No More Learning

He that thinks with more extent than another will want words
of larger meaning; he that thinks with more subtilty will seek for terms
of more nice discrimination; and where is the wonder, since words are
but the images of things, that he who never knew the original should not
know the copies?

Yet vanity inclines us to find faults any where rather than in
ourselves. He that reads and grows no wiser, seldom suspects his own
deficiency; but complains of hard words and obscure sentences, and asks
why books are written which cannot be understood?

Among the hard words which are no longer to be used, it has been long
the custom to number terms of art. "Every man," says Swift, "is more
able to explain the subject of an art than its professors; a farmer will
tell you, in two words, that he has broken his leg; but a surgeon, after
a long discourse, shall leave you as ignorant as you were before. " This
could only have been said, by such an exact observer of life, in
gratification of malignity, or in ostentation of acuteness. Every hour
produces instances of the necessity of terms of art. Mankind could never
conspire in uniform affectation; it is not but by necessity that every
science and every trade has its peculiar language. They that content
themselves with general ideas may rest in general terms; but those,
whose studies or employments force them upon closer inspection, must
have names for particular parts, and words by which they may express
various modes of combination, such as none but themselves have occasion
to consider.

Artists are indeed sometimes ready to suppose that none can be strangers
to words to which themselves are familiar, talk to an incidental
inquirer as they talk to one another, and make their knowledge
ridiculous by injudicious obtrusion. An art cannot be taught but by its
proper terms, but it is not always necessary to teach the art.

That the vulgar express their thoughts clearly, is far from true; and
what perspicuity can be found among them proceeds not from the easiness
of their language, but the shallowness of their thoughts. He that sees a
building as a common spectator, contents himself with relating that it
is great or little, mean or splendid, lofty or low; all these words are
intelligible and common, but they convey no distinct or limited ideas;
if he attempts, without the terms of architecture, to delineate the
parts, or enumerate the ornaments, his narration at once becomes
unintelligible. The terms, indeed, generally displease, because they are
understood by few; but they are little understood, only because few that
look upon an edifice examine its parts, or analyze its columns into
their members.

The state of every other art is the same; as it is cursorily surveyed or
accurately examined, different forms of expression become proper. In
morality it is one thing to discuss the niceties of the casuist, and
another to direct the practice of common life. In agriculture, he that
instructs the farmer to plough and sow, may convey his notions without
the words which he would find necessary in explaining to philosophers
the process of vegetation; and if he, who has nothing to do but to be
honest by the shortest way, will perplex his mind with subtile
speculations; or if he, whose task is to reap and thrash, will not be
contented without examining the evolution of the seed and circulation of
the sap; the writers whom either shall consult are very little to be
blamed, though it should sometimes happen that they are read in vain.




No. 71. SATURDAY, AUGUST 25, 1759.

Celan le selve angui, leoni, ed orsi
Dentro il lor verde. TASSO, L'AMINTA.

Dick Shifter was born in Cheapside, and, having passed reputably through
all the classes of St. Paul's school, has been for some years a student
in the Temple. He is of opinion, that intense application dulls the
faculties, and thinks it necessary to temper the severity of the law by
books that engage the mind, but do not fatigue it. He has, therefore,
made a copious collection of plays, poems, and romances, to which he has
recourse when he fancies himself tired with statutes and reports; and he
seldom inquires very nicely whether he is weary or idle.

Dick has received from his favourite authors very strong impressions of
a country life; and though his furthest excursions have been to
Greenwich on one side, and Chelsea on the other, he has talked for
several years, with great pomp of language and elevation of sentiments,
about a state too high for contempt and too low for envy, about homely
quiet and blameless simplicity, pastoral delights and rural innocence.

His friends, who, had estates in the country, often invited him to pass
the summer among them, but something or other had always hindered him;
and he considered, that to reside in the house of another man was to
incur a kind of dependence inconsistent with that laxity of life which
he had imaged as the chief good.

This summer he resolved to be happy, and procured a lodging to be taken
for him at a solitary house, situated about thirty miles from London, on
the banks of a small river, with corn-fields before it and a hill on
each side covered with wood. He concealed the place of his retirement,
that none might violate his obscurity, and promised himself many a happy
day when he should hide himself among the trees, and contemplate the
tumults and vexations of the town.

He stepped into the post-chaise with his heart beating and his eyes
sparkling, was conveyed through many varieties of delightful prospects,
saw hills and meadows, cornfields and pasture, succeed each other, and
for four hours charged none of his poets with fiction or exaggeration.
He was now within six miles of happiness, when, having never felt so
much agitation before, he began to wish his journey at an end, and the
last hour was passed in changing his posture and quarrelling with his
driver.

An hour may be tedious, but cannot be long. He at length alighted at his
new dwelling, and was received as he expected; he looked round upon the
hills and rivulets, but his joints were stiff and his muscles sore, and
his first request was to see his bed-chamber.

He rested well, and ascribed the soundness of his sleep to the stillness
of the country. He expected from that time nothing but nights of quiet
and days of rapture, and, as soon as he had risen, wrote an account of
his new state to one of his friends in the Temple.

"Dear Frank,

"I never pitied thee before. I am now, as I could wish every man of
wisdom and virtue to be, in the regions of calm content and placid
meditation; with all the beauties of nature soliciting my notice, and
all the diversities of pleasure courting my acceptance; the birds are
chirping in the hedges, and the flowers blooming in the mead; the breeze
is whistling in the wood, and the sun dancing on the water. I can now
say, with truth, that a man, capable of enjoying the purity of
happiness, is never more busy than in his hours of leisure, nor ever
less solitary than in a place of solitude.

I am, dear Frank, &c. "

When he had sent away his letter, he walked into the wood, with some
inconvenience, from the furze that pricked his legs, and the briars that
scratched his face. He at last sat down under a tree, and heard with
great delight a shower, by which he was not wet, rattling among the
branches: This, said he, is the true image of obscurity; we hear of
troubles and commotions, but never feel them.

His amusement did not overpower the calls of nature, and he, therefore,
went back to order his dinner. He knew that the country produces
whatever is eaten or drunk, and, imagining that he was now at the source
of luxury, resolved to indulge himself with dainties which he supposed
might be procured at a price next to nothing, if any price at all was
expected; and intended to amaze the rusticks with his generosity, by
paying more than they would ask. Of twenty dishes which he named, he was
amazed to find that scarcely one was to be had; and heard, with
astonishment and indignation, that all the fruits of the earth were sold
at a higher price than in the streets of London.

His meal was short and sullen; and he retired again to his tree, to
inquire how dearness could be consistent with abundance, or how fraud
should be practised by simplicity. He was not satisfied with his own
speculations, and, returning home early in the evening, went a while
from window to window, and found that he wanted something to do.

He inquired for a newspaper, and was told that farmers never minded
news, but that they could send for it from the alehouse. A messenger was
despatched, who ran away at full speed, but loitered an hour behind the
hedges, and at last coming back with his feet purposely bemired, instead
of expressing the gratitude which Mr. Shifter expected for the bounty of
a shilling, said, that the night was wet, and the way dirty, and he
hoped that his worship would not think it much to give him half-a-crown.

