but to speak what
was never spoken before; who, if they happen to inherit wealth, often
exhaust their patrimonies in treating those who will hear them talk; and
if they are poor, neglect opportunities of improving their fortunes, for
the pleasure of making others laugh? How slowly would he believe that
there are men who would rather lose a legacy than the reputation of a
distich; who think it less disgrace to want money than repartee; whom
the vexation of having been foiled in a contest of raillery is sometimes
sufficient to deprive of sleep; and who would esteem it a lighter evil
to miss a profitable bargain by some accidental delay, than not to have
thought of a smart reply till the time of producing it was past? How
little would he suspect that this child of idleness and frolick enters
every assembly with a beating bosom, like a litigant on the day of
decision, and revolves the probability of applause with the anxiety of a
conspirator, whose fate depends upon the next night; that at the hour of
retirement he carries home, under a show of airy negligence, a heart
lacerated with envy, or depressed with disappointment; and immures
himself in his closet, that he may disencumber his memory at leisure,
review the progress of the day, state with accuracy his loss or gain of
reputation, and examine the causes of his failure or success?

Yet more remote from common conceptions are the numerous and restless
anxieties, by which female happiness is particularly disturbed. A
solitary philosopher would imagine ladies born with an exemption from
care and sorrow, lulled in perpetual quiet, and feasted with unmingled
pleasure; for what can interrupt the content of those, upon whom one age
has laboured after another to confer honours, and accumulate immunities;
those to whom rudeness is infamy, and insult is cowardice; whose eye
commands the brave, and whose smiles soften the severe; whom the sailor
travels to adorn, the soldier bleeds to defend, and the poet wears out
life to celebrate; who claim tribute from every art and science, and for
whom all who approach them endeavour to multiply delights, without
requiring from them any returns but willingness to be pleased?

Surely, among these favourites of nature, thus unacquainted with toil
and danger, felicity must have fixed her residence; they must know only
the changes of more vivid or more gentle joys: their life must always
move either to the slow or sprightly melody of the lyre of gladness;
they can never assemble but to pleasure, or retire but to peace.

Such would be the thoughts of every man who should hover at a distance
round the world, and know it only by conjecture and speculation. But
experience will soon discover how easily those are disgusted who have
been made nice by plenty and tender by indulgence. He will soon see to
how many dangers power is exposed which has no other guard than youth
and beauty, and how easily that tranquillity is molested which can only
be soothed with the songs of flattery. It is impossible to supply wants
as fast as an idle imagination may be able to form them, or to remove
all inconveniencies by which elegance refined into impatience may be
offended. None are so hard to please, as those whom satiety of pleasure
makes weary of themselves; nor any so readily provoked as those who have
been always courted with an emulation of civility.

There are, indeed, some strokes which the envy of fate aims immediately
at the fair. The mistress of Catullus wept for her sparrow many
centuries ago, and lapdogs will be sometimes sick in the present age.
The most fashionable brocade is subject to stains; a pinner, the pride
of Brussels, may be torn by a careless washer; a picture may drop from a
watch; or the triumph of a new suit may be interrupted on the first day
of its enjoyment, and all distinctions of dress unexpectedly obliterated
by a general mourning.

Such is the state of every age, every sex, and every condition: all have
their cares, either from nature or from folly: and whoever therefore
finds himself inclined to envy another, should remember that he knows
not the real condition which he desires to obtain, but is certain that
by indulging a vicious passion, he must lessen that happiness which he
thinks already too sparingly bestowed.



No. 129. TUESDAY, JUNE 11. 1751.

_--Nunc, O nunc, Daedale, dixit,
Materiam, qua sis ingeniosus, habes.
Possidet en terras, et possidet aequara, Minos:
Nec tellus nostrae, nec patet undo fugae.
Restat iter coelo: tentabimus ire.
Da veniam caepto, Jupiter alte, meo. OVID. Ar. Am. Lib. ii. 33_.

Now, Daedalus, behold, by fate assign'd,
A task proportion'd to thy mighty mind!
Unconquer'd bars on earth and sea withstand;
Thine, Minos, is the main, and thine the land.
The skies are open--let us try the skies:
Forgive, great Jove, the daring enterprize.

Moralists, like other writers, instead of casting their eyes abroad in
the living world, and endeavouring to form maxims of practice and new
hints of theory, content their curiosity with that secondary knowledge
which books afford, and think themselves entitled to reverence by a new
arrangement of an ancient system, or new illustration of established
principles[e]. The sage precepts of the first instructors of the world
are transmitted from age to age with little variation, and echoed from
one author to another, not perhaps without some loss of their original
force at every repercussion.

I know not whether any other reason than this idleness of imitation can
be assigned for that uniform and constant partiality, by which some
vices have hitherto escaped censure, and some virtues wanted
recommendation; nor can I discover why else we have been warned only
against part of our enemies, while the rest have been suffered to steal
upon us without notice; why the heart has on one side been doubly
fortified, and laid open on the other to the incursions of errour, and
the ravages of vice.

Among the favourite topicks of moral declamation, may be numbered the
miscarriages of imprudent boldness, and the folly of attempts beyond our
power. Every page of every philosopher is crowded with examples of
temerity that sunk under burdens which she laid upon herself, and called
out enemies to battle by whom she was destroyed.

Their remarks are too just to be disputed, and too salutary to be
rejected; but there is likewise some danger lest timorous prudence
should be inculcated, till courage and enterprise are wholly repressed,
and the mind congealed in perpetual inactivity by the fatal influence of
frigorifick wisdom.

Every man should, indeed, carefully compare his force with his
undertaking; for though we ought not to live only for our own sakes, and
though therefore danger or difficulty should not be avoided merely
because we may expose ourselves to misery or disgrace; yet it may be
justly required of us, not to throw away our lives upon inadequate and
hopeless designs, since we might, by a just estimate of our abilities,
become more useful to mankind.

