No More Learning

TUESDAY, JUNE 19, 1750.


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

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


MR. RAMBLER,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am, &c.

EUBULUS.




No. 28. SATURDAY, JUNE 23, 1750.


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




No. 29. TUESDAY, JUNE 26, 1750.


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




No. 30. SATURDAY, JUNE 30, 1750.


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

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


MR. RAMBLER,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As I dare promise myself you will attest the truth of all I have
advanced, there is no doubt but many will be desirous of improving their
acquaintance with me; and that I may not be thought too difficult, I will
tell you, in short, how I wish to be received.
You must know I equally hate lazy idleness and hurry. I would every
where be welcomed at a tolerable early hour with decent good-humour
and gratitude. I must be attended in the great halls, peculiarly
appropriated to me, with respect; but I do not insist upon finery:
propriety of appearance, and perfect neatness, is all I require. I must
at dinner be treated with a temperate, but cheerful social meal; both
the neighbours and the poor should be the better for me. Some time
I must have tête-à-tête with my kind entertainers, and the rest of
my visit should be spent in pleasant walks and airings among sets of
agreeable people, in such discourse as I shall naturally dictate, or
in reading some few selected out of those numberless books that are
dedicated to me, and go by my name. A name that, alas! as the world
stands at present, makes them oftener thrown aside than taken up. As
these conversations and books should be both well chosen, to give some
advice on that head may possibly furnish you with a future paper, and
any thing you shall offer on my behalf will be of great service to,

Good Mr. RAMBLER,

Your faithful Friend and Servant,

SUNDAY[42].

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




No. 31. TUESDAY, JULY 3, 1750.


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




No. 32. SATURDAY, JULY 7, 1750.


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Leniter ex merito quicquid patiare ferendum est. _

Let pain deserv'd without complaint be borne.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




No. 33. TUESDAY, JULY 10, 1750.


_Quod caret alterna requie, durabile non est. _
OVID, Epist. iv. 89.

Alternate rest and labour long endure.


In the early ages of the world, as is well known to those who are versed
in ancient traditions, when innocence was yet untainted, and simplicity
unadulterated, mankind was happy in the enjoyment of continual pleasure,
and constant plenty, under the protection of Rest; a gentle divinity,
who required of her worshippers neither altars nor sacrifices, and whose
rites were only performed by prostrations upon turfs of flowers in shades
of jasmine and myrtle, or by dances on the banks of rivers flowing with
milk and nectar.

Under this easy government the first generations breathed the fragrance
of perpetual spring, ate the fruits, which, without culture, fell ripe
into their hands, and slept under bowers arched by nature, with the
birds singing over their heads, and the beasts sporting about them. But
by degrees they began to lose their original integrity; each, though
there was more than enough for all, was desirous of appropriating part
to himself. Then entered Violence and Fraud, and Theft and Rapine. Soon
after Pride and Envy broke into the world, and brought with them a new
standard of wealth; for men, who, till then, thought themselves rich
when they wanted nothing, now rated their demands, not by the calls of
nature, but by the plenty of others; and began to consider themselves as
poor, when they beheld their own possessions exceeded by those of their
neighbours. Now only one could be happy, because only one could have
most, and that one was always in danger, lest the same arts by which he
had supplanted others should be practised upon himself.

Amidst the prevalence of this corruption, the state of the earth was
changed; the year was divided into seasons; part of the ground became
barren, and the rest yielded only berries, acorns, and herbs. The summer
and autumn indeed furnished a coarse and inelegant sufficiency, but
winter was without any relief: Famine, with a thousand diseases which
the inclemency of the air invited into the upper regions, made havock
among men, and there appeared to be danger lest they should be destroyed
before they were reformed.

To oppose the devastations of Famine, who scattered the ground every
where with carcases, Labour came down upon earth. Labour was the son
of Necessity, the nurseling of Hope, and the pupil of Art; he had the
strength of his mother, the spirit of his nurse, and the dexterity of
his governess. His face was wrinkled with the wind, and swarthy with the
sun; he had the implements of husbandry in one hand, with which he turned
up the earth; in the other he had the tools of architecture, and raised
walls and towers at his pleasure. He called out with a rough voice,
"Mortals! see here the power to whom you are consigned, and from whom you
are to hope for all your pleasures, and all your safety. You have long
languished under the dominion of Rest, an impotent and deceitful goddess,
who can neither protect nor relieve you, but resigns you to the first
attacks of either Famine or Disease, and suffers her shades to be invaded
by every enemy, and destroyed by every accident.