Dick now went to bed with some abatement of his expectations; but sleep,
I know not how, revives our hopes, and rekindles our desires. He rose
early in the morning, surveyed the landscape, and was pleased. He walked
out, and passed from field to field, without observing any beaten path,
and wondered that he had not seen the shepherdesses dancing, nor heard
the swains piping to their flocks.

At last he saw some reapers and harvest-women at dinner. Here, said he,
are the true Arcadians; and advanced courteously towards them, as afraid
of confusing them by the dignity of his presence. They acknowledged his
superiority by no other token than that of asking him for something to
drink. He imagined that he had now purchased the privilege of discourse,
and began to descend to familiar questions, endeavouring to accommodate
his discourse to the grossness of rustick understandings. The clowns
soon found, that he did not know wheat from rye, and began to despise
him; one of the boys, by pretending to show him a bird's nest, decoyed
him into a ditch; and one of the wenches sold him a bargain.

This walk had given him no great pleasure; but he hoped to find other
rusticks less coarse of manners, and less mischievous of disposition.
Next morning he was accosted by an attorney, who told him that, unless
he made farmer Dobson satisfaction for trampling his grass, he had
orders to indict him. Shifter was offended, but not terrified; and,
telling the attorney that he was himself a lawyer, talked so volubly of
pettyfoggers and barrators, that he drove him away.

Finding his walks thus interrupted, he was inclined to ride, and, being
pleased with the appearance of a horse that was grazing in a
neighbouring meadow, inquired the owner, who warranted him sound, and
would not sell him, but that he was too fine for a plain man. Dick paid
down the price, and, riding out to enjoy the evening, fell with his new
horse into a ditch; they got out with difficulty, and, as he was going
to mount again, a countryman looked at the horse, and perceived him to
be blind. Dick went to the seller, and demanded back his money; but was
told, that a man who rented his ground must do the best for himself;
that his landlord had his rent though the year was barren; and that,
whether horses had eyes or no, he should sell them to the highest
bidder.

Shifter now began to be tired with rustick simplicity, and on the fifth
day took possession again of his chambers, and bade farewell to the
regions of calm content and placid meditation.




No. 72. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 1759.

Men complain of nothing more frequently than of deficient memory; and,
indeed, every one finds that many of the ideas which he desired to
retain have slipped irretrievably away; that the acquisitions of the
mind are sometimes equally fugitive with the gifts of fortune; and that
a short intermission of attention more certainly lessens knowledge than
impairs an estate.

To assist this weakness of our nature, many methods have been proposed,
all of which may be justly suspected of being ineffectual; for no art of
memory, however its effects have been boasted or admired, has been ever
adopted into general use, nor have those who possessed it appeared to
excel others in readiness of recollection or multiplicity of
attainments.

There is another art of which all have felt the want, though
Themistocles only confessed it. We suffer equal pain from the
pertinacious adhesion of unwelcome images, as from the evanescence of
those which are pleasing and useful; and it may be doubted whether we
should be more benefited by the art of memory or the art of
forgetfulness.

Forgetfulness is necessary to remembrance. Ideas are retained by
renovation of that impression which time is always wearing away, and
which new images are striving to obliterate. If useless thoughts could
be expelled from the mind, all the valuable parts of our knowledge would
more frequently recur, and every recurrence would reinstate them in
their former place.

It is impossible to consider, without some regret, how much might have
been learned, or how much might have been invented, by a rational and
vigorous application of time, uselessly or painfully passed in the
revocation of events, which have left neither good nor evil behind them,
in grief for misfortunes either repaired or irreparable, in resentment
of injuries known only to ourselves, of which death has put the authors
beyond our power.

Philosophy has accumulated precept upon precept, to warn us against the
anticipation of future calamities. All useless misery is certainly
folly, and he that feels evils before they come may be deservedly
censured; yet surely to dread the future is more reasonable than to
lament the past. The business of life is to go forwards: he who sees
evil in prospect meets it in his way; but he who catches it by
retrospection turns back to find it. That which is feared may sometimes
be avoided, but that which is regretted to-day may be regretted again
to-morrow.

Regret is indeed useful and virtuous, and not only allowable but
necessary, when it tends to the amendment of life, or to admonition of
errour which we may be again in danger of committing. But a very small
part of the moments spent in meditation on the past, produce any
reasonable caution or salutary sorrow. Most of the mortifications that
we have suffered, arose from the concurrence of local and temporary
circumstances, which can never meet again; and most of our
disappointments have succeeded those expectations, which life allows not
to be formed a second time.

It would add much to human happiness, if an art could be taught of
forgetting all of which the remembrance is at once useless and
afflictive; if that pain which never can end in pleasure could be driven
totally away, that the mind might perform its functions without
incumbrance, and the past might no longer encroach upon the present.

Little can be done well to which the whole mind is not applied; the
business of every day calls for the day to which it is assigned; and he
will have no leisure to regret yesterday's vexations who resolves not to
have a new subject of regret to-morrow.

But to forget or to remember at pleasure, are equally beyond the power
of man. Yet as memory may be assisted by method, and the decays of
knowledge repaired by stated times of recollection, so the power of
forgetting is capable of improvement. Reason will, by a resolute
contest, prevail over imagination, and the power may be obtained of
transferring the attention as judgment shall direct.

The incursions of troublesome thoughts are often violent and
importunate; and it is not easy to a mind accustomed to their inroads to
expel them immediately by putting better images into motion; but this
enemy of quiet is above all others weakened by every defeat; the
reflection which has been once overpowered and ejected, seldom returns
with any formidable vehemence.

Employment is the great instrument of intellectual dominion. The mind
cannot retire from its enemy into total vacancy, or turn aside from one
object but by passing to another. The gloomy and the resentful are
always found among those who have nothing to do, or who do nothing. We
must be busy about good or evil, and he to whom the present offers
nothing will often be looking backward on the past.




No. 73. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1759.

That every man would be rich if a wish could obtain riches, is a
position which I believe few will contest, at least in a nation like
ours, in which commerce has kindled an universal emulation of wealth,
and in which money receives all the honours which are the proper right
of knowledge and of virtue.

Yet, though we are all labouring for gold as for the chief good, and, by
the natural effort of unwearied diligence, have found many expeditious
methods of obtaining it, we have not been able to improve the art of
using it, or to make it produce more happiness than it afforded in
former times, when every declaimer expatiated on its mischiefs, and
every philosopher taught his followers to despise it.

Many of the dangers imputed of old to exorbitant wealth, are now at an
end. The rich are neither waylaid by robbers, nor watched by informers;
there is nothing to be dreaded from proscriptions, or seizures. The
necessity of concealing treasure has long ceased; no man now needs
counterfeit mediocrity, and condemn his plate and jewels to caverns and
darkness, or feast his mind with the consciousness of clouded splendour,
of finery which is useless till it is shown, and which he dares not
show.