There is an irrational contempt of danger, which approaches nearly to
the folly, if not the guilt of suicide; there is a ridiculous
perseverance in impracticable schemes, which is justly punished with
ignominy and reproach. But in the wide regions of probability, which are
the proper province of prudence and election, there is always room to
deviate on either side of rectitude without rushing against apparent
absurdity; and according to the inclinations of nature, or the
impressions of precept, the daring and the cautious may move in
different directions without touching upon rashness or cowardice.

That there is a middle path which it is every man's duty to find, and to
keep, is unanimously confessed: but it is likewise acknowledged that
this middle path is so narrow, that it cannot easily be discovered, and
so little beaten, that there are no certain marks by which it can be
followed: the care, therefore, of all those who conduct others has been,
that whenever they decline into obliquities, they should tend towards
the side of safety.

It can, indeed, raise no wonder that temerity has been generally
censured; for it is one of the vices with which few can be charged, and
which therefore, great numbers are ready to condemn. It is the vice of
noble and generous minds, the exuberance of magnanimity, and the
ebullition of genius; and is therefore not regarded with much
tenderness, because it never flatters us by that appearance of softness
and imbecility which is commonly necessary to conciliate compassion. But
if the same attention had been applied to the search of arguments
against the folly of pre-supposing impossibilities, and anticipating
frustration, I know not whether many would not have been roused to
usefulness, who, having been taught to confound prudence with timidity,
never ventured to excel, lest they should unfortunately fail.

It is necessary to distinguish our own interest from that of others, and
that distinction will perhaps assist us in fixing the just limits of
caution and adventurousness. In an undertaking that involves the
happiness or the safety of many, we have certainly no right to hazard
more than is allowed by those who partake the danger; but where only
ourselves can suffer by miscarriage, we are not confined within such
narrow limits; and still less is the reproach of temerity, when numbers
will receive advantage by success, and only one be incommoded by
failure.

Men are generally willing to hear precepts by which ease is favoured;
and as no resentment is raised by general representations of human
folly, even in those who are most eminently jealous of comparative
reputation, we confess, without reluctance, that vain man is ignorant of
his own weakness, and therefore frequently presumes to attempt what he
can never accomplish; but it ought likewise to be remembered, that man
is no less ignorant of his own powers, and might perhaps have
accomplished a thousand designs, which the prejudices of cowardice
restrained him from attempting.

It is observed in the golden verses of Pythagoras, that "Power is never
far from necessity. " The vigour of the human mind quickly appears, when
there is no longer any place for doubt and hesitation, when diffidence
is absorbed in the sense of danger, or overwhelmed by some resistless
passion. We then soon discover, that difficulty is, for the most part,
the daughter of idleness, that the obstacles with which our way seemed
to be obstructed were only phantoms, which we believed real, because we
durst not advance to a close examination; and we learn that it is
impossible to determine without experience how much constancy may
endure, or perseverance perform.

But whatever pleasure may be found in the review of distresses when art
or courage has surmounted them, few will be persuaded to wish that they
may be awakened by want, or terrour, to the conviction of their own
abilities. Every one should therefore endeavour to invigorate himself by
reason and reflection, and determine to exert the latent force that
nature may have reposed in him, before the hour of exigence comes upon
him, and compulsion shall torture him to diligence. It is below the
dignity of a reasonable being to owe that strength to necessity which
ought always to act at the call of choice, or to need any other motive
to industry than the desire of performing his duty.

Reflections that may drive away despair, cannot be wanting to him who
considers how much life is now advanced beyond the state of naked,
undisciplined, uninstructed nature. Whatever has been effected for
convenience or elegance, while it was yet unknown, was believed
impossible; and therefore would never have been attempted, had not some,
more daring than the rest, adventured to bid defiance to prejudice and
censure. Nor is there yet any reason to doubt that the same labour would
be rewarded with the same success. There are qualities in the products
of nature yet undiscovered, and combinations in the powers of art yet
untried. It is the duty of every man to endeavour that something may be
added by his industry to the hereditary aggregate of knowledge and
happiness. To add much can indeed be the lot of few, but to add
something, however little, every one may hope; and of every honest
endeavour, it is certain, that, however unsuccessful, it will be at last
rewarded.

[Footnote e: Johnson gained _his_ knowledge from actual experience. He
told Boswell that before he wrote the Rambler he had been running about
the world more than almost any body. Boswell's Life of Johnson, vol. i.
p. 196. ; and vol. iii. pp. 20, 21. ]



No. 130. SATURDAY, JUNE 15, 1751.

Non sic prata novo vere decentia
Æstatis calidtæ dispoliat vapor:
Sævit solstitio cum medius dies;--
Ut fulgor teneris qui radiat genis
Momento rapitur! nullaque non dies
Formosi spolium corporis abstulit.
Res est forma fugax: quis sapiens bono
Confidat fragili? SENECA, Hippol. act. ii. 764.

Not faster in the summer's ray
The spring's frail beauty fades away,
Than anguish and decay consume
The smiling virgin's rosy bloom.
Some beauty's snatch'd each day, each hour;
For beauty is a fleeting flow'r:
Then how can wisdom e'er confide
In beauty's momentary pride? ELPHINSTON

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

You have very lately observed that in the numerous subdivisions of the
world, every class and order of mankind have joys and sorrows of their
own; we all feel hourly pain and pleasure from events which pass
unheeded before other eyes, but can scarcely communicate our perceptions
to minds pre-occupied by different objects, any more than the delight of
well-disposed colours or harmonious sounds can be imparted to such as
want the senses of hearing or of sight.

I am so strongly convinced of the justness of this remark, and have on
so many occasions discovered with how little attention pride looks upon
calamity of which she thinks herself not in danger, and indolence
listens to complaint when it is not echoed by her own remembrance, that
though I am about to lay the occurrences of my life before you, I
question whether you will condescend to peruse my narrative, or, without
the help of some female speculatists, to be able to understand it.