"Awake therefore to the call of Labour. I will teach you to remedy the
sterility of the earth, and the severity of the sky; I will compel summer
to find provisions for the winter; I will force the waters to give you
their fish, the air its fowls, and the forest its beasts; I will teach
you to pierce the bowels of the earth, and bring out from the caverns
of the mountains metals which shall give strength to your hands, and
security to your bodies, by which you may be covered from the assaults
of the fiercest beast, and with which you shall fell the oak, and divide
rocks, and subject all nature to your use and pleasure. "

Encouraged by this magnificent invitation, the inhabitants of the globe
considered Labour as their only friend, and hasted to his command. He led
them out to the fields and mountains, and shewed them how to open mines,
to level hills, to drain marshes, and change the course of rivers. The
face of things was immediately transformed; the land was covered with
towns and villages, encompassed with fields of corn, and plantations of
fruit-trees; and nothing was seen but heaps of grain, and baskets of
fruit, full tables, and crowded store-houses.

Thus Labour and his followers added every hour new acquisitions to their
conquests, and saw Famine gradually dispossessed of his dominions; till
at last, amidst their jollity and triumphs, they were depressed and
amazed by the approach of Lassitude, who was known by her sunk eyes and
dejected countenance. She came forward trembling and groaning: at every
groan the hearts of all those that beheld her lost their courage, their
nerves slackened, their hands shook, and the instruments of labour fell
from their grasp.

Shocked with this horrid phantom, they reflected with regret on their easy
compliance with the solicitations of Labour, and began to wish again for
the golden hours which they remembered to have passed under the reign
of Rest, whom they resolved again to visit, and to whom they intended to
dedicate the remaining part of their lives. Rest had not left the world;
they quickly found her, and to atone for their former desertion, invited
her to the enjoyment of those acquisitions which Labour had procured them.

Rest therefore took leave of the groves and valleys, which she had
hitherto inhabited, and entered into palaces, reposed herself in
alcoves, and slumbered away the winter upon beds of down, and the summer
in artificial grottoes with cascades playing before her. There was
indeed always something wanting to complete her felicity, and she could
never lull her returning fugitives to that serenity which they knew
before their engagements with Labour: nor was her dominion entirely
without controul, for she was obliged to share it with Luxury, though
she always looked upon her as a false friend, by whom her influence was
in reality destroyed, while it seemed to be promoted.

The two soft associates, however, reigned for some time without visible
disagreement, till at last Luxury betrayed her charge, and let in Disease
to seize upon her worshippers. Rest then flew away, and left the place to
the usurpers; who employed all their arts to fortify themselves in their
possession, and to strengthen the interest of each other.

Rest had not always the same enemy: in some places she escaped the
incursions of Disease; but had her residence invaded by a more slow and
subtle intruder, for very frequently, when every thing was composed and
quiet, when there was neither pain within, nor danger without, when every
flower was in bloom, and every gale freighted with perfumes, Satiety
would enter with a languishing and repining look, and throw herself upon
the couch placed and adorned for the accommodation of Rest. No sooner was
she seated than a general gloom spread itself on every side, the groves
immediately lost their verdure, and their inhabitants desisted from
their melody, the breeze sunk in sighs, and the flowers contracted their
leaves, and shut up their odours. Nothing was seen on every side but
multitudes wandering about they knew not whether, in quest they knew not
of what; no voice was heard but of complaints that mentioned no pain, and
murmurs that could tell of no misfortune.

Rest had now lost her authority. Her followers again began to treat her
with contempt; some of them united themselves more closely to Luxury, who
promised by her arts to drive Satiety away; and others, that were more
wise, or had more fortitude, went back again to Labour, by whom they were
indeed protected from Satiety, but delivered up in time to Lassitude, and
forced by her to the bowers of Rest.

Thus Rest and Labour equally perceived their reign of short duration and
uncertain tenure, and their empire liable to inroads from those who were
alike enemies to both. They each found their subjects unfaithful, and
ready to desert them upon every opportunity. Labour saw the riches which
he had given always carried away as an offering to Rest, and Rest found
her votaries in every exigence flying from her to beg help of Labour.
They, therefore, at last determined upon an interview, in which they
agreed to divide the world between them, and govern it alternately
allotting the dominion of the day to one, and that of the night to the
other, and promised to guard the frontiers of each other, so that,
whenever hostilities were attempted, Satiety should be intercepted by
Labour, and Lassitude expelled by Rest. Thus the ancient quarrel was
appeased, and as hatred is often succeeded by its contrary, Rest
afterwards became pregnant by Labour, and was delivered of Health, a
benevolent goddess, who consolidated the union of her parents, and
contributed to the regular vicissitudes of their reign, by dispensing
her gifts to those only who shared their lives in just proportions
between Rest and Labour.