In our time, the poor are strongly tempted to assume the appearance of
wealth, but the wealthy very rarely desire to be thought poor; for we
are all at full liberty to display riches by every mode of ostentation.
We fill our houses with useless ornaments, only to show that we can buy
them; we cover our coaches with gold, and employ artists in the
discovery of new fashions of expense; and yet it cannot be found that
riches produce happiness.

Of riches, as of every thing else, the hope is more than the enjoyment:
while we consider them as the means to be used, at some future time, for
the attainment of felicity, we press on our pursuit ardently and
vigorously, and that ardour secures us from weariness of ourselves; but
no sooner do we sit down to enjoy our acquisitions, than we find them
insufficient to fill up the vacuities of life.

One cause which is not always observed of the insufficiency of riches
is, that they very seldom make their owner rich. To be rich, is to have
more than is desired, and more than is wanted, to have something which
may be spent without reluctance, and scattered without care, with which
the sudden demands of desire may be gratified, the casual freaks of
fancy indulged, or the unexpected opportunities of benevolence improved.

Avarice is always poor, but poor by her own fault. There is another
poverty to which the rich are exposed with less guilt by the
officiousness of others. Every man, eminent for exuberance of fortune,
is surrounded from morning to evening, and from evening to midnight, by
flatterers, whose art of adulation consists in exciting artificial
wants, and in forming new schemes of profusion.

Tom Tranquil, when he came to age, found himself in possession of a
fortune, of which the twentieth part might perhaps have made him rich.
His temper is easy, and his affections soft; he receives every man with
kindness, and hears him with credulity. His friends took care to settle
him by giving him a wife, whom, having no particular inclination, he
rather accepted than chose, because he was told that she was proper for
him.

He was now to live with dignity proportionate to his fortune. What his
fortune requires or admits Tom does not know, for he has little skill in
computation, and none of his friends think it their interest to improve
it. If he was suffered to live by his own choice, he would leave every
thing as he finds it, and pass through the world distinguished only by
inoffensive gentleness. But the ministers of luxury have marked him out
as one at whose expense they may exercise their arts. A companion, who
had just learned the names of the Italian masters, runs from sale to
sale, and buys pictures, for which Mr. Tranquil pays, without inquiring
where they shall be hung. Another fills his garden with statues, which
Tranquil wishes away, but dares not remove. One of his friends is
learning architecture by building him a house, which he passed by, and
inquired to whom it belonged; another has been for three years digging
canals and raising mounts, cutting trees down in one place, and planting
them in another, on which Tranquil looks with a serene indifference,
without asking what will be the cost. Another projector tells him that a
waterwork, like that of Versailles, will complete the beauties of his
seat, and lays his draughts before him: Tranquil turns his eyes upon
them, and the artist begins his explanations; Tranquil raises no
objections, but orders him to begin the work, that he may escape from
talk which he does not understand.

Thus a thousand hands are busy at his expense, without adding to his
pleasures. He pays and receives visits, and has loitered in publick or
in solitude, talking in summer of the town, and in winter of the
country, without knowing that his fortune is impaired, till his steward
told him this morning, that he could pay the workmen no longer but by
mortgaging a manor.




No. 74. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1759.

In the mythological pedigree of learning, memory is made the mother of
the muses, by which the masters of ancient wisdom, perhaps, meant to
show the necessity of storing the mind copiously with true notions,
before the imagination should be suffered to form fictions or collect
embellishments; for the works of an ignorant poet can afford nothing
higher than pleasing sound, and fiction is of no other use than to
display the treasures of memory.

The necessity of memory to the acquisition of knowledge is inevitably
felt and universally allowed, so that scarcely any other of the mental
faculties are commonly considered as necessary to a student: he that
admires the proficiency of another, always attributes it to the
happiness of his memory; and he that laments his own defects, concludes
with a wish that his memory was better.

It is evident, that when the power of retention is weak, all the
attempts at eminence of knowledge must be vain; and as few are willing
to be doomed to perpetual ignorance, I may, perhaps, afford consolation
to some that have fallen too easily into despondence, by observing that
such weakness is, in my opinion, very rare, and that few have reason to
complain of nature as unkindly sparing of the gifts of memory.

In the common business of life, we find the memory of one like that of
another, and honestly impute omissions not to involuntary forgetfulness,
but culpable inattention; but in literary inquiries, failure is imputed
rather to want of memory than of diligence.

We consider ourselves as defective in memory, either because we remember
less than we desire, or less than we suppose others to remember.

Memory is like all other human powers, with which no man can be
satisfied who measures them by what he can conceive, or by what he can
desire. He whose mind is most capacious, finds it much too narrow for
his wishes; he that remembers most, remembers little compared with what
he forgets. He, therefore, that, after the perusal of a book, finds few
ideas remaining in his mind, is not to consider the disappointment as
peculiar to himself, or to resign all hopes of improvement, because he
does not retain what even the author has, perhaps, forgotten.

He who compares his memory with that of others, is often too hasty to
lament the inequality. Nature has sometimes, indeed, afforded examples
of enormous, wonderful and gigantick memory. Scaliger reports of
himself, that, in his youth, he could repeat above a hundred verses,
having once read them; and Barthicus declares, that he wrote his comment
upon Claudian without consulting the text. But not to have such degrees
of memory is no more to be lamented, than not to have the strength of
Hercules, or the swiftness of Achilles. He that, in the distribution of
good, has an equal share with common men, may justly be contented. Where
there is no striking disparity, it is difficult to know of two which
remembers most, and still more difficult to discover which reads with
greater attention, which has renewed the first impression by more
frequent repetitions, or by what accidental combination of ideas either
mind might have united any particular narrative or argument to its
former stock.

But memory, however impartially distributed, so often deceives our
trust, that almost every man attempts, by some artifice or other, to
secure its fidelity.

It is the practice of many readers to note, in the margin of their
books, the most important passages, the strongest arguments, or the
brightest sentiments. Thus they load their minds with superfluous
attention, repress the vehemence of curiosity by useless deliberation,
and by frequent interruption break the current of narration or the chain
of reason, and at last close the volume, and forget the passages and
marks together.

Others I have found unalterably persuaded, that nothing is certainly
remembered but what is transcribed; and they have, therefore, passed
weeks and months in transferring large quotations to a commonplace-book.
Yet, why any part of a book, which can be consulted at pleasure, should
be copied, I was never able to discover. The hand has no closer
correspondence with the memory than the eye. The act of writing itself
distracts the thoughts, and what is read twice is commonly better
remembered than what is transcribed. This method, therefore, consumes
time without assisting memory.

The true art of memory is the art of attention. No man will read with
much advantage, who is not able, at pleasure, to evacuate his mind, or
who brings not to his author an intellect defecated and pure, neither
turbid with care, nor agitated by pleasure. If the repositories of
thought are already full, what can they receive? If the mind is employed
on the past or future, the book will be held before the eyes in vain.
What is read with delight is commonly retained, because pleasure always
secures attention; but the books which are consulted by occasional
necessity, and perused with impatience, seldom leave any traces on the
mind.




No. 75. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 1759.