I was born a beauty. From the dawn of reason I had my regard turned
wholly upon myself, nor can recollect any thing earlier than praise and
admiration. My mother, whose face had luckily advanced her to a
condition above her birth, thought no evil so great as deformity. She
had not the power of imagining any other defect than a cloudy
complexion, or disproportionate features; and therefore contemplated me
as an assemblage of all that could raise envy or desire, and predicted
with triumphant fondness the extent of my conquests, and the number of
my slaves.

She never mentioned any of my young acquaintance before me, but to
remark how much they fell below my perfection; how one would have had a
fine face, but that her eyes were without lustre; how another struck the
sight at a distance, but wanted my hair and teeth at a nearer view;
another disgraced an elegant shape with a brown skin; some had short
fingers, and others dimples in a wrong place.

As she expected no happiness nor advantage but from beauty, she thought
nothing but beauty worthy of her care; and her maternal kindness was
chiefly exercised in contrivances to protect me from any accident that
might deface me with a scar, or stain me with a freckle: she never
thought me sufficiently shaded from the sun, or screened from the fire.
She was severe or indulgent with no other intention than the
preservation of my form; she excused me from work, lest I should learn
to hang down my head, or harden my finger with a needle; she snatched
away my book, because a young lady in the neighbourhood had made her
eyes red with reading by a candle; but she would scarcely suffer me to
eat, lest I should spoil my shape, nor to walk lest I should swell my
ancle with a sprain. At night I was accurately surveyed from head to
foot, lest I should have suffered any diminution of my charms in the
adventures of the day; and was never permitted to sleep, till I had
passed through the cosmetick discipline, part of which was a regular
lustration performed with bean-flower water and May-dews; my hair was
perfumed with variety of unguents, by some of which it was to be
thickened, and by others to be curled. The softness of my hands was
secured by medicated gloves, and my bosom rubbed with a pomade prepared
by my mother, of virtue to discuss pimples, and clear discolorations.

I was always called up early, because the morning air gives a freshness
to the cheeks; but I was placed behind a curtain in my mother's chamber,
because the neck is easily tanned by the rising sun. I was then dressed
with a thousand precautions, and again heard my own praises, and
triumphed in the compliments and prognostications of all that approached
me.

My mother was not so much prepossessed with an opinion of my natural
excellencies as not to think some cultivation necessary to their
completion. She took care that I should want none of the accomplishments
included in female education, or considered necessary in fashionable
life. I was looked upon in my ninth year as the chief ornament of the
dancing-master's ball; and Mr. Ariet used to reproach his other scholars
with my performances on the harpsichord. At twelve I was remarkable for
playing my cards with great elegance of manner, and accuracy of
judgment.

At last the time came when my mother thought me perfect in my exercises,
and qualified to display in the open world those accomplishments which
had yet only been discovered in select parties, or domestick assemblies.
Preparations were therefore made for my appearance on a publick night,
which she considered as the most important and critical moment of my
life. She cannot be charged with neglecting any means of recommendation,
or leaving any thing to chance which prudence could ascertain. Every
ornament was tried in every position, every friend was consulted about
the colour of my dress, and the mantua-makers were harassed with
directions and alterations.

At last the night arrived from which my future life was to be reckoned.
I was dressed and sent out to conquer, with a heart beating like that of
an old knight-errant at his first sally. Scholars have told me of a
Spartan matron, who, when she armed her son for battle, bade him bring
back his shield, or be brought upon it. My venerable parent dismissed me
to a field, in her opinion of equal glory, with a command to shew that I
was her daughter, and not to return without a lover.

I went, and was received like other pleasing novelties with a tumult of
applause. Every man who valued himself upon the graces of his person, or
the elegance of his address, crowded about me, and wit and splendour
contended for my notice. I was delightfully fatigued with incessant
civilities, which were made more pleasing by the apparent envy of those
whom my presence exposed to neglect, and returned with an attendant
equal in rank and wealth to my utmost wishes, and from this time stood
in the first rank of beauty, was followed by gazers in the Mall,
celebrated in the papers of the day, imitated by all who endeavoured to
rise into fashion, and censured by those whom age or disappointment
forced to retire.

My mother, who pleased herself with the hopes of seeing my exaltation,
dressed me with all the exuberance of finery; and when I represented to
her that a fortune might be expected proportionate to my appearance,
told me that she should scorn the reptile who could inquire after the
fortune of a girl like me. She advised me to prosecute my victories, and
time would certainly bring me a captive who might deserve the honour of
being enchained for ever.

My lovers were indeed so numerous, that I had no other care than that of
determining to whom I should seem to give the preference. But having
been steadily and industriously instructed to preserve my heart from any
impressions which might hinder me from consulting my interest, I acted
with less embarrassment, because my choice was regulated by principles
more clear and certain than the caprice of approbation. When I had
singled out one from the rest as more worthy of encouragement, I
proceeded in my measures by the rules of art; and yet when the ardour of
the first visits was spent, generally found a sudden declension of my
influence; I felt in myself the want of some power to diversify
amusement, and enliven conversation, and could not but suspect that my
mind failed in performing the promises of my face. This opinion was soon
confirmed by one of my lovers, who married Lavinia with less beauty and
fortune than mine, because he thought a wife ought to have qualities
which might make her amiable when her bloom was past.

The vanity of my mother would not suffer her to discover any defect in
one that had been formed by her instructions, and had all the excellence
which she herself could boast. She told me that nothing so much hindered
the advancement of women as literature and wit, which generally
frightened away those that could make the best settlements, and drew
about them a needy tribe of poets and philosophers, that filled their
heads with wild notions of content, and contemplation, and virtuous
obscurity. She therefore enjoined me to improve my minuet-step with a
new French dancing-master, and wait the event of the next birth-night.

