No More Learning

It is therefore the business of wisdom and virtue, to select
among numberless objects striving for our notice, such as may enable us
to exalt our reason, extend our views, and secure our happiness. But this
choice is to be made with very little regard to rareness or frequency;
for nothing is valuable merely because it is either rare or common, but
because it is adapted to some useful purpose, and enables us to supply
some deficiency of our nature.

Milton has judiciously represented the father of mankind, as seized with
horrour and astonishment at the sight of death, exhibited to him on the
mount of vision. For surely, nothing can so much disturb the passions,
or perplex the intellects of man, as the disruption of his union with
visible nature; a separation from all that has hitherto delighted or
engaged him; a change not only of the place, but the manner of his being;
an entrance into a state not simply which he knows not, but which perhaps
he has not faculties to know; an immediate and perceptible communication
with the supreme Being, and, what is above all distressful and alarming,
the final sentence, and unalterable allotment.

Yet we to whom the shortness of life has given frequent occasions of
contemplating mortality, can, without emotion, see generations of men
pass away, and are at leisure to establish modes of sorrow, and adjust
the ceremonial of death. We can look upon funeral pomp as a common
spectacle in which we have no concern, and turn away from it to trifles
and amusements, without dejection of look, or inquietude of heart.

It is, indeed, apparent, from the constitution of the world, that there
must be a time for other thoughts; and a perpetual meditation upon
the last hour, however it may become the solitude of a monastery, is
inconsistent with many duties of common life. But surely the remembrance
of death ought to predominate in our minds, as an habitual and settled
principle, always operating, though not always perceived; and our
attention should seldom wander so far from our own condition, as not to
be recalled and fixed by sight of an event, which must soon, we know not
how soon, happen likewise to ourselves, and of which, though we cannot
appoint the time, we may secure the consequence.

Every instance of death may justly awaken our fears and quicken our
vigilance; but its frequency so much weakens its effect, that we are
seldom alarmed unless some close connexion is broken, some scheme
frustrated, or some hope defeated. Many therefore seem to pass on from
youth to decrepitude without any reflection on the end of life, because
they are wholly involved within themselves, and look on others only as
inhabitants of the common earth, without any expectation of receiving
good, or intention of bestowing it.

Events, of which we confess the importance, excite little sensibility,
unless they affect us more nearly than as sharers in the common interest
of mankind; that desire which every man feels of being remembered and
lamented, is often mortified when we remark how little concern is caused
by the eternal departure even of those who have passed their lives with
publick honours, and been distinguished by extraordinary performances.
It is not possible to be regarded with tenderness except by a few. That
merit which gives greatness and renown, diffuses its influence to a
wide compass, but acts weakly on every single breast; it is placed at a
distance from common spectators, and shines like one of the remote stars,
of which the light reaches us, but not the heat. The wit, the hero,
the philosopher, whom their tempers or their fortunes have hindered
from intimate relations, die, without any other effect than that of
adding a new topic to the conversation of the day. They impress none
with any fresh conviction of the fragility of our nature, because none
had any particular interest in their lives, or was united to them by a
reciprocation of benefits and endearments.

Thus it often happens, that those who in their lives were applauded and
admired, are laid at last in the ground without the common honour of a
stone; because by those excellencies with which many were delighted, none
had been obliged, and though they had many to celebrate, they had none to
love them.

Custom so far regulates the sentiments, at least of common minds, that
I believe men may be generally observed to grow less tender as they
advance in age. He, who, when life was new, melted at the loss of every
companion, can look in time, without concern, upon the grave into which
his last friend was thrown, and into which himself is ready to fall;
not that he is more willing to die than formerly, but that he is more
familiar to the death of others, and therefore is not alarmed so far
as to consider how much nearer he approaches to his end. But this is to
submit tamely to the tyranny of accident, and to suffer our reason to lie
useless. Every funeral may justly be considered as a summons to prepare
for that state, into which it shews us that we must some time enter; and
the summons is more loud and piercing, as the event of which it warns us
is at less distance. To neglect at any time preparation for death, is to
sleep on our post at a siege; but to omit it in old age, is to sleep at
an attack.

It has always appeared to me one of the most striking passages in the
Visions of Quevedo, which stigmatises those as fools who complain that
they failed of happiness by sudden death. "How," says he, "can death be
sudden to a being who always knew that he must die, and that the time of
his death was uncertain? "

Since business and gaiety are always drawing our attention away from a
future state, some admonition is frequently necessary to recall it to our
minds; and what can more properly renew the impression than the examples
of mortality which every day supplies? The great incentive to virtue is
the reflection that we must die; it will therefore be useful to accustom
ourselves, whenever we see a funeral, to consider how soon we may be
added to the number of those whose probation is past, and whose happiness
or misery shall endure for ever. [50]

[Footnote 50:

Death in itself is nothing; but we fear
To be we know not what, we know not where.
Aurung-Zebe, act. iv. sc. 1.

See also Claudio's speech in Shakspeare's "Measure for Measure. "]




No. 79. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 18, 1750.


_Tam sæpe nostrum decipi Fabulinum_
_Miraris, Aule? Semper bonus homo tiro est. _
MART. Lib. xii. Ep. 51.

You wonder I've so little wit,
Friend John, so often to be bit--
None better guard against a cheat
Than he who is a knave complete.
F. LEWIS.


Suspicion, however necessary it may be to our safe passage through ways
beset on all sides by fraud and malice, has been always considered, when
it exceeds the common measures, as a token of depravity and corruption;
and a Greek writer of sentences has laid down as a standing maxim, that
_he who believes not another on his oath, knows himself to be perjured_.

We can form our opinions of that which we know not, only by placing it in
comparison with something that we know; whoever, therefore, is over-run
with suspicion, and detects artifice and stratagem in every proposal,
must either have learned by experience or observation the wickedness of
mankind, and been taught to avoid fraud by having often suffered or seen
treachery, or he must derive his judgment from the consciousness of his
own disposition, and impute to others the same inclinations, which he
feels predominant in himself.

To learn caution by turning our eyes upon life, and observing the arts
by which negligence is surprized, timidity overborne, and credulity
amused, requires either great latitude of converse and long acquaintance
with business, or uncommon activity of vigilance, and acuteness of
penetration. When, therefore, a young man, not distinguished by vigour
of intellect, comes into the world full of scruples and diffidence; makes
a bargain with many provisional limitations; hesitates in his answer to
a common question, lest more should be intended than he can immediately
discover; has a long reach in detecting the projects of his acquaintance;
considers every caress as an act of hypocrisy, and feels neither
gratitude nor affection from the tenderness of his friends, because he
believes no one to have any real tenderness but for himself; whatever
expectations this early sagacity may raise of his future eminence or
riches, I can seldom forbear to consider him as a wretch incapable of
generosity or benevolence; as a villain early completed beyond the need
of common opportunities and gradual temptations.

Upon men of this class instruction and admonition are generally
thrown away, because they consider artifice and deceit as proofs of
understanding; they are misled at the same time by the two great seducers
of the world, vanity and interest, and not only look upon those who act
with openness and confidence, as condemned by their principles to
obscurity and want, but as contemptible for narrowness of comprehension,
shortness of views, and slowness of contrivance.

The world has been long amused with the mention of policy in publick
transactions, and of art in private affairs; they have been considered as
the effects of great qualities, and as unattainable by men of the common
level: yet I have not found many performances either of art or policy,
that required such stupendous efforts of intellect, or might not have
been effected by falsehood and impudence, without the assistance of any
other powers. To profess what he does not mean, to promise what he cannot
perform, to flatter ambition with prospects of promotion, and misery
with hopes of relief, to sooth pride with appearances of submission, and
appease enmity by blandishments and bribes, can surely imply nothing more
or greater than a mind devoted wholly to its own purposes, a face that
cannot blush, and a heart that cannot feel.