No. 34. SATURDAY, JULY 14, 1750.


_----Non sine vano_
_Aurarum et silvæ metu. _
HOR. lib. i. Ode xxiii. 3.

Alarm'd with ev'ry rising gale,
In ev'ry wood, in ev'ry vale.
ELPHINSTON.


I have been censured for having hitherto dedicated so few of my
speculations to the ladies; and indeed the moralist, whose instructions
are accommodated only to one half of the human species, must be
confessed not sufficiently to have extended his views. Yet it is to
be considered, that masculine duties afford more room for counsels
and observations, as they are less uniform, and connected with things
more subject to vicissitude and accident; we therefore find that in
philosophical discourses which teach by precept, or historical narratives
that instruct by example, the peculiar virtues or faults of women
fill but a small part; perhaps generally too small, for so much of our
domestick happiness is in their hands, and their influence is so great
upon our earliest years, that the universal interest of the world
requires them to be well instructed in their province; nor can it be
thought proper that the qualities by which so much pain or pleasure
may be given, should be left to the direction of chance.

I have, therefore, willingly given a place in my paper to a letter,
which perhaps may not be wholly useless to them whose chief ambition
is to please, as it shews how certainly the end is missed by absurd and
injudicious endeavours at distinction.


TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

I am a young gentleman at my own disposal, with a considerable estate;
and having passed through the common forms of education, spent some time
in foreign countries, and made myself distinguished since my return in
the politest company, I am now arrived at that part of life in which
every man is expected to settle, and provide for the continuation of his
lineage. I withstood for some time the solicitations and remonstrances
of my aunts and uncles, but at last was persuaded to visit Anthea, an
heiress, whose land lies contiguous to mine, and whose birth and beauty
are without objection. Our friends declared that we were born for each
other; all those on both sides who had no interest in hindering our
union, contributed to promote it, and were conspiring to hurry us into
matrimony, before we had an opportunity of knowing one another. I was,
however, too old to be given away without my own consent; and having
happened to pick up an opinion, which to many of my relations seemed
extremely odd, that a man might be unhappy with a large estate,
determined to obtain a nearer knowledge of the person with whom I was
to pass the remainder of my time. To protract the courtship was by no
means difficult, for Anthea had a wonderful facility of evading questions
which I seldom repeated, and of barring approaches which I had no great
eagerness to press.

Thus the time passed away in visits and civilities without any ardent
professions of love, or formal offers of settlements. I often attended
her to publick places, in which, as is well known, all behaviour is so
much regulated by custom, that very little insight can be gained into a
private character, and therefore I was not yet able to inform myself of
her humour and inclinations.

At last I ventured to propose to her to make one of a small party,
and spend a day in viewing a seat and gardens a few miles distant;
and having, upon her compliance, collected the rest of the company, I
brought, at the hour, a coach which I had borrowed from an acquaintance,
having delayed to buy one myself, till I should have an opportunity of
taking the lady's opinion for whose use it was intended. Anthea came
down, but as she was going to step into the coach, started back with
great appearance of terrour, and told us that she durst not enter, for
the shocking colour of the lining had so much the air of the mourning
coach in which she followed her aunt's funeral three years before, that
she should never have her poor dear aunt out of her head.

I knew that it was not for lovers to argue with their mistresses; I
therefore sent back the coach and got another more gay. Into this we all
entered; the coachman began to drive, and we were amusing ourselves with
the expectation of what we should see, when, upon a small inclination of
the carriage, Anthea screamed out, that we were overthrown. We were
obliged to fix all our attention upon her, which she took care to keep
up by renewing her outcries, at every corner where we had occasion to
turn; at intervals she entertained us with fretful complaints of the
uneasiness of the coach, and obliged me to call several times on the
coachman to take care and drive without jolting. The poor fellow
endeavoured to please us, and therefore moved very slowly, till Anthea
found out that this pace would only keep us longer on the stones, and
desired that I would order him to make more speed. He whipped his
horses, the coach jolted again, and Anthea very complaisantly told us
how much she repented that she made one of our company.