I had now almost completed my nineteenth year: if my charms had lost any
of their softness, it was more than compensated by additional dignity;
and if the attractions of innocence were impaired, their place was
supplied by the arts of allurement. I was therefore preparing for a new
attack, without any abatement of my confidence, when, in the midst of my
hopes and schemes, I was seized by that dreadful malady which has so
often put a sudden end to the tyranny of beauty. I recovered my health
after a long confinement; but when I looked again on that face which had
been often flushed with transport at its own reflection, and saw all
that I had learned to value, all that I had endeavoured to improve, all
that had procured me honours or praises, irrecoverably destroyed, I sunk
at once into melancholy and despondence. My pain was not much consoled
or alleviated by my mother, who grieved that I had not lost my life
together with my beauty; and declared, that she thought a young woman
divested of her charms had nothing for which those who loved her could
desire to save her from the grave.

Having thus continued my relation to the period from which my life took
a new course, I shall conclude it in another letter, if, by publishing
this, you shew any regard for the correspondence of,

Sir, &c.

VICTORIA.



No. 131. TUESDAY, JUNE 18, 1751.

_--Fatis accede, Deisque,
Et cole felices, miseros fuge. sidera terrae
Ut distant, ut flamma mari, sic utile recto_. LUCAN. Lib. viii. 486.
[Transcriber's note: punctuation in original. ]

Still follow where auspicious fates invite;
Caress the happy, and the wretched slight.
Sooner shall jarring elements unite,
Than truth with gain, than interest with right. F. LEWIS.

There is scarcely any sentiment in which, amidst the innumerable
varieties of inclination that nature or accident have scattered in the
world, we find greater numbers concurring, than in the wish for riches;
a wish, indeed, so prevalent that it may be considered as universal and
transcendental, as the desire in which all other desires are included,
and of which the various purposes which actuate mankind are only
subordinate species and different modifications.

Wealth is the general centre of inclination, the point to which all
minds preserve an invariable tendency, and from which they afterwards
diverge in numberless directions. Whatever is the remote or ultimate
design, the immediate care is to be rich; and in whatever enjoyment we
intend finally to acquiesce, we seldom consider it as attainable but by
the means of money. Of wealth therefore all unanimously confess the
value, nor is there any disagreement but about the use.

No desire can be formed which riches do not assist to gratify. He that
places his happiness in splendid equipage or numerous dependants, in
refined praise or popular acclamations, in the accumulation of
curiosities or the revels of luxury, in splendid edifices or wide
plantations, must still, either by birth or acquisition, possess riches.
They may be considered as the elemental principles of pleasure, which
may be combined with endless diversity; as the essential and necessary
substance, of which only the form is left to be adjusted by choice.

The necessity of riches being thus apparent, it is not wonderful that
almost every mind has been employed in endeavours to acquire them; that
multitudes have vied in arts by which life is furnished with
accommodations, and which therefore mankind may reasonably be expected
to reward.

It had, indeed, been happy, if this predominant appetite had operated
only in concurrence with virtue, by influencing none but those who were
zealous to deserve what they were eager to possess, and had abilities to
improve their own fortunes by contributing to the ease or happiness of
others. To have riches and to have merit would then have been the same,
and success might reasonably have been considered as a proof of
excellence.

But we do not find that any of the wishes of men keep a stated
proportion to their powers of attainment. Many envy and desire wealth,
who can never procure it by honest industry or useful knowledge. They
therefore turn their eyes about to examine what other methods can be
found of gaining that which none, however impotent or worthless, will be
content to want.

A little inquiry will discover that there are nearer ways to profit than
through the intricacies of art, or up the steeps of labour; what wisdom
and virtue scarcely receive at the close of life, as the recompense of
long toil and repeated efforts, is brought within the reach of subtilty
and dishonesty by more expeditious and compendious measures: the wealth
of credulity is an open prey to falsehood; and the possessions of
ignorance and imbecility are easily stolen away by the conveyances of
secret artifice, or seized by the gripe of unresisted violence.

It is likewise not hard to discover that riches always procure
protection for themselves, that they dazzle the eyes of inquiry, divert
the celerity of pursuit, or appease the ferocity of vengeance. When any
man is incontestably known to have large possessions, very few think it
requisite to inquire by what practices they were obtained; the
resentment of mankind rages only against the struggles of feeble and
timorous corruption, but when it has surmounted the first opposition, it
is afterwards supported by favour, and animated by applause.

The prospect of gaining speedily what is ardently desired, and the
certainty of obtaining by every accession of advantage an addition of
security, have so far prevailed upon the passions of mankind, that the
peace of life is destroyed by a general and incessant struggle for
riches. It is observed of gold, by an old epigrammatist, that "To have
it is to be in fear, and to want it is to be in sorrow. " There is no
condition which is not disquieted either with the care of gaining or of
keeping money; and the race of man may be divided in a political
estimate between those who are practising fraud, and those who are
repelling it.

If we consider the present state of the world, it will be found, that
all confidence is lost among mankind, that no man ventures to act, where
money can be endangered upon the faith of another. It is impossible to
see the long scrolls in which every contract is included, with all their
appendages of seals and attestation, without wondering at the depravity
of those beings, who must be restrained from violation of promise by
such formal and publick evidences, and precluded from equivocation and
subterfuge by such punctilious minuteness. Among all the satires to
which folly and wickedness have given occasion, none is equally severe
with a bond or a settlement.

Of the various arts by which riches may be obtained, the greater part
are at the first view irreconcileable with the laws of virtue; some are
openly flagitious, and practised not only in neglect, but in defiance of
faith and justice; and the rest are on every side so entangled with
dubious tendencies, and so beset with perpetual temptations, that very
few, even of those who are not yet abandoned, are able to preserve their
innocence, or can produce any other claim to pardon than that they
deviated from the right less than others, and have sooner and more
diligently endeavoured to return.