These practices are so mean and base, that he who finds in himself no
tendency to use them, cannot easily believe that they are considered by
others with less detestation; he therefore suffers himself to slumber
in false security, and becomes a prey to those who applaud their own
subtilty, because they know how to steal upon his sleep, and exult in
the success which they could never have obtained, had they not attempted
a man better than themselves, who was hindered from obviating their
stratagems, not by folly, but by innocence.

Suspicion is, indeed, a temper so uneasy and restless, that it is very
justly appointed the concomitant of guilt. It is said, that no torture
is equal to the inhibition of sleep long continued; a pain, to which the
state of that man bears a very exact analogy, who dares never give rest
to his vigilance and circumspection, but considers himself as surrounded
by secret foes, and fears to entrust his children, or his friend, with
the secret that throbs in his breast, and the anxieties that break into
his face. To avoid, at this expense, those evils to which easiness and
friendship might have exposed him, is surely to buy safety at too dear
a rate, and, in the language of the Roman satirist, to save life by
losing all for which a wise man would live[51].

When in the diet of the German empire, as Camararius relates, the princes
were once displaying their felicity, and each boasting the advantages
of his own dominions, one who possessed a country not remarkable for the
grandeur of its cities, or the fertility of its soil, rose to speak, and
the rest listened between pity and contempt, till he declared, in honour
of his territories, that he could travel through them without a guard,
and if he was weary, sleep in safety upon the lap of the first man whom
he should meet; a commendation which would have been ill exchanged for
the boast of palaces, pastures, or streams.

Suspicion is not less an enemy to virtue than to happiness; he that is
already corrupt is naturally suspicious, and he that becomes suspicious
will quickly be corrupt. It is too common for us to learn the frauds by
which ourselves have suffered; men who are once persuaded that deceit will
be employed against them, sometimes think the same arts justified by the
necessity of defence. Even they whose virtue is too well established to
give way to example, or be shaken by sophistry, must yet feel their love
of mankind diminished with their esteem, and grow less zealous for the
happiness of those by whom they imagine their own happiness endangered.

Thus we find old age, upon which suspicion has been strongly impressed,
by long intercourse with the world, inflexible and severe, not easily
softened by submission, melted by complaint, or subdued by supplication.
Frequent experience of counterfeited miseries, and dissembled virtue, in
time overcomes that disposition to tenderness and sympathy, which is so
powerful in our younger years; and they that happen to petition the old
for compassion or assistance, are doomed to languish without regard, and
suffer for the crimes of men who have formerly been found undeserving
or ungrateful.

Historians are certainly chargeable with the depravation of mankind,
when they relate without censure those stratagems of war by which the
virtues of an enemy are engaged to his destruction. A ship comes before
a port, weather beaten and shattered, and the crew implore the liberty
of repairing their breaches, supplying themselves with necessaries,
or burying their dead. The humanity of the inhabitants inclines them
to consent; the strangers enter the town with weapons concealed, fall
suddenly upon their benefactors, destroy those that make resistance,
and become masters of the place; they return home rich with plunder,
and their success is recorded to encourage imitation.

But surely war has its laws, and ought to be conducted with some regard to
the universal interest of man. Those may justly be pursued as enemies to
the community of nature, who suffer hostility to vacate the unalterable
laws of right, and pursue their private advantage by means, which, if
once established, must destroy kindness, cut off from every man all hopes
of assistance from another, and fill the world with perpetual suspicion
and implacable malevolence. Whatever is thus gained ought to be restored,
and those who have conquered by such treachery may be justly denied the
protection of their native country.

Whoever commits a fraud is guilty not only of the particular injury to
him whom he deceives, but of the diminution of that confidence which
constitutes not only the ease but the existence of society. He that
suffers by imposture has too often his virtue more impaired than his
fortune. But as it is necessary not to invite robbery by supineness, so
it is our duty not to suppress tenderness by suspicion; it is better to
suffer wrong than to do it, and happier to be sometimes cheated than not
to trust.

[Footnote 51: Propter vitam vivendi perdere causas. ]




No. 80. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1750.


_Vides, ut alta stet nive candidum_
_Soracte, nec jam sustineant onus_
_Silvæ laborantes. _
HOR. Lib. i. Ode ix. 1.

Behold yon mountain's hoary height
Made higher with new mounts of snow;
Again behold the winter's weight
Oppress the lab'ring woods below.
DRYDEN.


As Providence has made the human soul an active being, always impatient
for novelty, and struggling for something yet unenjoyed with unwearied
progression, the world seems to have been eminently adapted to this
disposition of the mind; it is formed to raise expectations by constant
vicissitudes, and to obviate satiety by perpetual change.

Wherever we turn our eyes, we find something to revive our curiosity, and
engage our attention. In the dusk of the morning we watch the rising of
the sun, and see the day diversify the clouds, and open new prospects in
its gradual advance. After a few hours, we see the shades lengthen, and
the light decline, till the sky is resigned to a multitude of shining
orbs different from each other in magnitude and splendour. The earth
varies its appearance as we move upon it; the woods offer their shades,
and the fields their harvests; the hill flatters with an extensive view,
and the valley invites with shelter, fragrance, and flowers.

The poets have numbered among the felicities of the golden age, an
exemption from the change of seasons, and a perpetuity of spring; but I
am not certain that in this state of imaginary happiness they have made
sufficient provision for that insatiable demand of new gratifications,
which seems particularly to characterize the nature of man. Our sense of
delight is in a great measure comparative, and arises at once from the
sensations, which we feel, and those which we remember. Thus ease after
torment is pleasure for a time, and we are very agreeably recreated,
when the body, chilled with the weather, is gradually recovering its
natural tepidity; but the joy ceases when we have forgot the cold: we
must fall below ease again, if we desire to rise above it, and purchase
new felicity by voluntary pain. It is therefore not unlikely, that
however the fancy may be amused with the description of regions in which
no wind is heard but the gentle zephyr, and no scenes are displayed but
valleys enamelled with unfading flowers, and woods waving their perennial
verdure, we should soon grow weary of uniformity, find our thoughts
languish for want of other subjects, call on heaven for our wonted
round of seasons, and think ourselves liberally recompensed for the
inconveniences of summer and winter, by new perceptions of the calmness
and mildness of the intermediate variations.

Every season has its particular power of striking the mind. The nakedness
and asperity of the wintry world always fill the beholder with pensive
and profound astonishment; as the variety of the scene is lessened, its
grandeur is increased; and the mind is swelled at once by the mingled
ideas of the present and the past, of the beauties which have vanished
from the eyes, and the waste and desolation that are now before them.

It is observed by Milton, that he who neglects to visit the country in
spring, and rejects the pleasures that are then in their first bloom
and fragrance, is guilty of _sullenness against nature_. If we allot
different duties to different seasons, he may be charged with equal
disobedience to the voice of nature, who looks on the bleak hills and
leafless woods, without seriousness and awe. Spring is the season of
gaiety, and winter of terrour; in spring the heart of tranquillity dances
to the melody of the groves, and the eye of benevolence sparkles at
the sight of happiness and plenty. In the winter, compassion melts at
universal calamity, and the tear of softness starts at the wailings of
hunger, and the cries of the creation in distress.

Few minds have much inclination to indulge heaviness and sorrow, nor do
I recommend them beyond the degree necessary to maintain in its full
vigour that habitual sympathy and tenderness, which, in a world of so
much misery, is necessary to the ready discharge of our most important
duties. The winter, therefore, is generally celebrated as the proper
season for domestick merriment and gaiety. We are seldom invited by the
votaries of pleasure to look abroad for any other purpose, than that
we may shrink back with more satisfaction to our coverts, and when we
have heard the howl of the tempest, and felt the gripe of the frost,
congratulate each other with more gladness upon a close room, an easy
chair, a large fire, and a smoaking dinner.