In the time when Bassora was considered as the school of Asia, and
flourished by the reputation of its professors and the confluence of its
students, among the pupils that listened round the chair of Albumazar
was Gelaleddin, a native of Tauris, in Persia, a young man amiable in
his manners and beautiful in his form, of boundless curiosity, incessant
diligence, and irresistible genius, of quick apprehension and tenacious
memory, accurate without narrowness, and eager for novelty without
inconstancy.

No sooner did Gelaleddin appear at Bassora, than his virtues and
abilities raised him to distinction. He passed from class to class
rather admired than envied by those whom the rapidity of his progress
left behind; he was consulted by his fellow-students as an oraculous
guide, and admitted as a competent auditor to the conferences of the
sages.

After a few years, having passed through all the exercises of probation,
Gelaleddin was invited to a professor's seat, and entreated to increase
the splendour of Bassora. Gelaleddin affected to deliberate on the
proposal, with which, before he considered it, he resolved to comply;
and next morning retired to a garden planted for the recreation of the
students, and, entering a solitary walk, began to meditate upon his
future life.

"If I am thus eminent," said he, "in the regions of literature, I shall
be yet more conspicuous in any other place; if I should now devote
myself to study and retirement, I must pass my life in silence,
unacquainted with the delights of wealth, the influence of power, the
pomp of greatness, and the charms of elegance, with all that man envies
and desires, with all that keeps the world in motion, by the hope of
gaining or the fear of losing it. I will, therefore, depart to Tauris,
where the Persian monarch resides in all the splendour of absolute
dominion: my reputation will fly before me, my arrival will be
congratulated by my kinsmen and my friends; I shall see the eyes of
those who predict my greatness sparkling with exultation, and the faces
of those that once despised me clouded with envy, or counterfeiting
kindness by artificial smiles. I will show my wisdom by my discourse,
and my moderation by my silence; I will instruct the modest with easy
gentleness, and repress the ostentatious by seasonable superciliousness.
My apartments will be crowded by the inquisitive and the vain, by those
that honour and those that rival me; my name will soon reach the court;
I shall stand before the throne of the emperour: the judges of the law
will confess my wisdom, and the nobles will contend to heap gifts upon
me. If I shall find that my merit, like that of others, excites
malignity, or feel myself tottering on the seat of elevation, I may at
last retire to academical obscurity, and become, in my lowest state, a
professor of Bassora. "

Having thus settled his determination, he declared to his friends his
design of visiting Tauris, and saw with more pleasure than he ventured
to express, the regret with which he was dismissed. He could not bear to
delay the honours to which he was destined, and, therefore, hastened
away, and in a short time entered the capital of Persia. He was
immediately immersed in the crowd, and passed unobserved to his father's
house. He entered, and was received, though not unkindly, yet without
any excess of fondness or exclamations of rapture. His father had, in
his absence, suffered many losses, and Gelaleddin was considered as an
additional burden to a falling family.

When he recovered from his surprise, he began to display his
acquisitions, and practised all the arts of narration and disquisition:
but the poor have no leisure to be pleased with eloquence; they heard
his arguments without reflection, and his pleasantries without a smile.
He then applied himself singly to his brothers and sisters, but found
them all chained down by invariable attention to their own fortunes, and
insensible of any other excellence than that which could bring some
remedy for indigence.

It was now known in the neighbourhood that Gelaleddin was returned, and
he sat for some days in expectation that the learned would visit him for
consultation, or the great for entertainment. But who will be pleased or
instructed in the mansions of poverty? He then frequented places of
publick resort, and endeavoured to attract notice by the copiousness of
his talk. The sprightly were silenced, and went away to censure, in some
other place, his arrogance and his pedantry; and the dull listened
quietly for a while, and then wondered why any man should take pains to
obtain so much knowledge which would never do him good.

He next solicited the visiers for employment, not doubting but his
service would be eagerly accepted. He was told by one that there was no
vacancy in his office; by another, that his merit was above any
patronage but that of the emperour; by a third, that he would not forget
him; and by the chief visier, that he did not think literature of any
great use in publick business. He was sometimes admitted to their
tables, where he exerted his wit and diffused his knowledge; but he
observed, that where, by endeavour or accident, he had remarkably
excelled, he was seldom invited a second time.

He now returned to Bassora, wearied and disgusted, but confident of
resuming his former rank, and revelling again in satiety of praise. But
he who had been neglected at Tauris, was not much regarded at Bassora;
he was considered as a fugitive, who returned only because he could live
in no other place; his companions found that they had formerly overrated
his abilities, and he lived long without notice or esteem.




No. 76. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1759.

TO THE IDLER,

Sir,

I was much pleased with your ridicule of those shallow criticks, whose
judgment, though often right as far as it goes, yet reaches only to
inferior beauties, and who, unable to comprehend the whole, judge only
by parts, and from thence determine the merit of extensive works. But
there is another kind of critick still worse, who judges by narrow
rules, and those too often false, and which, though they should be true,
and founded on nature, will lead him but a very little way toward the
just estimation of the sublime beauties in works of genius; for whatever
part of an art can be executed or criticised by rules, that part is no
longer the work of genius, which implies excellence out of the reach of
rules. For my own part, I profess myself an Idler, and love to give my
judgment, such as it is, from my immediate perceptions, without much
fatigue of thinking; and I am of opinion that, if a man has not those
perceptions right, it will be vain for him to endeavour to supply their
place by rules, which may enable him to talk more learnedly, but not to
distinguish more acutely. Another reason which has lessened my affection
for the study of criticism is, that criticks, so far as I have observed,
debar themselves from receiving any pleasure from the polite arts, at
the same time, that they profess to love and admire them: for these
rules, being always uppermost, give them such a propensity to criticise,
that, instead of giving up the reins of their imagination into their
author's hands, their frigid minds are employed in examining whether the
performance be according to the rules of art.

To those who are resolved to be criticks in spite of nature, and, at the
same time, have no great disposition to much reading and study, I would
recommend to them to assume the character of connoisseur, which may be
purchased at a much cheaper rate than that of a critick in poetry. The
remembrance of a few names of painters, with their general characters,
with a few rules of the academy, which they may pick up among the
painters, will go a great way towards making a very notable connoisseur.

With a gentleman of this cast, I visited last week the Cartoons at
Hampton-court; he was just returned from Italy, a connoisseur of course,
and of course his mouth full of nothing but the grace of Raffaelle, the
purity of Domenichino, the learning of Poussin, the air of Guido, the
greatness of taste of the Carraccis, and the sublimity and grand
contorno of Michael Angelo; with all the rest of the cant of criticism,
which he emitted with that volubility which generally those orators have
who annex no ideas to their words.

As we were passing through the rooms, in our way to the gallery, I made
him observe a whole length of Charles the First by Vandyke, as a perfect
representation of the character as well as the figure of the man. He
agreed it was very fine, but it wanted spirit and contrast, and had not
the flowing line, without which a figure could not possibly be graceful.
When we entered the gallery, I thought I could perceive him recollecting
his rules by which he was to criticise Raffaelle. I shall pass over his
observation of the boats being too little, and other criticisms of that
kind, till we arrive at St. Paul preaching.