One of the chief characteristicks of the golden age, of the age in which
neither care nor danger had intruded on mankind, is the community of
possessions: strife and fraud were totally excluded, and every turbulent
passion was stilled by plenty and equality. Such were indeed happy
times, but such times can return no more. Community of possession must
include spontaneity of production; for what is obtained by labour will
be of right the property of him by whose labour it is gained. And while
a rightful claim to pleasure or to affluence must be procured either by
slow industry or uncertain hazard, there will always be multitudes whom
cowardice or impatience incite to more safe and more speedy methods, who
strive to pluck the fruit without cultivating the tree, and to share the
advantages of victory without partaking the danger of the battle. In
later ages, the conviction of the danger to which virtue is exposed
while the mind continues open to the influence of riches, has determined
many to vows of perpetual poverty; they have suppressed desire by
cutting off the possibility of gratification, and secured their peace by
destroying the enemy whom they had no hope of reducing to quiet
subjection. But, by debarring themselves from evil, they have rescinded
many opportunities of good; they have too often sunk into inactivity and
uselessness; and, though they have forborne to injure society, have not
fully paid their contributions to its happiness.

While riches are so necessary to present convenience, and so much more
easily obtained by crimes than virtues, the mind can only be secured
from yielding to the continual impulse of covetousness by the
preponderation of unchangeable and eternal motives. Gold will turn the
intellectual balance, when weighed only against reputation; but will be
light and ineffectual when the opposite scale is charged with justice,
veracity, and piety[f].



No. 132. SATURDAY, JUNE 22, 1751.

--_Dociles imitandis
Turpibus ac pravis omnes sumus_. --JUV. Sat. xiv. 40.

The mind of mortals, in perverseness strong,
Imbibes with dire docility the wrong.

TO THE RAMBLER.

MR. RAMBLER,

I was bred a scholar, and after the usual course of education, found it
necessary to employ for the support of life that learning which I had
almost exhausted my little fortune in acquiring. The lucrative
professions drew my regard with equal attraction; each presented ideas
which excited my curiosity, and each imposed duties which terrified my
apprehension.

There is no temper more unpropitious to interest than desultory
application and unlimited inquiry, by which the desires are held in a
perpetual equipoise, and the mind fluctuates between different purposes
without determination. I had books of every kind round me, among which I
divided my time as caprice or accident directed. I often spent the first
hours of the day, in considering to what study I should devote the rest,
and at last snatched up any author that lay upon the table, or perhaps
fled to a coffee-house for deliverance from the anxiety of irresolution,
and the gloominess of solitude.

Thus my little patrimony grew imperceptibly less, till I was roused from
my literary slumber by a creditor, whose importunity obliged me to
pacify him with so large a sum, that what remained was not sufficient to
support me more than eight months. I hope you will not reproach me with
avarice or cowardice, if I acknowledge that I now thought myself in
danger of distress, and obliged to endeavour after some certain
competence.

There have been heroes of negligence, who have laid the price of their
last acre in a drawer, and, without the least interruption of their
tranquillity, or abatement of their expenses, taken out one piece after
another, till there was no more remaining. But I was not born to such
dignity of imprudence, or such exaltation above the cares and
necessities of life; I therefore immediately engaged my friends to
procure me a little employment, which might set me free from the dread
of poverty, and afford me time to plan out some final scheme of lasting
advantage.

My friends were struck with honest solicitude, and immediately promised
their endeavours for my extrication. They did not suffer their kindness
to languish by delay, but prosecuted their inquiries with such success,
that in less than a month I was perplexed with variety of offers and
contrariety of prospects.

I had however no time for long pauses of consideration; and therefore
soon resolved to accept the office of instructing a young nobleman in
the house of his father: I went to the seat at which the family then
happened to reside, was received with great politeness, and invited to
enter immediately on my charge. The terms offered were such as I should
willingly have accepted, though my fortune had allowed me greater
liberty of choice: the respect with which I was treated, flattered my
vanity; and perhaps the splendour of the apartments, and the luxury of
the table, were not wholly without their influence. I immediately
complied with the proposals, and received the young lord into my care.

Having no desire to gain more than I should truly deserve, I very
diligently prosecuted my undertaking, and had the satisfaction of
discovering in my pupil a flexible temper, a quick apprehension, and a
retentive memory. I did not much doubt that my care would, in time,
produce a wise and useful counsellor to the state, though my labours
were somewhat obstructed by want of authority, and the necessity of
complying with the freaks of negligence, and of waiting patiently for
the lucky moment of voluntary attention. To a man whose imagination was
filled with the dignity of knowledge, and to whom a studious life had
made all the common amusements insipid and contemptible, it was not very
easy to suppress his indignation, when he saw himself forsaken in the
midst of his lecture, for an opportunity to catch an insect, and found
his instructions debarred from access to the intellectual faculties, by
the memory of a childish frolick, or the desire of a new play-thing.

Those vexations would have recurred less frequently, had not his mamma,
by entreating at one time that he should be excused from a task as a
reward for some petty compliance, and withholding him from his book at
another, to gratify herself or her visitants with his vivacity, shewn
him that every thing was more pleasing and more important than
knowledge, and that study was to be endured rather than chosen, and was
only the business of those hours which pleasure left vacant, or
discipline usurped.

I thought it my duty to complain, in tender terms, of these frequent
avocations; but was answered, that rank and fortune might reasonably
hope for some indulgence; that the retardation of my pupil's progress
would not be imputed to any negligence or inability of mine; and that
with the success which satisfied every body else, I might surely satisfy
myself. I had now done my duty, and without more remonstrances continued
to inculcate my precepts whenever they could be heard, gained every day
new influence, and found that by degrees my scholar began to feel the
quick impulses of curiosity, and the honest ardour of studious ambition.