Winter brings natural inducements to jollity and conversation. Differences,
we know, are never so effectually laid asleep, as by some common
calamity. An enemy unites all to whom he threatens danger. The rigour
of winter brings generally to the same fire-side, those, who, by the
opposition of inclinations, or difference of employment, move in various
directions through the other parts of the year; and when they have met,
and find it their mutual interest to remain together, they endear each
other by mutual compliances, and often wish for the continuance of the
social season, with all its bleakness, and all its severities.

To the men of study and imagination the winter is generally the chief time
of labour. Gloom and silence produce composure of mind, and concentration
of ideas; and the privation of external pleasure naturally causes an
effort to find entertainment within. This is the time in which those
whom literature enables to find amusements for themselves, have more than
common convictions of their own happiness. When they are condemned by the
elements to retirement, and debarred from most of the diversions which
are called in to assist the flight of time, they can find new subjects of
inquiry, and preserve themselves from that weariness which hangs always
flagging upon the vacant mind.

It cannot indeed be expected of all to be poets and philosophers; it is
necessary that the greater part of mankind should be employed in the
minute business of common life; minute, indeed, not if we consider its
influence upon our happiness, but if we respect the abilities requisite
to conduct it. These must necessarily be more dependant on accident
for the means of spending agreeably those hours which their occupations
leave unengaged, or nature obliges them to allow to relaxation. Yet even
on these I would willingly impress such a sense of the value of time,
as may incline them to find out for their careless hours amusements
of more use and dignity than the common games, which not only weary
the mind without improving it, but strengthen the passions of envy and
avarice, and often lead to fraud and to profusion, to corruption and to
ruin. It is unworthy of a reasonable being to spend any of the little
time allotted us, without some tendency, either direct or oblique, to
the end of our existence. And though every moment cannot be laid out on
the formal and regular improvement of our knowledge, or in the stated
practice of a moral or religious duty, yet none should be so spent as
to exclude wisdom or virtue, or pass without possibility of qualifying
us more or less for the better employment of those which are to come.

It is scarcely possible to pass an hour in honest conversation, without
being able, when we rise from it, to please ourselves with having given
or received some advantages; but a man may shuffle cards, or rattle dice,
from noon to midnight, without tracing any new idea in his mind, or being
able to recollect the day by any other token than his gain or loss, and a
confused remembrance of agitated passions, and clamorous altercations.

However, as experience is of more weight than precept, any of my readers,
who are contriving how to spend the dreary months before them, may
consider which of their past amusements fills them now with the greatest
satisfaction, and resolve to repeat those gratifications of which the
pleasure is most durable.




No. 81. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 25, 1750.


_Discite Justitiam moniti. _
VIRG. Æn. vi. 620.

Hear, and be just.


Among questions which have been discussed, without any approach to
decision, may be numbered the precedency or superior excellence of one
virtue to another, which has long furnished a subject of dispute to
men whose leisure sent them out into the intellectual world in search
of employment, and who have, perhaps, been sometimes withheld from
the practice of their favourite duty, by zeal for its advancement, and
diligence in its celebration.

The intricacy of this dispute may be alleged as a proof of that tenderness
for mankind which Providence has, I think, universally displayed, by
making attainments easy in proportion as they are necessary. That all
the duties of morality ought to be practised, is without difficulty
discoverable, because ignorance or uncertainty would immediately involve
the world in confusion and distress; but which duty ought to be most
esteemed, we may continue to debate without inconvenience, so all be
diligently performed as there is opportunity or need; for upon practice,
not upon opinion, depends the happiness of mankind; and controversies,
merely speculative, are of small importance in themselves, however they
may have sometimes heated a disputant, or provoked a faction.

Of the Divine Author of our religion it is impossible to peruse the
evangelical histories, without observing how little he favoured the
vanity of inquisitiveness; how much more rarely he condescended to
satisfy curiosity, than to relieve distress; and how much he desired
that his followers should rather excel in goodness than in knowledge. His
precepts tend immediately to the rectification of the moral principles,
and the direction of daily conduct, without ostentation, without art, at
once irrefragable and plain, such as well-meaning simplicity may readily
conceive, and of which we cannot mistake the meaning, but when we are
afraid to find it.

The measure of justice prescribed to us, in our transactions with others,
is remarkably clear and comprehensive: _Whatsoever ye would that men
should do unto you, even so do unto them_. A law by which every claim
of right may be immediately adjusted as far as the private conscience
requires to be informed; a law, of which every man may find the
exposition in his own breast, and which may always be observed without
any other qualifications than honesty of intention, and purity of will.

Over this law, indeed, some sons of sophistry have been subtle enough
to throw mists, which have darkened their own eyes. To perplex this
universal principle, they have inquired whether a man, conscious to
himself of unreasonable wishes, be bound to gratify them in another. But
surely there needed no long deliberation to conclude, that the desires,
which are to be considered by us as the measure of right, must be such as
we approve, and that we ought to pay no regard to those expectations in
others which we condemn in ourselves, and which, however they may intrude
upon our imagination, we know it our duty to resist and suppress.

One of the most celebrated cases which have been produced as requiring
some skill in the direction of conscience to adapt them to this great
rule, is that of a criminal asking mercy of his judge, who cannot but
know, that if he was in the state of the supplicant, he should desire
that pardon which he now denies. The difficulty of this sophism will
vanish, if we remember that the parties are, in reality, on one side the
criminal, and on the other the community, of which the magistrate is only
the minister, and by which he is intrusted with the publick safety. The
magistrate, therefore, in pardoning a man unworthy of pardon, betrays
the trust with which he is invested, gives away what is not his own, and,
apparently, does to others what he would not that others should do to
him. Even the community, whose right is still greater to arbitrary grants
of mercy, is bound by those laws which regard the great republick of
mankind, and cannot justify such forbearance as may promote wickedness,
and lessen the general confidence and security in which all have an equal
interest, and which all are therefore bound to maintain. For this reason
the state has not a right to erect a general sanctuary for fugitives, or
give protection to such as have forfeited their lives by crimes against
the laws of common morality equally acknowledged by all nations, because
no people can, without infraction of the universal league of social
beings, incite, by prospects of impunity and safety, those practices in
another dominion, which they would themselves punish in their own.

One occasion of uncertainty and hesitation, in those by whom this great
rule has been commented and dilated, is the confusion of what the exacter
casuists are careful to distinguish, _debts of justice_, and _debts
of charity_. The immediate and primary intention of this precept, is
to establish a rule of justice; and I know not whether invention, or
sophistry, can start a single difficulty to retard its application, when
it is thus expressed and explained, _let every man allow the claim of
right in another, which he should think himself entitled to make in the
like circumstances. _

The discharge of the _debts of charity_, or duties which we owe to others,
not merely as required by justice, but as dictated by benevolence, admits
in its own nature greater complication of circumstances, and greater
latitude of choice. Justice is indispensably and universally necessary,
and what is necessary must always be limited, uniform, and distinct.
But beneficence, though in general equally enjoined by our religion, and
equally needful to the conciliation of the Divine favour, is yet, for the
most part, with regard to its single acts, elective and voluntary. We may
certainly, without injury to our fellow-beings, allow in the distribution
of kindness something to our affections, and change the measure of our
liberality, according to our opinions and prospects, our hopes and fears.
This rule therefore is not equally determinate and absolute, with respect
to offices of kindness, and acts of liberality, because liberality
and kindness, absolutely determined, would lose their nature; for how
could we be called tender, or charitable, for giving that which we are
positively forbidden to withhold?