"This," says he, "is esteemed the most excellent of all the cartoons;
what nobleness, what dignity, there is in that figure of St. Paul! and
yet what an addition to that nobleness could Raffaelle have given, had
the art of contrast been known in his time!
but, above all, the flowing
line which constitutes grace and beauty! You would not have then seen an
upright figure standing equally on both legs, and both hands stretched
forward in the same direction, and his drapery, to all appearance,
without the least art of disposition. " The following picture is the
Charge to Peter. "Here," says he, "are twelve upright figures; what a
pity it is that Raffaelle was not acquainted with the pyramidal
principle! He would then have contrived the figures in the middle to
have been on higher ground, or the figures at the extremities stooping
or lying, which would not only have formed the group into the shape of a
pyramid, but likewise contrasted the standing figures. Indeed," added
he, "I have often lamented that so great a genius as Raffaelle had not
lived in this enlightened age, since the art has been reduced to
principles, and had had his education in one of the modern academies;
what glorious works might we have then expected from his divine pencil! "

I shall trouble you no longer with my friend's observations, which, I
suppose, you are now able to continue by yourself. It is curious to
observe, that, at the same time that great admiration is pretended for a
name of fixed reputation, objections are raised against those very
qualities by which that great name was acquired.

Those criticks are continually lamenting that Raffaelle had not the
colouring and harmony of Rubens, or the light and shadow of Rembrant,
without considering how much the gay harmony of the former, and
affectation of the latter, would take from the dignity of Raffaelle; and
yet Rubens had great harmony, and Rembrant understood light and shadow:
but what may be an excellence in a lower class of painting, becomes a
blemish in a higher; as the quick, sprightly turn, which is the life and
beauty of epigrammatick compositions, would but ill suit with the
majesty of heroick poetry.

To conclude; I would not be thought to infer, from any thing that has
been said, that rules are absolutely unnecessary; but to censure
scrupulosity, a servile attention to minute exactness, which is
sometimes inconsistent with higher excellency, and is lost in the blaze
of expanded genius.

I do not know whether you will think painting a general subject. By
inserting this letter, perhaps, you will incur the censure a man would
deserve, whose business being to entertain a whole room, should turn his
back to the company, and talk to a particular person[1].

I am, Sir, &c.

[1] By Sir Joshua Reynolds.




No. 77. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 6, 1759.

Easy poetry is universally admired; but I know not whether any rule has
yet been fixed, by which it may be decided when poetry can be properly
called easy. Horace has told us, that it is such as "every reader hopes
to equal, but after long labour finds unattainable. " This is a very
loose description, in which only the effect is noted; the qualities
which produce this effect remain to be investigated.

Easy poetry is that in which natural thoughts are expressed without
violence to the language. The discriminating character of ease consists
principally in the diction; for all true poetry requires that the
sentiments be natural. Language suffers violence by harsh or by daring
figures, by transposition, by unusual acceptations of words, and by any
licence, which would be avoided by a writer of prose. Where any artifice
appears in the construction of the verse, that verse is no longer easy.
Any epithet which can be ejected without diminution of the sense, any
curious iteration of the same word, and all unusual, though not
ungrammatical structure of speech, destroy the grace of easy poetry.

The first lines of Pope's Iliad afford examples of many licences which
an easy writer must decline:

Achilles' _wrath_, to Greece the _direful spring_
Of woes unnumber'd, _heav'nly_ Goddess sing;
The wrath which _hurl'd_ to Pluto's _gloomy reign_
The souls of _mighty_ chiefs untimely slain.

In the first couplet the language is distorted by inversions, clogged
with superfluities, and clouded by a harsh metaphor; and in the second
there are two words used in an uncommon sense, and two epithets inserted
only to lengthen the line; all these practices may in a long work easily
be pardoned, but they always produce some degree of obscurity and
ruggedness.

Easy poetry has been so long excluded by ambition of ornament, and
luxuriance of imagery, that its nature seems now to be forgotten.
Affectation, however opposite to ease, is sometimes mistaken for it; and
those who aspire to gentle elegance, collect female phrases and
fashionable barbarisms, and imagine that style to be easy which custom
has made familiar. Such was the idea of the poet who wrote the following
verses to a _countess cutting paper_:

Pallas grew _vap'rish once and odd_,
She would not _do the least right thing_
Either for Goddess or for God,
Nor work, nor play, nor paint, nor sing.

Jove frown'd, and "Use (he cried) those eyes
So skilful, and those hands so taper;
Do something exquisite and wise"--
She bow'd, obey'd him, and cut paper.

This vexing him who gave her birth,
Thought by all Heaven a _burning shame_,
_What does she next_, but bids on earth
Her Burlington do just the same?

Pallas, you give yourself _strange airs_;
But sure you'll find it hard to spoil
The sense and taste of one that bears
The name of Savile and of Boyle.

Alas! one bad example shown,
How quickly all the sex pursue!
See, madam! see the arts o'erthrown
Between John Overton and _you_.

It is the prerogative of easy poetry to be understood as long as the
language lasts; but modes of speech, which owe their prevalence only to
modish folly, or to the eminence of those that use them, die away with
their inventors, and their meaning, in a few years, is no longer known.

Easy poetry is commonly sought in petty compositions upon minute
subjects; but ease, though it excludes pomp, will admit greatness. Many
lines in Cato's soliloquy are at once easy and sublime:

'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us;
'Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
--If there's a Power above us,
And that there is all Nature cries aloud
Through all her works, he must delight in virtue,
And that which he delights in must be happy.

Nor is ease more contrary to wit than to sublimity; the celebrated
stanza of Cowley, on a lady elaborately dressed, loses nothing of its
freedom by the spirit of the sentiment:

Th' adorning thee with so much art
Is but a barb'rous skill;
'Tis like the pois'ning of a dart,
Too apt before to kill.

Cowley seems to have possessed the power of writing easily beyond any
other of our poets; yet his pursuit of remote thought led him often into
harshness of expression.

Waller often attempted, but seldom attained it; for he is too frequently
driven into transpositions. The poets, from the time of Dryden, have
gradually advanced in embellishment, and consequently departed from
simplicity and ease.

To require from any author many pieces of easy poetry, would be indeed
to oppress him with too hard a task. It is less difficult to write a
volume of lines swelled with epithets, brightened by figures, and
stiffened by transpositions, than to produce a few couplets graced only
by naked elegance and simple purity, which require so much care and
skill, that I doubt whether any of our authors have yet been able, for
twenty lines together, nicely to observe the true definition of easy
poetry.




No. 78. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1759.

I have passed the summer in one of those places to which a mineral
spring gives the idle and luxurious an annual reason for resorting,
whenever they fancy themselves offended by the heat of London. What is
the true motive of this periodical assembly, I have never yet been able
to discover. The greater part of the visitants neither feel diseases nor
fear them. What pleasure can be expected more than the variety of the
journey, I know not, for the numbers are too great for privacy, and too
small for diversion. As each is known to be a spy upon the rest, they
all live in continual restraint; and having but a narrow range for
censure, they gratify its cravings by preying on one another.