At length it was resolved to pass a winter in London. The lady had too
much fondness for her son to live five months without him, and too high
an opinion of his wit and learning to refuse her vanity the
gratification of exhibiting him to the publick. I remonstrated against
too early an acquaintance with cards and company; but, with a soft
contempt of my ignorance and pedantry, she said, that he had been
already confined too long to solitary study, and it was now time to shew
him the world; nothing was more a brand of meanness than bashful
timidity; gay freedom and elegant assurance were only to be gained by
mixed conversation, a frequent intercourse with strangers, and a timely
introduction to splendid assemblies; and she had more than once
observed, that his forwardness and complaisance began to desert him,
that he was silent when he had not something of consequence to say,
blushed whenever he happened to find himself mistaken, and hung down his
head in the presence of the ladies, without the readiness of reply, and
activity of officiousness, remarkable in young gentlemen that are bred
in London.

Again I found resistance hopeless, and again thought it proper to
comply. We entered the coach, and in four days were placed in the gayest
and most magnificent region of the town. My pupil, who had for several
years lived at a remote seat, was immediately dazzled with a thousand
beams of novelty and shew. His imagination was filled with the perpetual
tumult of pleasure that passed before him, and it was impossible to
allure him from the window, or to overpower by any charm of eloquence
the rattle of coaches, and the sounds which echoed from the doors in the
neighbourhood. In three days his attention, which he began to regain,
was disturbed by a rich suit, in which he was equipped for the reception
of company, and which, having been long accustomed to a plain dress, he
could not at first survey without ecstacy.

The arrival of the family was now formally notified; every hour of every
day brought more intimate or more distant acquaintances to the door; and
my pupil was indiscriminately introduced to all, that he might accustom
himself to change of faces, and be rid with speed of his rustick
diffidence. He soon endeared himself to his mother by the speedy
acquisition or recovery of her darling qualities; his eyes sparkle at a
numerous assembly, and his heart dances at the mention of a ball. He has
at once caught the infection of high life, and has no other test of
principles or actions than the quality of those to whom they are
ascribed. He begins already to look down on me with superiority, and
submits to one short lesson in a week, as an act of condescension rather
than obedience; for he is of opinion, that no tutor is properly
qualified who cannot speak French; and having formerly learned a few
familiar phrases from his sister's governess, he is every day soliciting
his mamma to procure him a foreign footman, that he may grow polite by
his conversation. I am not yet insulted, but find myself likely to
become soon a superfluous incumbrance, for my scholar has now no time
for science, or for virtue; and the lady yesterday declared him so much
the favourite of every company, that she was afraid he would not have an
hour in the day to dance and fence.

I am, &c.

EUMATHES.

[Footnote f: Johnson often conversed, as well as wrote, on riches. In
his conversations on the subject, amidst his often indulged laxity of
talk, there was ever a deep insight into the human heart. "All the
arguments," he once with keen satire remarked, "which are brought to
represent poverty as no evil, shew it to be evidently a great evil. You
never find people _labouring_ to convince you that you may live happily
upon a plentiful fortune. So you hear people talking how miserable a
king must be, and yet they all wish to be in his place. " _Boswell_ vol.
i. p. 422.

When Simonides was asked whether it were better to be wise or rich, he
gave an answer in favour of wealth. "For," said he, "I always behold the
wise lingering at the gates of the wealthy. " Aristot. Rhet. ii. 18. ]



No. 133. TUESDAY, JUNE 25, 1751.

_Magna quidem, sacris quæ dat præcepta libellis
Victrix fortune sapientia. Dicimus autem
Hos quoque felices, qui ferre incommoda vitæ,
Nec jactare jugum, vita didicere magistra. _ Juv. Sat. xiii. 19.

Let Stoicks ethicks' haughty rules advance
To combat fortune, and to conquer chance:
Yet happy those, though not so learn'd are thought,
Whom life instructs, who by experience taught,
For new to come from past misfortunes look,
Nor shake the yoke, which galls the more 'tis shook. CREECH.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

You have shewn, by the publication of my letter, that you think the
life of Victoria not wholly unworthy of the notice of a philosopher: I
shall therefore continue my narrative, without any apology for
unimportance which you have dignified, or for inaccuracies which you are
to correct.

When my life appeared to be no longer in danger, and as much of my
strength was recovered as enabled me to bear the agitation of a coach, I
was placed at a lodging in a neighbouring village, to which my mother
dismissed me with a faint embrace, having repeated her command not to
expose my face too soon to the sun or wind, and told me that with care I
might perhaps become tolerable again. The prospect of being tolerable
had very little power to elevate the imagination of one who had so long
been accustomed to praise and ecstacy; but it was some satisfaction to
be separated from my mother, who was incessantly ringing the knell of
departed beauty, and never entered my room without the whine of
condolence, or the growl of anger. She often wandered over my face, as
travellers over the ruins of a celebrated city, to note every place
which had once been remarkable for a happy feature. She condescended to
visit my retirement, but always left me more melancholy; for after a
thousand trifling inquiries about my diet, and a minute examination of
my looks, she generally concluded with a sigh, that I should never more
be fit to be seen.

At last I was permitted to return home, but found no great improvement
of my condition; for I was imprisoned in my chamber as a criminal, whose
appearance would disgrace my friends, and condemn me to be tortured into
new beauty. Every experiment which the officiousness of folly could
communicate, or the credulity of ignorance admit, was tried upon me.
Sometimes I was covered with emollients, by which it was expected that
all the scars would be filled, and my cheeks plumped up to their former
smoothness; and sometimes I was punished with artificial excoriations,
in hopes of gaining new graces with a new skin. The cosmetick science
was exhausted upon me; but who can repair the ruins of nature? My mother
was forced to give me rest at last, and abandon me to the fate of a
fallen toast, whose fortune she considered as a hopeless game, no longer
worthy of solicitude or attention.