At last we got into the smooth road, and began to think our difficulties
at an end, when, on a sudden, Anthea saw a brook before us, which she
could not venture to pass. We were, therefore, obliged to alight, that
we might walk over the bridge; but when we came to it we found it so
narrow, that Anthea durst not set her foot upon it, and was content,
after long consultation, to call the coach back, and with innumerable
precautions, terrours, and lamentations, crossed the brook.

It was necessary after this delay to amend our pace, and directions were
accordingly given to the coachman, when Anthea informed us, that it was
common for the axle to catch fire with a quick motion, and begged of me
to look out every minute, lest we should all be consumed. I was forced
to obey, and give her from time to time the most solemn declarations
that all was safe, and that I hoped we should reach the place without
losing our lives either by fire or water.

Thus we passed on, over ways soft and hard, with more or less speed,
but always with new vicissitudes of anxiety. If the ground was hard,
we were jolted; if soft, we were sinking. If we went fast, we should be
overturned; if slowly, we should never reach the place. At length she saw
something which she called a cloud, and began to consider that at that
time of the year it frequently thundered. This seemed to be the capital
terrour, for after that the coach was suffered to move on; and no danger
was thought too dreadful to be encountered, provided she could get into
a house before the thunder.

Thus our whole conversation passed in dangers, and cares, and fears, and
consolations, and stories of ladies dragged in the mire, forced to spend
all the night on the heath, drowned in rivers, or burnt with lightning;
and no sooner had a hair-breadth escape set us free from one calamity,
but we were threatened with another.

At length we reached the house where we intended to regale ourselves,
and I proposed to Anthea the choice of a great number of dishes, which
the place, being well provided for entertainment, happened to afford.
She made some objection to every thing that was offered; one thing she
hated at that time of the year, another she could not bear since she had
seen it spoiled at lady Feedwell's table, another she was sure they
could not dress at this house, and another she could not touch without
French sauce. At last she fixed her mind upon salmon, but there was no
salmon in the house. It was however procured with great expedition, and
when it came to the table she found that her fright had taken away her
stomach, which indeed she thought no great loss, for she could never
believe that any thing at an inn could be cleanly got.

Dinner was now over, and the company proposed, for I was now past the
condition of making overtures, that we should pursue our original design
of visiting the gardens. Anthea declared that she could not imagine what
pleasure we expected from the sight of a few green trees and a little
gravel, and two or three pits of clear water: that for her part she
hated walking till the cool of the evening, and thought it very likely
to rain; and again wished that she had stayed at home. We then reconciled
ourselves to our disappointment, and began to talk on common subjects,
when Anthea told us, that since we came to see gardens, she would not
hinder our satisfaction. We all rose, and walked through the enclosures
for some time, with no other trouble than the necessity of watching lest
a frog should hop across the way, which Anthea told us would certainly
kill her if she should happen to see him.

Frogs, as it fell out, there where none; but when we were within a
furlong of the gardens, Anthea saw some sheep, and heard the wether
clink his bell, which she was certain was not hung upon him for nothing,
and therefore no assurances nor intreaties should prevail upon her to
go a step further; she was sorry to disappoint the company, but her life
was dearer to her than ceremony.

We came back to the inn, and Anthea now discovered that there was no
time to be lost in returning, for the night would come upon us, and
a thousand misfortunes might happen in the dark. The horses were
immediately harnessed, and Anthea having wondered what could seduce her
to stay so long, was eager to set out. But we had now a new scene of
terrour, every man we saw was a robber, and we were ordered sometimes to
drive hard, lest a traveller whom we saw behind should overtake us; and
sometimes to stop, lest we should come up to him who was passing before
us. She alarmed many an honest man, by begging him to spare her life as
he passed by the coach, and drew me into fifteen quarrels with persons
who increased her fright, by kindly stopping to inquire whether they
could assist us. At last we came home, and she told her company next
day what a pleasant ride she had been taking.

I suppose, Sir, I need not inquire of you what deductions may be made from
this narrative, nor what happiness can arise from the society of that
woman who mistakes cowardice for elegance, and imagines all delicacy to
consist in refusing to be pleased.

I am, &c.




No. 35. TUESDAY, JULY 17, 1750.


_----Non pronuba Juno,_
_Non Hymenæus adest, non illi Gratia lecto. _
OVID, Met. vi. 428.

Without connubial Juno's aid they wed;
Nor Hymen nor the Graces bless the bed.