Yet, even in adjusting the extent of our beneficence, no other measure
can be taken than this precept affords us, for we can only know what
others suffer for want, by considering how we should be affected in
the same state; nor can we proportion our assistance by any other rule
than that of doing what we should then expect from others. It indeed
generally happens that the giver and receiver differ in their opinions
of generosity; the same partiality to his own interest inclines one to
large expectations, and the other to sparing distributions. Perhaps the
infirmity of human nature will scarcely suffer a man groaning under the
pressure of distress, to judge rightly of the kindness of his friends,
or think they have done enough till his deliverance is completed; not
therefore what we might wish, but what we could demand from others, we
are obliged to grant, since, though we can easily know how much we might
claim, it is impossible to determine what we should hope.

But in all inquiries concerning the practice of voluntary and occasional
virtues, it is safest for minds not oppressed with superstitious fears
to determine against their own inclinations, and secure themselves from
deficiency, by doing more than they believe strictly necessary. For of
this every man may be certain, that, if he were to exchange conditions
with his dependent, he should expect more than, with the utmost exertion
of his ardour, he now will prevail upon himself to perform; and when
reason has no settled rule, and our passions are striving to mislead us,
it is surely the part of a wise man to err on the side of safety.




No. 82. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1750.


_Omnia Castor emit, sic fiet ut omnia vendat. _
MART. Ep. xcviii.

Who buys without discretion, buys to sell.


TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

It will not be necessary to solicit your good-will by any formal preface,
when I have informed you, that I have long been known as the most
laborious and zealous virtuoso that the present age has had the honour
of producing, and that inconveniencies have been brought upon me by an
unextinguishable ardour of curiosity, and an unshaken perseverance in the
acquisition of the productions of art and nature.

It was observed, from my entrance into the world, that I had something
uncommon in my disposition, and that there appeared in me very early
tokens of superior genius. I was always an enemy to trifles; the
playthings which my mother bestowed upon me I immediately broke, that
I might discover the method of their structure, and the causes of their
motions; of all the toys with which children are delighted I valued only
my coral, and as soon as I could speak, asked, like Peiresc, innumerable
questions which the maids about me could not resolve. As I grew older
I was more thoughtful and serious, and instead of amusing myself with
puerile diversions, made collections of natural rarities, and never
walked into the fields without bringing home stones of remarkable forms,
or insects of some uncommon species. I never entered an old house, from
which I did not take away the painted glass, and often lamented that
I was not one of that happy generation who demolished the convents and
monasteries, and broke windows by law.

Being thus early possessed by a taste for solid knowledge, I passed my
youth with very little disturbance from passions and appetites; and
having no pleasure in the company of boys and girls, who talked of plays,
politicks, fashions, or love, I carried on my inquiries with incessant
diligence, and had amassed more stones, mosses, and shells, than are to
be found in many celebrated collections, at an age in which the greatest
part of young men are studying under tutors, or endeavouring to recommend
themselves to notice by their dress, their air, and their levities.

When I was two and twenty years old, I became, by the death of my father,
possessed of a small estate in land, with a very large sum of money in
the publick funds, and must confess that I did not much lament him, for
he was a man of mean parts, bent rather upon growing rich than wise.
He once fretted at the expense of only ten shillings, which he happened
to overhear me offering for the sting of a hornet, though it was a
cold moist summer, in which very few hornets had been seen. He often
recommended to me the study of physick, in which, said he, you may at
once gratify your curiosity after natural history, and increase your
fortune by benefiting mankind. I heard him, Mr. Rambler, with pity, and
as there was no prospect of elevating a mind formed to grovel, suffered
him to please himself with hoping that I should some time follow his
advice. For you know that there are men, with whom, when they have once
settled a notion in their head, is to very little purpose to dispute.

Being now left wholly to my own inclinations, I very soon enlarged the
bounds of my curiosity, and contented myself no longer with such rarities
as required only judgment and industry, and when once found might be
had for nothing. I now turned my thoughts to exoticks and antiques, and
became so well known for my generous patronage of ingenious men, that
my levee was crowded with visitants, some to see my museum, and others
to increase its treasures, by selling me whatever they had brought from
other countries.

I had always a contempt for that narrowness of conception, which contents
itself with cultivating some single corner of the field of science; I
took the whole region into my view, and wished it of yet greater extent.
But no man's power can be equal to his will. I was forced to proceed
by slow degrees, and to purchase what chance or kindness happened to
present. I did not, however, proceed without some design, or imitate
the indiscretion of those, who begin a thousand collections, and finish
none. Having been always a lover of geography, I determined to collect the
maps drawn in the rude and barbarous times, before any regular surveys,
or just observations; and have, at a great expense, brought together a
volume, in which, perhaps, not a single country is laid down according
to its true situation, and by which he that desires to know the errours
of the ancient geographers may be amply informed.

But my ruling passion is patriotism: my chief care has been to procure
the products of our own country; and as Alfred received the tribute
of the Welsh in wolves' heads, I allowed my tenants to pay their rents
in butterflies, till I had exhausted the papilionaceous tribe. I then
directed them to the pursuit of other animals, and obtained, by this easy
method, most of the grubs and insects, which land, air, or water, can
supply. I have three species of earth-worms not known to the naturalists,
have discovered a new ephemera, and can show four wasps that were taken
torpid in their winter quarters. I have, from my own ground, the longest
blade of grass upon record, and once accepted, as a half-year's rent for
a field of wheat, an ear containing more grains than had been seen before
upon a single stem.

One of my tenants so much neglected his own interest, as to supply me, in
a whole summer, with only two horse-flies, and those of little more than
the common size; and I was upon the brink of seizing for arrears, when
his good fortune threw a white mole in his way, for which he was not only
forgiven, but rewarded.

These, however, were petty acquisitions, and made at small expense; nor
should I have ventured to rank myself among the virtuosi without better
claims. I have suffered nothing worthy the regard of a wise man to escape
my notice. I have ransacked the old and the new world, and been equally
attentive to past ages and the present. For the illustration of ancient
history, I can show a marble, of which the inscription, though it is not
now legible, appears, from some broken remains of the letters, to have
been Tuscan, and, therefore, probably engraved before the foundation of
Rome. I have two pieces of porphyry found among the ruins of Ephesus,
and three letters broken off by a learned traveller from the monuments
of Persepolis; a piece of stone which paved the Areopagus of Athens,
and a plate without figures or characters, which was found at Corinth,
and which I, therefore, believe to be that metal which was once valued
before gold. I have sand gathered out of the Granicus; a fragment of
Trajan's bridge over the Danube; some of the mortar which cemented the
watercourse of Tarquin; a horseshoe broken on the Flaminian way; and
a turf with five daisies dug from the field of Pharsalia.

I do not wish to raise the envy of unsuccessful collectors, by too pompous
a display of my scientifick wealth, but cannot forbear to observe, that
there are few regions of the globe which are not honoured with some
memorial in my cabinets. The Persian monarchs are said to have boasted
the greatness of their empire, by being served at their tables with drink
from the Ganges and the Danube. I can show one vial, of which the water
was formerly an icicle on the crags of Caucasus, and another that contains
what once was snow on the top of Atlas; in a third is dew brushed from a
banana in the gardens of Ispahan; and, in another, brine that has rolled
in the Pacifick ocean. I flatter myself that I am writing to a man who
will rejoice at the honour which my labours have procured to my country;
and therefore I shall tell you that Britain can, by my care, boast of a
snail that has crawled upon the wall of China; a humming bird which an
American princess wore in her ear; the tooth of an elephant which carried
the queen of Siam; the skin of an ape that was kept in the palace of the
great mogul; a riband that adorned one of the maids of a Turkish sultana;
and a cimeter once wielded by a soldier of Abas the great.