The condition of a young woman who has never thought or heard of any
other excellence than beauty, and whom the sudden blast of disease
wrinkles in her bloom, is indeed sufficiently calamitous. She is at once
deprived of all that gave her eminence or power; of all that elated her
pride, or animated her activity; all that filled her days with pleasure,
and her nights with hope; all that gave gladness to the present hour, or
brightened her prospects of futurity. It is perhaps not in the power of
a man whose attention has been divided by diversity of pursuits, and who
has not been accustomed to derive from others much of his happiness, to
image to himself such helpless destitution, such dismal inanity. Every
object of pleasing contemplation is at once snatched away, and the soul
finds every receptacle of ideas empty, or filled only with the memory of
joys that can return no more. All is gloomy privation, or impotent
desire; the faculties of anticipation slumber in despondency, or the
powers of pleasure mutiny for employment.

I was so little able to find entertainment for myself, that I was forced
in a short time to venture abroad as the solitary savage is driven by
hunger from his cavern. I entered with all the humility of disgrace into
assemblies, where I had lately sparkled with gaiety, and towered with
triumph. I was not wholly without hope, that dejection had
misrepresented me to myself, and that the remains of my former face
might yet have some attraction and influence; but the first circle of
visits convinced me, that my reign was at an end; that life and death
were no longer in my hands; that I was no more to practise the glance of
command, or the frown of prohibition; to receive the tribute of sighs
and praises, or be soothed with the gentle murmurs of amorous timidity.
My opinion was now unheard, and my proposals were unregarded; the
narrowness of my knowledge, and the meanness of my sentiments, were
easily discovered, when the eyes were no longer engaged against the
judgment; and it was observed, by those who had formerly been charmed
with my vivacious loquacity, that my understanding was impaired as well
as my face, and that I was no longer qualified to fill a place in any
company but a party at cards.

It is scarcely to be imagined how soon the mind sinks to a level with
the condition. I, who had long considered all who approached me as
vassals condemned to regulate their pleasures by my eyes, and harass
their inventions for my entertainment, was in less than three weeks
reduced to receive a ticket with professions of obligation; to catch
with eagerness at a compliment; and to watch with all the anxiousness of
dependance, lest any little civility that was paid me should pass
unacknowledged.

Though the negligence of the men was not very pleasing when compared
with vows and adoration, yet it was far more supportable than the
insolence of my own sex. For the first ten months after my return into
the world, I never entered a single house in which the memory of my
downfall was not revived. At one place I was congratulated on my escape
with life; at another I heard of the benefits of early inoculation; by
some I have been told in express terms, that I am not yet without my
charms; others have whispered at my entrance, This is the celebrated
beauty. One told me of a wash that would smooth the skin; and another
offered me her chair that I might not front the light. Some soothed me
with the observation that none can tell how soon my case may be her own;
and some thought it proper to receive me with mournful tenderness,
formal condolence, and consolatory blandishments.

Thus was I every day harassed with all the stratagems of well-bred
malignity; yet insolence was more tolerable than solitude, and I
therefore persisted to keep my time at the doors of my acquaintance,
without gratifying them with any appearance of resentment or depression.
I expected that their exultation would in time vapour away; that the joy
of their superiority would end with its novelty; and that I should be
suffered to glide along in my present form among the nameless multitude,
whom nature never intended to excite envy or admiration, nor enabled to
delight the eye or inflame the heart.

This was naturally to be expected, and this I began to experience. But
when I was no longer agitated by the perpetual ardour of resistance, and
effort of perseverance, I found more sensibly the want of those
entertainments which had formerly delighted me; the day rose upon me
without an engagement; and the evening closed in its natural gloom,
without summoning me to a concert or a ball. None had any care to find
amusements for me, and I had no power of amusing myself. Idleness
exposed me to melancholy, and life began to languish in motionless
indifference.

Misery and shame are nearly allied. It was not without many struggles
that I prevailed on myself to confess my uneasiness to Euphemia, the
only friend who had never pained me with comfort or with pity. I at last
laid my calamities before her, rather to ease my heart, than receive
assistance. "We must distinguish," said she, "my Victoria, those evils
which are imposed by Providence, from those to which we ourselves give
the power of hurting us. Of your calamity, a small part is the
infliction of Heaven, the rest is little more than the corrosion of idle
discontent. You have lost that which may indeed sometimes contribute to
happiness, but to which happiness is by no means inseparably annexed.
You have lost what the greater number of the human race never have
possessed; what those on whom it is bestowed for the most part possess
in vain; and what you, while it was yours, knew not how to use: you have
only lost early what the laws of nature forbid you to keep long, and
have lost it while your mind is yet flexible, and while you have time to
substitute more valuable and more durable excellencies. Consider
yourself, my Victoria, as a being born to know, to reason, and to act;
rise at once from your dream of melancholy to wisdom and to piety; you
will find that there are other charms than those of beauty, and other
joys than the praise of fools. "

I am, Sir, &c.

VICTORIA.



No. 134. SATURDAY, JUNE 29, 1751.

_Quis scit an adjiciant hodiernae crastina summae
Tempora Dii superi? _ HOR. Lib. iv. Ode vii. 16.

Who knows if Heav'n, with ever-bounteous pow'r,
Shall add to-morrow to the present hour? FRANCIS.

I sat yesterday morning employed in deliberating on which, among the
various subjects that occurred to my imagination, I should bestow the
paper of to-day. After a short effort of meditation by which nothing was
determined, I grew every moment more irresolute, my ideas wandered from
the first intention, and I rather wished to think, than thought upon any
settled subject; till at last I was awakened from this dream of study by
a summons from the press; the time was now come for which I had been
thus negligently purposing to provide, and, however dubious or sluggish,
I was now necessitated to write.