But every condition has some advantages. In this confinement, a smaller
circle affords opportunities for more exact observation. The glass that
magnifies its object contracts the sight to a point; and the mind must
be fixed upon a single character to remark its minute peculiarities. The
quality or habit which passes unobserved in the tumult of successive
multitudes, becomes conspicuous when it is offered to the notice day
after day; and, perhaps, I have, without any distinct notice, seen
thousands like my late companions; for when the scene can be varied at
pleasure, a slight disgust turns us aside before a deep impression can
be made upon the mind.

There was a select set, supposed to be distinguished by superiority of
intellects, who always passed the evening together. To be admitted to
their conversation was the highest honour of the place; many youths
aspired to distinction, by pretending to occasional invitations; and the
ladies were often wishing to be men, that they might partake the
pleasures of learned society.

I know not whether by merit or destiny, I was, soon after my arrival,
admitted to this envied party, which I frequented till I had learned the
art by which each endeavoured to support his character.

Tom Steady was a vehement assertor of uncontroverted truth; and by
keeping himself out of the reach of contradiction had acquired all the
confidence which the consciousness of irresistible abilities could have
given. I was once mentioning a man of eminence, and, after having
recounted his virtues, endeavoured to represent him fully, by mentioning
his faults. "Sir," said Mr. Steady, "that he has faults I can easily
believe, for who is without them? No man, Sir, is now alive, among the
innumerable multitudes that swarm upon the earth, however wise, or
however good, who has not, in some degree, his failings and his faults.
If there be any man faultless, bring him forth into publick view, show
him openly, and let him be known; but I will venture to affirm, and,
till the contrary be plainly shown, shall always maintain, that no such
man is to be found. Tell not me, Sir, of impeccability and perfection;
such talk is for those that are strangers in the world: I have seen
several nations, and conversed with all ranks of people; I have known
the great and the mean, the learned and the ignorant, the old and the
young, the clerical and the lay; but I have never found a man without a
fault; and I suppose shall die in the opinion, that to be human is to be
frail. "

To all this nothing could be opposed. I listened with a hanging head;
Mr. Steady looked round on the hearers with triumph, and saw every eye
congratulating his victory; he departed, and spent the next morning in
following those who retired from the company, and telling them, with
injunctions of secrecy, how poor Spritely began to take liberties with
men wiser than himself; but that he suppressed him by a decisive
argument, which put him totally to silence.

Dick Snug is a man of sly remark and pithy sententiousness: he never
immerges himself in the stream of conversation, but lies to catch his
companions in the eddy: he is often very successful in breaking
narratives and confounding eloquence. A gentleman, giving the history of
one of his acquaintance, made mention of a lady that had many lovers:
"Then," said Dick, "she was either handsome or rich. " This observation
being well received, Dick watched the progress of the tale; and, hearing
of a man lost in a shipwreck, remarked, that "no man was ever drowned
upon dry land. "

Will Startle is a man of exquisite sensibility, whose delicacy of frame
and quickness of discernment subject him to impressions from the
slightest causes; and who, therefore, passes his life between rapture
and horrour, in quiverings of delight, or convulsions of disgust. His
emotions are too violent for many words; his thoughts are always
discovered by exclamations. _Vile, odious, horrid, detestable_, and
_sweet, charming, delightful, astonishing_, compose almost his whole
vocabulary, which he utters with various contortions and gesticulations,
not easily related or described.

Jack Solid is a man of much reading, who utters nothing but quotations;
but having been, I suppose, too confident of his memory, he has for some
time neglected his books, and his stock grows every day more scanty.

Mr. Solid has found an opportunity every night to repeat, from Hudibras,

Doubtless the pleasure is as great
Of being cheated, as to cheat;

and from Waller,

Poets lose half the praise they would have got,
Were it but known what they discreetly blot.

Dick Misty is a man of deep research, and forcible penetration. Others
are content with superficial appearances; but Dick holds, that there is
no effect without a cause, and values himself upon his power of
explaining the difficult and displaying the abstruse. Upon a dispute
among us, which of two young strangers was more beautiful, "You," says
Mr. Misty, turning to me, "like Amaranthia better than Chloris. I do not
wonder at the preference, for the cause is evident: there is in man a
perception of harmony, and a sensibility of perfection, which touches
the finer fibres of the mental texture; and before reason can descend
from her throne, to pass her sentence upon the things compared, drives
us towards the object proportioned to our faculties, by an impulse
gentle, yet irresistible; for the harmonick system of the Universe, and
the reciprocal magnetism of similar natures, are always operating
towards conformity and union; nor can the powers of the soul cease from
agitation, till they find something on which they can repose. " To this
nothing was opposed; and Amaranthia was acknowledged to excel Chloris.

Of the rest you may expect an account from,

Sir, yours,

ROBIN SPRITELY.




No. 79. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1759.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

Your acceptance of a former letter on painting gives me encouragement to
offer a few more sketches on the same subject.

Amongst the painters, and the writers on painting, there is one maxim
universally admitted and continually inculcated. _Imitate nature_ is the
invariable rule; but I know none who have explained in what manner this
rule is to be understood; the consequence of which is, that every one
takes it in the most obvious sense, that objects are represented
naturally when they have such relief that they seem real. It may appear
strange, perhaps, to hear this sense of the rule disputed; but it must
be considered, that, if the excellency of a painter consisted only in
this kind of imitation, painting must lose its rank, and be no longer
considered as a liberal art, and sister to poetry, this imitation being
merely mechanical, in which the slowest intellect is always sure to
succeed best: for the painter of genius cannot stoop to drudgery, in
which the understanding has no part; and what pretence has the art to
claim kindred with poetry, but by its powers over the imagination? To
this power the painter of genius directs his aim; in this sense he
studies nature, and often arrives at his end, even by being unnatural in
the confined sense of the word.

The grand style of painting requires this minute attention to be
carefully avoided, and must be kept as separate from it as the style of
poetry from that of history. Poetical ornaments destroy that air of
truth and plainness which ought to characterize history; but the very
being of poetry consists in departing from this plain narration, and
adopting every ornament that will warm the imagination. To desire to see
the excellencies of each style united, to mingle the Dutch with the
Italian school, is to join contrarieties which cannot subsist together,
and which destroy the efficacy of each other. The Italian attends only
to the invariable, the great and general ideas which are fixed and
inherent in universal nature; the Dutch, on the contrary, to literal
truth and a minute exactness in the detail, as I may say, of nature
modified by accident. The attention to these petty peculiarities is the
very cause of this naturalness so much admired in the Dutch pictures,
which, if we suppose it to be a beauty, is certainly of a lower order,
which ought to give place to a beauty of a superior kind, since one
cannot be obtained but by departing from the other.

If my opinion was asked concerning the works of Michael Angelo, whether
they would receive any advantage from possessing this mechanical merit,
I should not scruple to say, they would not only receive no advantage,
but would lose, in a great measure, the effect which they now have on
every mind susceptible of great and noble ideas. His works may be said
to be all genius and soul; and why should they be loaded with heavy
matter, which can only counteract his purpose by retarding the progress
of the imagination?