In collecting antiquities of every country, I have been careful to choose
only by intrinsick worth, and real usefulness, without regard to party or
opinions. I have therefore a lock of Cromwell's hair in a box turned from
a piece of the royal oak; and keep in the same drawers, sand scraped from
the coffin of king Richard, and a commission signed by Henry the Seventh.
I have equal veneration for the ruff of Elizabeth and the shoe of Mary of
Scotland; and should lose, with like regret, a tobacco-pipe of Raleigh,
and a stirrup of king James. I have paid the same price for a glove of
Lewis, and a thimble of queen Mary; for a fur cap of the Czar, and a boot
of Charles of Sweden.

You will easily imagine that these accumulations were not made without
some diminution of my fortune, for I was so well known to spare no
cost, that at every sale some bid against me for hire, some for sport,
and some for malice; and if I asked the price of any thing, it was
sufficient to double the demand. For curiosity, trafficking thus with
avarice, the wealth of India had not been enough; and I, by little and
little, transferred all my money from the funds to my closet: here I was
inclined to stop, and live upon my estate in literary leisure, but the
sale of the Harleian collection shook my resolution: I mortgaged my land,
and purchased thirty medals, which I could never find before.
I have at
length bought till I can buy no longer, and the cruelty of my creditors
has seized my repository; I am therefore condemned to disperse what the
labour of an age will not re-assemble. I submit to that which cannot be
opposed, and shall, in a short time, declare a sale. I have, while it is
yet in my power, sent you a pebble, picked up by Tavernier on the banks
of the Ganges; for which I desire no other recompense than that you will
recommend my catalogue to the publick.

QUISQUILIUS.




No. 83. TUESDAY, JANUARY 1, 1751.


_Nisi utile est, quod facimus, stulta est gloria. _
PHÆD. Lib. iii. Fab. xvii. 15.

All useless science is an empty boast.


The publication of the letter in my last paper has naturally led me to the
consideration of thirst after curiosities, which often draws contempt and
ridicule upon itself, but which is perhaps no otherwise blameable, than
as it wants those circumstantial recommendations which add lustre even to
moral excellencies, and are absolutely necessary to the grace and beauty
of indifferent actions.

Learning confers so much superiority on those who possess it, that they
might probably have escaped all censure had they been able to agree among
themselves; but as envy and competition have divided the republick of
letters into factions, they have neglected the common interest; each has
called in foreign aid, and endeavoured to strengthen his own cause by
the frown of power, the hiss of ignorance, and the clamour of popularity.
They have all engaged in feuds, till by mutual hostilities they
demolished those outworks which veneration had raised for their security,
and exposed themselves to barbarians, by whom every region of science is
equally laid waste.

Between men of different studies and professions, may be observed a
constant reciprocation of reproaches. The collector of shells and stones
derides the folly of him who pastes leaves and flowers upon paper,
pleases himself with colours that are perceptibly fading, and amasses
with care what cannot be preserved. The hunter of insects stands amazed
that any man can waste his short time upon lifeless matter, while many
tribes of animals yet want their history. Every one is inclined not only
to promote his own study, but to exclude all others from regard, and
having heated his imagination with some favourite pursuit, wonders that
the rest of mankind are not seized with the same passion.

There are, indeed, many subjects of study which seem but remotely allied
to useful knowledge, and of little importance to happiness or virtue;
nor is it easy to forbear some sallies of merriment, or expressions
of pity, when we see a man wrinkled with attention, and emaciated with
solicitude, in the investigation of questions, of which, without visible
inconvenience, the world may expire in ignorance. Yet it is dangerous
to discourage well-intended labours, or innocent curiosity; for he who
is employed in searches, which by any deduction of consequences tend
to the benefit of life, is surely laudable, in comparison of those who
spend their time in counteracting happiness, and filling the world with
wrong and danger, confusion and remorse. No man can perform so little
as not to have reason to congratulate himself on his merits, when he
beholds the multitudes that live in total idleness, and have never yet
endeavoured to be useful.

It is impossible to determine the limits of inquiry, or to foresee
what consequences a new discovery may produce. He who suffers not his
faculties to lie torpid, has a chance, whatever be his employment,
of doing good to his fellow creatures. The man that first ranged the
woods in search of medicinal springs, or climbed the mountains for
salutary plants, has undoubtedly merited the gratitude of posterity,
how much soever his frequent miscarriages might excite the scorn of his
contemporaries. If what appears little be universally despised, nothing
greater can be attained, for all that is great was at first little, and
rose to its present bulk by gradual accessions, and accumulated labours.

Those who lay out time or money in assembling matter for contemplation,
are doubtless entitled to some degree of respect, though in a flight of
gaiety it be easy to ridicule their treasure, or in a fit of sullenness
to despise it. A man who thinks only on the particular object before him,
goes not away much illuminated by having enjoyed the privilege of handling
the tooth of a shark, or the paw of a white bear; yet there is nothing
more worthy of admiration to a philosophical eye than the structure of
animals, by which they are qualified to support life in the elements or
climates to which they are appropriated; and of all natural bodies it must
be generally confessed, that they exhibit evidences of infinite wisdom,
bear their testimony to the supreme reason, and excite in the mind new
raptures of gratitude, and new incentives to piety.

To collect the productions of art, and examples of mechanical science or
manual ability, is unquestionably useful, even when the things themselves
are of small importance, because it is always advantageous to know
how far the human powers have proceeded, and how much experience has
found to be within the reach of diligence. Idleness and timidity often
despair without being overcome, and forbear attempts for fear of being
defeated; and we may promote the invigoration of faint endeavours, by
shewing what has been already performed. It may sometimes happen that
the greatest efforts of ingenuity have been exerted in trifles; yet the
same principles and expedients may be applied to more valuable purposes,
and the movements, which put into action machines of no use but to raise
the wonder of ignorance, may be employed to drain fens, or manufacture
metals, to assist the architect, or preserve the sailor.

For the utensils, arms, or dresses of foreign nations, which make the
greatest part of many collections, I have little regard when they are
valued only because they are foreign, and can suggest no improvement of
our own practice. Yet they are not all equally useless, nor can it be
always safely determined which should be rejected or retained; for they
may sometimes unexpectedly contribute to the illustration of history,
and to the knowledge of the natural commodities of the country, or of the
genius and customs of its inhabitants.

Rarities there are of yet a lower rank, which owe their worth merely to
accident, and which can convey no information, nor satisfy any rational
desire. Such are many fragments of antiquity, as urns and pieces of
pavement; and things held in veneration only for having been once the
property of some eminent person, as the armour of King Henry; or for
having been used on some remarkable occasion, as the lantern of Guy
Faux. The loss or preservation of these seems to be a thing indifferent,
nor can I perceive why the possession of them should be coveted. Yet,
perhaps, even this curiosity is implanted by nature; and when I find Tully
confessing of himself, that he could not forbear at Athens to visit the
walks and houses which the old philosophers had frequented or inhabited,
and recollect the reverence which every nation, civil and barbarous,
has paid to the ground where merit has been buried[52], I am afraid to
declare against the general voice of mankind, and am inclined to believe,
that this regard, which we involuntarily pay to the meanest relique of
a man great and illustrious, is intended as an incitement to labour,
and an encouragement to expect the same renown, if it be sought by the
same virtues.

The virtuoso therefore cannot be said to be wholly useless; but perhaps
he may be sometimes culpable for confining himself to business below his
genius, and losing, in petty speculations, those hours by which, if he
had spent them in nobler studies, he might have given new light to the
intellectual world. It is never without grief, that I find a man capable
of ratiocination or invention enlisting himself in this secondary class
of learning; for when he has once discovered a method of gratifying his
desire of eminence by expense rather than by labour, and known the sweets
of a life blest at once with the ease of idleness, and the reputation
of knowledge, he will not easily be brought to undergo again the toil of
thinking, or leave his toys and trinkets for arguments and principles,
arguments which require circumspection and vigilance, and principles
which cannot be obtained but by the drudgery of meditation. He will
gladly shut himself up for ever with his shells and medals, like the
companions of Ulysses, who, having tasted the fruit of Lotos, would not,
even by the hope of seeing their own country, be tempted again to the
dangers of the sea.