Though to a writer whose design is so comprehensive and miscellaneous,
that he may accommodate himself with a topick from every scene of life,
or view of nature, it is no great aggravation of his task to be obliged
to a sudden composition; yet I could not forbear to reproach myself for
having so long neglected what was unavoidably to be done, and of which
every moment's idleness increased the difficulty. There was however some
pleasure in reflecting that I, who had only trifled till diligence was
necessary, might still congratulate myself upon my superiority to
multitudes, who have trifled till diligence is vain; who can by no
degree of activity or resolution recover the opportunities which have
slipped away; and who are condemned by their own carelessness to
hopeless calamity and barren sorrow.

The folly of allowing ourselves to delay what we know cannot be finally
escaped, is one of the general weaknesses, which, in spite of the
instruction of moralists, and the remonstrances of reason, prevail to a
greater or less degree in every mind; even they who most steadily
withstand it, find it, if not the most violent, the most pertinacious of
their passions, always renewing its attacks, and though often
vanquished, never destroyed.

It is indeed natural to have particular regard to the time present, and
to be most solicitous for that which is by its nearness enabled to make
the strongest impressions. When therefore any sharp pain is to be
suffered, or any formidable danger to be incurred, we can scarcely
exempt ourselves wholly from the seducements of imagination; we readily
believe that another day will bring some support or advantage which we
now want; and are easily persuaded, that the moment of necessity which
we desire never to arrive, is at a great distance from us.

Thus life is languished away in the gloom of anxiety, and consumed in
collecting resolutions which the next morning dissipates; in forming
purposes which we scarcely hope to keep, and reconciling ourselves to
our own cowardice by excuses, which, while we admit them, we know to be
absurd. Our firmness is by the continual contemplation of misery, hourly
impaired; every submission to our fear enlarges its dominion; we not
only waste that time in which the evil we dread might have been suffered
and surmounted, but even where procrastination produces no absolute
increase of our difficulties, make them less superable to ourselves by
habitual terrours. When evils cannot be avoided, it is wise to contract
the interval of expectation; to meet the mischiefs which will overtake
us if we fly; and suffer only their real malignity, without the
conflicts of doubt, and anguish of anticipation.

To act is far easier than to suffer; yet we every day see the progress
of life retarded by the _vis inertiae_, the mere repugnance to motion,
and find multitudes repining at the want of that which nothing but
idleness hinders them from enjoying. The case of Tantalus, in the region
of poetick punishment, was somewhat to be pitied, because the fruits
that hung about him retired from his hand; but what tenderness can be
claimed by those who, though perhaps they suffer the pains of Tantalus,
will never lift their hands for their own relief?

There is nothing more common among this torpid generation than murmurs
and complaints; murmurs at uneasiness which only vacancy and suspicion
expose them to feel, and complaints of distresses which it is in their
own power to remove. Laziness is commonly associated with timidity.
Either fear originally prohibits endeavours by infusing despair of
success; or the frequent failure of irresolute struggles, and the
constant desire of avoiding labour, impress by degrees false terrours on
the mind. But fear, whether natural or acquired, when once it has full
possession of the fancy, never fails to employ it upon visions of
calamity, such as, if they are not dissipated by useful employment, will
soon overcast it with horrours, and embitter life not only with those
miseries by which all earthly beings are really more or less tormented,
but with those which do not yet exist, and which can only be discerned
by the perspicacity of cowardice.

Among all who sacrifice future advantage to present inclination,
scarcely any gain so little as those that suffer themselves to freeze in
idleness. Others are corrupted by some enjoyment of more or less power
to gratify the passions; but to neglect our duties, merely to avoid the
labour of performing them, a labour which is always punctually rewarded,
is surely to sink under weak temptations. Idleness never can secure
tranquillity; the call of reason and of conscience will pierce the
closest pavilion of the sluggard, and though it may not have force to
drive him from his down, will be loud enough to hinder him from sleep.
Those moments which he cannot resolve to make useful, by devoting them
to the great business of his being, will still be usurped by powers that
will not leave them to his disposal; remorse and vexation will seize
upon them, and forbid him to enjoy what he is so desirous to
appropriate.

There are other causes of inactivity incident to more active faculties
and more acute discernment. He to whom many objects of pursuit arise at
the same time, will frequently hesitate between different desires, till
a rival has precluded him, or change his course as new attractions
prevail, and harass himself without advancing. He who sees different
ways to the same end, will, unless he watches carefully over his own
conduct, lay out too much of his attention upon the comparison of
probabilities, and the adjustment of expedients, and pause in the choice
of his road till some accident intercepts his journey. He whose
penetration extends to remote consequences, and who, whenever he applies
his attention to any design, discovers new prospects of advantage, and
possibilities of improvement, will not easily be persuaded that his
project is ripe for execution; but will superadd one contrivance to
another, endeavour to unite various purposes in one operation, multiply
complications, and refine niceties, till he is entangled in his own
scheme, and bewildered in the perplexity of various intentions. He that
resolves to unite all the beauties of situation in a new purchase, must
waste his life in roving to no purpose from province to province. He
that hopes in the same house to obtain every convenience, may draw plans
and study Palladio, but will never lay a stone. He will attempt a
treatise on some important subject, and amass materials, consult
authors, and study all the dependant and collateral parts of learning,
but never conclude himself qualified to write. He that has abilities to
conceive perfection, will not easily be content without it; and since
perfection cannot be reached, will lose the opportunity of doing well in
the vain hope of unattainable excellence.

The certainty that life cannot be long, and the probability that it will
be much shorter than nature allows, ought to awaken every man to the
active prosecution of whatever he is desirous to perform. It is true,
that no diligence can ascertain success; death may intercept the
swiftest career; but he who is cut off in the execution of an honest
undertaking, has at least the honour of falling in his rank, and has
fought the battle though he missed the victory.



No. 135. TUESDAY, JULY 2, 1751.

Coelum, non animum, mutant. HOR. Lib. i. Ep. xi. 27.

Place may be chang'd; but who can change his mind?