If this opinion should be thought one of the wild extravagancies of
enthusiasm, I shall only say, that those who censure it are not
conversant in the works of the great masters. It is very difficult to
determine the exact degree of enthusiasm that the arts of painting and
poetry may admit. There may, perhaps, be too great an indulgence, as
well as too great a restraint of imagination; and if the one produces
incoherent monsters, the other produces what is full as bad, lifeless
insipidity. An intimate knowledge of the passions, and good sense, but
not common sense, must at last determine its limits. It has been
thought, and I believe with reason, that Michael Angelo sometimes
trangressed those limits; and I think I have seen figures of him of
which it was very difficult to determine whether they were in the
highest degree sublime or extremely ridiculous. Such faults may be said
to be the ebullitions of genius; but at least he had this merit, that he
never was insipid, and whatever passion his works may excite, they will
always escape contempt.

What I have had under consideration is the sublimest style, particularly
that of Michael Angelo, the Homer of painting. Other kinds may admit of
this naturalness, which of the lowest kind is the chief merit; but in
painting, as in poetry, the highest style has the least of common
nature.

One may very safely recommend a little more enthusiasm to the modern
painters; too much is certainly not the vice of the present age. The
Italians seem to have been continually declining, in this respect, from
the time of Michael Angelo to that of Carlo Maratti, and from thence to
the very bathos of insipidity to which they are now sunk; so that there
is no need of remarking, that, where I mentioned the Italian painters in
opposition to the Dutch, I mean not the moderns, but the heads of the
old Roman and Bolognian schools; nor did I mean to include in my idea of
an Italian painter, the Venetian school, which may be said to be the
Dutch part of the Italian genius. I have only to add a word of advice to
the painters, that, however excellent they may be in painting naturally,
they would not flatter themselves very much upon it, and to the
connoisseurs, that when they see a cat or fiddle painted so finely,
that, as the phrase is, "it looks as if you could take it up," they
would not for that reason immediately compare the painter to Raffaelle
and Michael Angelo. [1]

[1] By Sir Joshua Reynolds.




No. 80. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1759.

That every day has its pains and sorrows is universally experienced, and
almost universally confessed; but let us not attend only to mournful
truths; if we look impartially about us, we shall find that every day
has likewise its pleasures and its joys.

The time is now come when the town is again beginning to be full, and
the rusticated beauty sees an end of her banishment. Those whom the
tyranny of fashion had condemned to pass the summer among shades and
brooks, are now preparing to return to plays, balls and assemblies, with
health restored by retirement, and spirits kindled by expectation.

Many a mind, which has languished some months without emotion or desire,
now feels a sudden renovation of its faculties. It was long ago observed
by Pythagoras, that ability and necessity dwell near each other. She
that wandered in the garden without sense of its fragrance, and lay day
after day stretched upon a couch behind a green curtain, unwilling to
wake, and unable to sleep, now summons her thoughts to consider which of
her last year's clothes shall be seen again, and to anticipate the
raptures of a new suit; the day and the night are now filled with
occupation; the laces, which were too fine to be worn among rusticks,
are taken from the boxes and reviewed; and the eye is no sooner closed
after its labours, than whole shops of silk busy the fancy.

But happiness is nothing, if it is not known, and very little, if it is
not envied. Before the day of departure a week is always appropriated to
the payment and reception of ceremonial visits, at which nothing can be
mentioned but the delights of London. The lady who is hastening to the
scene of action flutters her wings, displays her prospects of felicity,
tells how she grudges every moment of delay, and, in the presence of
those whom she knows condemned to stay at home, is sure to wonder by
what arts life can be made supportable through a winter in the country,
and to tell how often, amidst the ecstasies of an opera, she shall pity
those friends whom she has left behind. Her hope of giving pain is
seldom disappointed; the affected indifference of one, the faint
congratulations of another, the wishes of some openly confessed, and the
silent dejection of the rest, all exalt her opinion of her own
superiority.

But, however we may labour for our own deception, truth, though
unwelcome, will sometimes intrude upon the mind. They who have already
enjoyed the crowds and noise of the great city, know that their desire
to return is little more than the restlessness of a vacant mind, that
they are not so much led by hope as driven by disgust, and wish rather
to leave the country than to see the town. There is commonly in every
coach a passenger enwrapped in silent expectation, whose joy is more
sincere, and whose hopes are more exalted. The virgin whom the last
summer released from her governess, and who is now going between her
mother and her aunt to try the fortune of her wit and beauty, suspects
no fallacy in the gay representation. She believes herself passing into
another world, and images London as an elysian region, where every hour
has its proper pleasure, where nothing is seen but the blaze of wealth,
and nothing heard but merriment and flattery; where the morning always
rises on a show, and the evening closes on a ball; where the eyes are
used only to sparkle, and the feet only to dance.

Her aunt and her mother amuse themselves on the road, with telling her
of dangers to be dreaded, and cautions to be observed. She hears them as
they heard their predecessors, with incredulity or contempt. She sees
that they have ventured and escaped; and one of the pleasures which she
promises herself is to detect their falsehoods, and be freed from their
admonitions.

We are inclined to believe those whom we do not know, because they have
never deceived us. The fair adventurer may, perhaps, listen to the
Idler, whom she cannot suspect of rivalry or malice; yet he scarcely
expects to be credited when he tells her, that her expectations will
likewise end in disappointment.

The uniform necessities of human nature produce, in a great measure,
uniformity of life, and for part of the day make one place like another;
to dress and to undress, to eat and to sleep, are the same in London as
in the country. The supernumerary hours have, indeed, a great variety
both of pleasure and of pain. The stranger, gazed on by multitudes at
her first appearance in the Park, is, perhaps, on the highest summit of
female happiness; but how great is the anguish when the novelty of
another face draws her worshippers away! The heart may leap for a time
under a fine gown; but the sight of a gown yet finer puts an end to
rapture. In the first row at an opera, two hours may be happily passed
in listening to the musick on the stage, and watching the glances of the
company; but how will the night end in despondency when she, that
imagined herself the sovereign of the place, sees lords contending to
lead Iris to her chair! There is little pleasure in conversation, to her
whose wit is regarded but in the second place; and who can dance with
ease or spirit that sees Amaryllis led out before her? She that fancied
nothing but a succession of pleasures, will find herself engaged without
design in numberless competitions, and mortified, without provocation,
with numberless afflictions.

But I do not mean to extinguish that ardour which I wish to moderate, or
to discourage those whom I am endeavouring to restrain. To know the
world is necessary, since we were born for the help of one another; and
to know it early is convenient, if it be only that we may learn early to
despise it. She that brings to London a mind well prepared for
improvement, though she misses her hope of uninterrupted happiness, will
gain in return an opportunity of adding knowledge to vivacity, and
enlarging innocence to virtue.




No. 81. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1759.