Αλλ' αυτου βουλοντο μετ ανδρασι Λωτοφαγοισι,
Λωτον ερεπτομενοι μενεμεν νοστου τε λαθεσθαι.

------Whoso tastes,
Insatiate riots in the sweet repasts;
Nor other home nor other care intends,
But quits his house, his country, and his friends.
POPE.

Collections of this kind are of use to the learned, as heaps of stones
and piles of timber are necessary to the architect. But to dig the quarry
or to search the field, requires not much of any quality beyond stubborn
perseverance; and though genius must often lie unactive without this
humble assistance, yet this can claim little praise, because every man
can afford it.

To mean understandings, it is sufficient honour to be numbered amongst the
lowest labourers of learning; but different abilities must find different
tasks. To hew stone, would have been unworthy of Palladio; and to have
rambled in search of shells and flowers, had but ill suited with the
capacity of Newton.

[Footnote 52: See this sentiment illustrated by a most splendid passage
in Dr. Johnson's "Journey to the Western Islands," when he was on the
Island of Iona. ]




No. 84. SATURDAY, JANUARY 5, 1751.


_Cunarum fueras motor, Charideme, mearum;_
_Et pueri custos, assiduusque comes. _
_Jam mihi nigrescunt tonsa sudaria barbam,----_
_Sed tibi non crevi: te noster villicus horret:_
_Te dispensator, te domus ipsa pavet. ----_
_Corripis, observas, quereris, suspiria ducis;_
_Et vix a ferulis abstinet ira manum. _
MART. Lib. xi. Ep. xxxix.

You rock'd my cradle, were my guide,
In youth still tending at my side:
But now, dear sir, my beard is grown,
Still I'm a child to thee alone.
Our steward, butler, cook, and all,
You fright, nay e'en the very wall;
You pry, and frown, and growl, and chide,
And scarce will lay the rod aside.
F. LEWIS.


TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

You seem in all your papers to be an enemy to tyranny, and to look with
impartiality upon the world; I shall therefore lay my case before you,
and hope by your decision to be set free from unreasonable restraints,
and enabled to justify myself against the accusations which spite and
peevishness produce against me.

At the age of five years I lost my mother; and my father, being not
qualified to superintend the education of a girl, committed me to the
care of his sister, who instructed me with the authority, and, not to
deny her what she may justly claim, with the affection of a parent. She
had not very elevated sentiments, or extensive views, but her principles
were good, and her intentions pure; and, though some may practise mere
virtues, scarce any commit fewer faults.

Under this good lady I learned all the common rules of decent behaviour,
and standing maxims of domestick prudence; and might have grown up by
degrees to a country gentlewoman, without any thoughts of ranging beyond
the neighbourhood, had not Flavia come down, last summer, to visit her
relations in the next village. I was taken, of course, to compliment
the stranger, and was, at the first sight, surprised at the unconcern
with which she saw herself gazed at by the company whom she had never
known before; at the carelessness with which she received compliments,
and the readiness with which she returned them. I found she had something
which I perceived myself to want, and could not but wish to be like her,
at once easy and officious, attentive and unembarrassed. I went home,
and for four days could think and talk of nothing but Miss Flavia; though
my aunt told me, that she was a forward slut, and thought herself wise
before her time.

In a little time she repaid my visit, and raised in my heart a new
confusion of love and admiration. I soon saw her again, and still found
new charms in her air, conversation, and behaviour. You, who have perhaps
seen the world, may have observed, that formality soon ceases between
young persons. I know not how others are affected on such occasions, but
I found myself irresistibly allured to friendship and intimacy, by the
familiar complaisance and airy gaiety of Flavia; so that in a few weeks I
became her favourite, and all the time was passed with me, that she could
gain from ceremony and visit.

As she came often to me, she necessarily spent some hours with my aunt,
to whom she paid great respect by low courtesies, submissive compliance,
and soft acquiescence; but as I became gradually more accustomed to
her manners, I discovered that her civility was general; that there
was a certain degree of deference shewn by her to circumstances and
appearances; that many went away flattered by her humility, whom she
despised in her heart; that the influence of far the greatest part
of those with whom she conversed ceased with their presence; and that
sometimes she did not remember the names of them, whom, without any
intentional insincerity or false commendation, her habitual civility had
sent away with very high thoughts of their own importance.

It was not long before I perceived that my aunt's opinion was not of
much weight in Flavia's deliberations, and that she was looked upon
by her as a woman of narrow sentiments, without knowledge of books, or
observations on mankind. I had hitherto considered my aunt as entitled,
by her wisdom and experience, to the highest reverence; and could not
forbear to wonder that any one so much younger should venture to suspect
her of errour, or ignorance; but my surprise was without uneasiness,
and being now accustomed to think Flavia always in the right, I readily
learned from her to trust my own reason, and to believe it possible,
that they who had lived longer might be mistaken.

Flavia had read much, and used so often to converse on subjects of
learning, that she put all the men in the country to flight, except the
old parson, who declared himself much delighted with her company, because
she gave him opportunities to recollect the studies of his younger
years, and, by some mention of ancient story, had made him rub the dust
off his Homer, which had lain unregarded in his closet. With Homer, and
a thousand other names familiar to Flavia, I had no acquaintance, but
began, by comparing her accomplishments with my own, to repine at my
education, and wish that I had not been so long confined to the company
of those from whom nothing but housewifery was to be learned. I then set
myself to peruse such books as Flavia recommended, and heard her opinion
of their beauties and defects. I saw new worlds hourly bursting upon
my mind, and was enraptured at the prospect of diversifying life with
endless entertainment.

The old lady, finding that a large screen, which I had undertaken to adorn
with turkey-work against winter, made very slow advances, and that I
had added in two months but three leaves to a flowered apron then in the
frame, took the alarm, and with all the zeal of honest folly exclaimed
against my new acquaintance, who had filled me with idle notions, and
turned my head with books. But she had now lost her authority, for I
began to find innumerable mistakes in her opinions, and improprieties
in her language; and therefore thought myself no longer bound to pay
much regard to one who knew little beyond her needle and her dairy, and
who professed to think that nothing more is required of a woman than to
see that the house is clean, and that the maids go to bed and rise at a
certain hour.

She seemed however to look upon Flavia as seducing me, and to imagine that
when her influence was withdrawn, I should return to my allegiance; she
therefore contented herself with remote hints, and gentle admonitions,
intermixed with sage histories of the miscarriages of wit, and
disappointments of pride. But since she has found, that though Flavia
is departed, I still persist in my new scheme, she has at length lost
her patience, she snatches my book out of my hand, tears my paper if
she finds me writing, burns Flavia's letters before my face when she can
seize them, and threatens to lock me up, and to complain to my father
of my perverseness. If women, she says, would but know their duty and
their interest, they would be careful to acquaint themselves with family
affairs, and many a penny might be saved; for while the mistress of
the house is scribbling and reading, servants are junketing, and linen
is wearing out. She then takes me round the rooms, shews me the worked
hangings, and chairs of tent-stitch, and asks whether all this was done
with a pen and a book.

I cannot deny that I sometimes laugh and sometimes am sullen; but she has
not delicacy enough to be much moved either with my mirth or my gloom,
if she did not think the interest of the family endangered by this change
of my manners. She had for some years marked out young Mr. Surly, an
heir in the neighbourhood, remarkable for his love of fighting-cocks,
as an advantageous match; and was extremely pleased with the civilities
which he used to pay me, till under Flavia's tuition I learned to
talk of subjects which he could not understand. This, she says, is the
consequence of female study: girls grow too wise to be advised, and too
stubborn to be commanded; but she is resolved to try who shall govern,
and will thwart my humour till she breaks my spirit.