As the English army was passing towards Quebec along a soft savanna
between a mountain and a lake, one of the petty chiefs of the inland
regions stood upon a rock surrounded by his clan, and from behind the
shelter of the bushes contemplated the art and regularity of European
war. It was evening, the tents were pitched: he observed the security
with which the troops rested in the night, and the order with which the
march was renewed in the morning. He continued to pursue them with his
eye till they could be seen no longer, and then stood for some time
silent and pensive.

Then turning to his followers, "My children," said he, "I have often
heard from men hoary with long life, that there was a time when our
ancestors were absolute lords of the woods, the meadows and the lakes,
wherever the eye can reach or the foot can pass. They fished and hunted,
feasted and danced, and when they were weary lay down under the first
thicket, without danger and without fear. They changed their
habitations, as the seasons required, convenience prompted, or curiosity
allured them; and sometimes gathered the fruits of the mountain, and
sometimes sported in canoes along the coast.

"Many years and ages are supposed to have been thus passed in plenty and
security; when, at last, a new race of men entered our country from the
great ocean. They inclosed themselves in habitations of stone, which our
ancestors could neither enter by violence, nor destroy by fire. They
issued from those fastnesses, sometimes covered, like the armadillo,
with shells, from which the lance rebounded on the striker, and
sometimes carried by mighty beasts which had never been seen in our
vales or forests, of such strength and swiftness, that flight and
opposition were vain alike. Those invaders ranged over the continent
slaughtering, in their rage, those that resisted, and those that
submitted, in their mirth. Of those that remained, some were buried in
caverns, and condemned to dig metals for their masters; some were
employed in tilling the ground, of which foreign tyrants devour the
produce; and, when the sword and the mines have destroyed the natives,
they supply their place by human beings of another colour, brought from
some distant country to perish here under toil and torture.

"Some there are who boast their humanity, and content themselves to
seize our chases and fisheries, who drive us from every tract of ground
where fertility and pleasantness invite them to settle, and make no war
upon us except when we intrude upon our own lands.

"Others pretend to have purchased a right of residence and tyranny; but
surely the insolence of such bargains is more offensive than the avowed
and open dominion of force. What reward can induce the possessour of a
country to admit a stranger more powerful than himself? Fraud or terrour
must operate in such contracts; either they promised protection which
they never have afforded, or instruction which they never imparted. We
hoped to be secured by their favour from some other evil, or to learn
the arts of Europe, by which we might be able to secure ourselves. Their
power they never have exerted in our defence, and their arts they have
studiously concealed from us. Their treaties are only to deceive, and
their traffick only to defraud us. They have a written law among them,
of which they boast, as derived from Him who made the earth and sea, and
by which they profess to believe that man will be made happy when life
shall forsake him. Why is not this law communicated to us? It is
concealed because it is violated. For how can they preach it to an
Indian nation, when I am told that one of its first precepts forbids
them to do to others what they would not that others should do to them?

"But the time, perhaps, is now approaching, when the pride of usurpation
shall be crushed, and the cruelties of invasion shall be revenged. The
sons of rapacity have now drawn their swords upon each other, and
referred their claims to the decision of war; let us look unconcerned
upon the slaughter, and remember that the death of every European
delivers the country from a tyrant and a robber; for what is the claim
of either nation, but the claim of the vulture to the leveret, of the
tiger to the fawn? Let them then continue to dispute their title to
regions which they cannot people, to purchase by danger and blood the
empty dignity of dominion over mountains which they will never climb,
and rivers which they will never pass. Let us endeavour, in the mean
time, to learn their discipline, and to forge their weapons; and, when
they shall be weakened with mutual slaughter, let us rush down upon
them, force their remains to take shelter in their ships, and reign once
more in our native country[1]. "

[1] "How far the seizing on countries already peopled, and driving out
or massacring the innocent and defenceless natives, merely because
they differed from their invaders in language, in religion, in
customs, in government or in colour; how far such a conduct was
consonant to nature, to reason or to Christianity, deserved well to
be considered by those who have rendered their names immortal by
thus civilizing mankind. " Blackstone, Com. ii. 7.

I love the University of Salamanca, said Johnson, with warm emotion,
for when the Spaniards were in doubt as to the lawfulness of their
conquering America, the University of Salamanca gave it as their
opinion, that it was not lawful. Boswell, i. 434.

The untaught eloquence of Indian feeling is well preserved in the
language of Gertrude of Wyoming.



No. 82. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1759.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

Discoursing in my last letter on the different practice of the Italian
and Dutch painters, I observed, that "the Italian painter attends only
to the invariable, the great and general ideas which are fixed and
inherent in universal nature. "

I was led into the subject of this letter by endeavouring to fix the
original cause of this conduct of the Italian masters. If it can be
proved that by this choice they selected the most beautiful part of the
creation, it will show how much their principles are founded on reason,
and, at the same time, discover the origin of our ideas of beauty.

I suppose it will be easily granted, that no man can judge whether any
animal be beautiful in its kind, or deformed, who has seen only one of
that species: this is as conclusive in regard to the human figure; so
that if a man, born blind, was to recover his sight, and the most
beautiful woman was brought before him, he could not determine whether
she was handsome or not; nor, if the most beautiful and most deformed
were produced, could he any better determine to which he should give the
preference, having seen only those two. To distinguish beauty, then,
implies the having seen many individuals of that species. If it is
asked, how is more skill acquired by the observation of greater numbers?
I answer that, in consequence of having seen many, the power is
acquired, even without seeking after it, of distinguishing between
accidental blemishes and excrescences which are continually varying the
surface of Nature's works, and the invariable general form which Nature
most frequently produces, and always seems to intend in her productions.

Thus, amongst the blades of grass or leaves of the same tree, though no
two can be found exactly alike, yet the general form is invariable: a
naturalist, before he chose one as a sample, would examine many, since,
if he took the first that occurred, it might have, by accident or
otherwise, such a form as that it would scarcely be known to belong to
that species; he selects, as the painter does, the most beautiful, that
is, the most general form of nature.

Every species of the animal, as well as the vegetable creation, may be
said to have a fixed or determinate form towards which nature is
continually inclining, like various lines terminating in the centre; or
it may be compared to pendulums vibrating in different directions over
one central point; and as they all cross the centre, though only one
passes through any other point, so it will be found that perfect beauty
is oftener produced by nature than deformity; I do not mean than
deformity in general, but than any one kind of deformity. To instance in
a particular part of a feature: the line that forms the ridge of the
nose is beautiful when it is straight; this then is the central form,
which is oftener found than either concave, convex or any other
irregular form that shall be proposed. As we are then more accustomed to
beauty than deformity, we may conclude that to be the reason why we
approve and admire it, as we approve and admire customs and fashions of
dress for no other reason than that we are used to them; so that, though
habit and custom cannot be said to be the cause of beauty, it is
certainly the cause of our liking it; and I have no doubt but that, if
we were more used to deformity than beauty, deformity would then lose
the idea now annexed to it, and take that of beauty; as, if the whole
world should agree that _yes_ and _no_ should change their meanings,
_yes_ would then deny, and _no_ would affirm.