These menaces, Mr. Rambler, sometimes make me quite angry; for I have been
sixteen these ten weeks, and think myself exempted from the dominion of a
governess, who has no pretensions to more sense or knowledge than myself.
I am resolved, since I am as tall and as wise as other women, to be no
longer treated like a girl. Miss Flavia has often told me, that ladies of
my age go to assemblies and routs, without their mothers and their aunts;
I shall therefore, from this time, leave asking advice, and refuse to
give accounts. I wish you would state the time at which young ladies may
judge for themselves, which I am sure you cannot but think ought to begin
before sixteen; if you are inclined to delay it longer, I shall have very
little regard to your opinion.

My aunt often tells me of the advantages of experience, and of the
deference due to seniority; and both she and all the antiquated part
of the world, talk of the unreserved obedience which they paid to the
commands of their parents, and the undoubting confidence with which they
listened to their precepts; of the terrours which they felt at a frown,
and the humility with which they supplicated forgiveness whenever they
had offended. I cannot but fancy that this boast is too general to be
true, and that the young and the old were always at variance. I have,
however, told my aunt, that I will mend whatever she will prove to be
wrong; but she replies that she has reasons of her own, and that she is
sorry to live in an age when girls have the impudence to ask for proofs.

I beg once again, Mr. Rambler, to know whether I am not as wise as my aunt,
and whether, when she presumes to check me as a baby, I may not pluck
up a spirit and return her insolence. I shall not proceed to extremities
without your advice, which is therefore impatiently expected by

MYRTILLA.

P. S. Remember I am past sixteen.




No. 85. TUESDAY, JANUARY 8, 1751.


_Otia si tollas, periere Cupidinis arcus,_
_Contemptæque jacent, et sine luce faces. _
OVID, Rem. 139.

At busy hearts in vain Love's arrows fly;
Dim'd, scorn'd, and impotent, his torches lie.


Many writers of eminence in physick have laid out their diligence upon the
consideration of those distempers to which men are exposed by particular
states of life, and very learned treatises have been produced upon the
maladies of the camp, the sea, and the mines. There are, indeed, few
employments which a man accustomed to anatomical inquiries, and medical
refinements, would not find reasons for declining as dangerous to
health, did not his learning or experience inform him, that almost every
occupation, however inconvenient or formidable, is happier and safer than
a life of sloth.

The necessity of action is not only demonstrable from the fabrick of the
body, but evident from observation of the universal practice of mankind,
who, for the preservation of health, in those whose rank or wealth
exempts them from the necessity of lucrative labour, have invented sports
and diversions, though not of equal use to the world with manual trades,
yet of equal fatigue to those who practise them, and differing only
from the drudgery of the husbandman or manufacturer, as they are acts of
choice, and therefore performed without the painful sense of compulsion.
The huntsman rises early, pursues his game through all the dangers and
obstructions of the chace, swims rivers, and scales precipices, till he
returns home no less harassed than the soldier, and has perhaps sometimes
incurred as great hazard of wounds or death; yet he has no motive to
incite his ardour; he is neither subject to the commands of a general,
nor dreads any penalties for neglect and disobedience; he has neither
profit nor honour to expect from his perils and his conquests, but toils
without the hope of mural or civick garlands, and must content himself
with the praise of his tenants and companions.

But such is the constitution of man, that labour may be styled its
own reward; nor will any external incitements be requisite, if it be
considered how much happiness is gained, and how much misery escaped, by
frequent and violent agitation of the body.

Ease is the most that can be hoped from a sedentary and unactive habit;
ease, a neutral state between pain and pleasure. The dance of spirits,
the bound of vigour, readiness of enterprize, and defiance of fatigue,
are reserved for him that braces his nerves, and hardens his fibres, that
keeps his limbs pliant with motion, and by frequent exposure fortifies
his frame against the common accidents of cold and heat.

With ease, however, if it could be secured, many would be content; but
nothing terrestrial can be kept at a stand. Ease, if it is not rising
into pleasure, will be falling towards pain; and whatever hope the dreams
of speculation may suggest of observing the proportion between nutriment
and labour, and keeping the body in a healthy state by supplies exactly
equal to its waste, we know that, in effect, the vital powers unexcited by
motion, grow gradually languid; that, as their vigour fails, obstructions
are generated; and that from obstructions proceed most of those pains
which wear us away slowly with periodical tortures, and which, though
they sometimes suffer life to be long, condemn it to be useless, chain us
down to the couch of misery, and mock us with the hopes of death.

Exercise cannot secure us from that dissolution to which we are decreed;
but while the soul and body continue united, it can make the association
pleasing, and give probable hopes that they shall be disjoined by an easy
separation. It was a principle among the ancients, that acute diseases
are from heaven, and chronical from ourselves: the dart of death indeed
falls from heaven, but we poison it by our own misconduct: to die is the
fate of man, but to die with lingering anguish is generally his folly[53].

It is necessary to that perfection of which our present state is capable,
that the mind and body should both be kept in action; that neither
the faculties of the one nor of the other be suffered to grow lax or
torpid for want of use; that neither health be purchased by voluntary
submission to ignorance, nor knowledge cultivated at the expense of that
health, which must enable it either to give pleasure to its possessor,
or assistance to others. It is too frequently the pride of students
to despise those amusements and recreations, which give to the rest
of mankind strength of limbs and cheerfulness of heart. Solitude and
contemplation are indeed seldom consistent with such skill in common
exercises or sports as is necessary to make them practised with delight,
and no man is willing to do that of which the necessity is not pressing
and immediate, when he knows that his awkwardness must make him ridiculous

_Ludere qui nescit, campestribus abstinet armis,_
_Indoctusque pilæ, discive, trochive quiescit,_
_Ne spissæ risum tollant impune coronæ. _
HOR. Art. Poet. 379.

He that's unskilful will not toss a ball,
Nor run, nor wrestle, for he fears the fall;
He justly fears to meet deserv'd disgrace,
And that the ring will hiss the baffled ass.
CREECH.

Thus the man of learning is often resigned, almost by his own consent, to
languor and pain; and while in the prosecution of his studies he suffers
the weariness of labour, is subject by his course of life to the maladies
of idleness.

It was, perhaps, from the observation of this mischievous omission in
those who are employed about intellectual objects, that Locke has, in his
"System of Education," urged the necessity of a trade to men of all ranks
and professions, that when the mind is weary with its proper task, it
may be relaxed by a slighter attention to some mechanical operation;
and that while the vital functions are resuscitated and awakened by
vigorous motion, the understanding may be restrained from that vagrance
and dissipation by which it relieves itself after a long intenseness of
thought, unless some allurement be presented that may engage application
without anxiety.

There is so little reason for expecting frequent conformity to Locke's
precept, that it is not necessary to inquire whether the practice
of mechanical arts might not give occasion to petty emulation, and
degenerate ambition; and whether, if our divines and physicians were
taught the lathe and the chisel, they would not think more of their
tools than their books; as Nero neglected the care of his empire for his
chariot and his fiddle. It is certainly dangerous to be too much pleased
with little things; but what is there which may not be perverted? Let
us remember how much worse employment might have been found for those
hours, which a manual occupation appears to engross; let us compute the
profit with the loss, and when we reflect how often a genius is allured
from his studies, consider likewise that perhaps by the same attraction
he is sometimes withheld from debauchery, or recalled from malice, from
ambition, from envy, and from lust.

I have always admired the wisdom of those by whom our female education
was instituted, for having contrived, that every woman, of whatever
condition, should be taught some arts of manufacture, by which the
vacuities of recluse and domestick leisure may be filled up. These arts
are more necessary, as the weakness of their sex and the general system
of life debar ladies from any employments which, by diversifying the
circumstances of men, preserve them from being cankered by the rust of
their own thoughts. I know not how much of the virtue and happiness of
the world may be the consequence of this judicious regulation. Perhaps,
the most powerful fancy might be unable to figure the confusion and
slaughter that would be produced by so many piercing eyes and vivid
understandings, turned loose at once upon mankind, with no other business
than to sparkle and intrigue, to perplex and to destroy.

For my part, whenever chance brings within my observation a knot of misses
busy at their needles, I consider myself as in the school of virtue;
and though I have no extraordinary skill in plain work or embroidery,
look upon their operations with as much satisfaction as their governess,
because I regard them as providing a security against the most dangerous
ensnarers of the soul, by enabling themselves to exclude idleness from
their solitary moments, and with idleness her attendant train of passions,
fancies, and chimeras, fears, sorrows, and desires. Ovid and Cervantes
will inform them that love has no power but over those whom he catches
unemployed; and Hector, in the Iliad, when he sees Andromache overwhelmed
with terrours, sends her for consolation to the loom and the distaff.

It is certain that any wild wish or vain imagination never takes such firm
possession of the mind, as when it is found empty and unoccupied. The old
peripatetick principle, that _Nature abhors a vacuum_, may be properly
applied to the intellect, which will embrace any thing, however absurd
or criminal, rather than be wholly without an object. Perhaps every man
may date the predominance of those desires that disturb his life and
contaminate his conscience, from some unhappy hour when too much leisure
exposed him to their incursions; for he has lived with little observation
either on himself or others, who does not know that to be idle is to
be vicious.

[Footnote 53: This passage was once strangely supposed by some readers
to recommend suicide, instead of _exercise_, which is surely the more
obvious meaning. See, however, a letter from Dr. Johnson on the subject,
in Boswell's Life, vol. iv. p. 162. ]




No. 86. SATURDAY, JANUARY 12, 1751.


_Legitimumque sonum digitis callemus et aure. _
HOR. De Ar. Poet. 274.

By fingers, or by ear, we numbers scan.
ELPHINSTON.


One of the ancients has observed, that the burthen of government is
increased upon princes by the virtues of their immediate predecessors.
It is, indeed, always dangerous to be placed in a state of unavoidable
comparison with excellence, and the danger is still greater when that
excellence is consecrated by death; when envy and interest cease to act
against it, and those passions by which it was at first vilified and
opposed, now stand in its defence, and turn their vehemence against
honest emulation.

He that succeeds a celebrated writer, has the same difficulties to
encounter; he stands under the shade of exalted merit, and is hindered
from rising to his natural height, by the interception of those beams
which should invigorate and quicken him. He applies to that attention
which is already engaged, and unwilling to be drawn off from certain
satisfaction; or perhaps to an attention already wearied, and not to be
recalled to the same object.

One of the old poets congratulates himself that he had the untrodden
regions of Parnassus before him, and that his garland will be gathered
from plantations which no writer had yet culled. But the imitator treads
a beaten walk, and with all his diligence can only hope to find a few
flowers or branches untouched by his predecessor, the refuse of contempt,
or the omissions of negligence. The Macedonian conqueror, when he was
once invited to hear a man that sung like a nightingale, replied with
contempt, "that he had heard the nightingale herself;" and the same
treatment must every man expect, whose praise is that he imitates another.

Yet, in the midst of these discouraging reflections, I am about to offer
to my reader some observations upon "Paradise Lost," and hope, that,
however I may fall below the illustrious writer who has so long dictated
to the commonwealth of learning, my attempt may not be wholly useless.
There are, in every age, new errours to be rectified, and new prejudices
to be opposed. False taste is always busy to mislead those that are
entering upon the regions of learning; and the traveller, uncertain of
his way, and forsaken by the sun, will be pleased to see a fainter orb
arise on the horizon, that may rescue him from total darkness, though
with weak and borrowed lustre.

Addison, though he has considered this poem under most of the general
topicks of criticism, has barely touched upon the versification; not
probably because he thought the art of numbers unworthy of his notice,
for he knew with what minute attention the ancient criticks considered
the disposition of syllables, and had himself given hopes of some
metrical observations upon the great Roman poet; but being the first who
undertook to display the beauties, and point out the defects of Milton,
he had many objects at once before him, and passed willingly over those
which were most barren of ideas, and required labour, rather than genius.

Yet versification, or the art of modulating his numbers, is indispensably
necessary to a poet. Every other power by which the understanding is
enlightened, or the imagination enchanted, may be exercised in prose. But
the poet has this peculiar superiority, that to all the powers which the
perfection of every other composition can require, he adds the faculty
of joining music with reason, and of acting at once upon the senses
and the passions. I suppose there are few who do not feel themselves
touched by poetical melody, and who will not confess that they are more
or less moved by the same thoughts, as they are conveyed by different
sounds, and more affected by the same words in one order than in another.
The perception of harmony is indeed conferred upon men in degrees very
unequal, but there are none who do not perceive it, or to whom a regular
series of proportionate sounds cannot give delight.

In treating on the versification of Milton, I am desirous to be generally
understood, and shall therefore studiously decline the dialect of
grammarians; though, indeed, it is always difficult, and sometimes
scarcely possible, to deliver the precepts of an art, without the terms
by which the peculiar ideas of that art are expressed, and which had not
been invented but because the language already in use was insufficient.
If, therefore, I shall sometimes seem obscure, it may be imputed to this
voluntary interdiction, and to a desire of avoiding that offence which is
always given by unusual words.

The heroick measure of the English language may be properly considered
as pure or mixed. It is pure when the accent rests upon every second
syllable through the whole line.

Courage uncertain dangers may abate,
But whó can beár th' appróach of cértain fáte.
DRYDEN.

Here love his golden shafts employs, here lights
His cónstant lámp, and wáves his púrple wíngs,
Reigns here, and revels; not in the bought smile
Of hárlots, lóveless, jóyless, únendéar'd.
MILTON.

The accent may be observed, in the second line of Dryden, and the second
and fourth of Milton, to repose upon every second syllable.

The repetition of this sound or percussion at equal times, is the most
complete harmony of which a single verse is capable, and should therefore
be exactly kept in distichs, and generally in the last line of a
paragraph, that the ear may rest without any sense of imperfection.

But, to preserve the series of sounds untransposed in a long composition,
is not only very difficult, but tiresome and disgusting; for we are soon
wearied with the perpetual recurrence of the same cadence. Necessity
has therefore enforced the mixed measure, in which some variation of the
accents is allowed; this, though it always injures the harmony of the
line, considered by itself, yet compensates the loss by relieving us from
the continual tyranny of the same sound, and makes us more sensible of
the harmony of the pure measure.

Of these mixed numbers every poet affords us innumerable instances, and
Milton seldom has two pure lines together, as will appear if any of his
paragraphs be read with attention merely to the musick.

Thus at their shady lodge arriv'd, both stood,
Both turn'd, and under open sky ador'd
The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heav'n,
Which they beheld; the moon's resplendent globe,
_And starry pole: thou also mad'st the night,_
Maker omnipotent! and thou the day,
Which we in our appointed work employ'd
Have finish'd, happy in our mutual help,
_And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss,_
Ordain'd by thee; and this delicious place,
For us too large; where thy abundance wants
Partakers, and uncrop'd falls to the ground;
But thou hast promis'd from us two a race
To fill the earth, who shall with us extol
Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake,
And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep.

In this passage it will be at first observed, that all the lines are not
equally harmonious, and upon a nearer examination it will be found that
only the fifth and ninth lines are regular, and the rest are more or less
licentious with respect to the accent. In some the accent is equally upon
two syllables together, and in both strong. As

Thus at their shady lodge arriv'd, _both stood_,
_Both turned_, and under open sky ador'd
The God that made both sky, _air_, _earth_, and heav'n.