No More Learning

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.

Whoever undertakes to proceed further in this argument, and endeavours
to fix a general criterion of beauty respecting different species, or to
show why one species is more beautiful than another, it will be required
from him first to prove that one species is really more beautiful than
another. That we prefer one to the other, and with very good reason,
will be readily granted; but it does not follow from thence that we
think it a more beautiful form; for we have no criterion of form by
which to determine our judgment. He who says a swan is more beautiful
than a dove, means little more than that he has more pleasure in seeing
a swan than a dove, either from the stateliness of its motions, or its
being a more rare bird; and he who gives the preference to the dove,
does it from some association of ideas of innocence that he always
annexes to the dove; but, if he pretends to defend the preference he
gives to one or the other by endeavouring to prove that this more
beautiful form proceeds from a particular gradation of magnitude,
undulation of a curve, or direction of a line, or whatever other conceit
of his imagination he shall fix on as a criterion of form, he will be
continually contradicting himself, and find at last, that the great
Mother of Nature will not be subjected to such narrow rules. Among the
various reasons why we prefer one part of her works to another, the most
general, I believe, is habit and custom; custom makes, in a certain
sense, white black, and black white; it is custom alone determines our
preference of the colour of the Europeans to the Aethiopians; and they,
for the same reason, prefer their own colour to ours. I suppose nobody
will doubt, if one of their painters were to paint the goddess of
beauty, but that he would represent her black, with thick lips, flat
nose, and woolly hair; and, it seems to me, he would act very
unnaturally if he did not; for by what criterion will any one dispute
the propriety of his idea? We, indeed, say, that the form and colour of
the European is preferable to that of the Aethiopian; but I know of no
reason we have for it, but that we are more accustomed to it. It is
absurd to say, that beauty is possessed of attractive powers, which
irresistibly seize the corresponding mind with love and admiration,
since that argument is equally conclusive in favour of the white and the
black philosopher.

The black and white nations must, in respect of beauty, be considered as
of different kinds, at least a different species of the same kind; from
one of which to the other, as I observed, no inference can be drawn.

Novelty is said to be one of the causes of beauty: that novelty is a
very sufficient reason why we should admire, is not denied; but, because
it is uncommon, is it, therefore, beautiful? The beauty that is produced
by colour, as when we prefer one bird to another, though of the same
form, on account of its colour, has nothing to do with this argument,
which reaches only to form. I have here considered the word _beauty_ as
being properly applied to form alone. There is a necessity of fixing
this confined sense; for there can be no argument, if the sense of the
word is extended to every thing that is approved. A rose may as well be
said to be beautiful, because it has a fine smell, as a bird because of
its colour. When we apply the word _beauty_ we do not mean always by it
a more beautiful form, but something valuable on account of its rarity,
usefulness, colour, or any other property. A horse is said to be a
beautiful animal; but, had a horse as few good qualities as a tortoise,
I do not imagine that he would be then esteemed beautiful.

A fitness to the end proposed, is said to be another cause of beauty;
but supposing we were proper judges of what form is the most proper in
an animal to constitute strength or swiftness, we always determine
concerning its beauty, before we exert our understanding to judge of its
fitness.

From what has been said, it may be inferred, that the works of nature,
if we compare one species with another, are all equally beautiful; and
that preference is given from custom, or some association of ideas: and
that, in creatures of the same species, beauty is the medium or centre
of all various forms.

To conclude, then, by way of corollary: If it has been proved, that the
painter, by attending to the invariable and general ideas of nature,
produces beauty, he must, by regarding minute particularities and
accidental discriminations, deviate from the universal rule, and pollute
his canvass with deformity[1].

[1] By Sir Joshua Reynolds.




No. 83. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1759.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

I suppose you have forgotten that many weeks ago I promised to send you
an account of my companions at the Wells. You would not deny me a place
among the most faithful votaries of idleness, if you knew how often I
have recollected my engagement, and contented myself to delay the
performance for some reason which I durst not examine because I knew it
to be false; how often I have sat down to write, and rejoiced at
interruption; and how often I have praised the dignity of resolution,
determined at night to write in the morning, and deferred it in the
morning to the quiet hours of night.

I have at last begun what I have long wished at an end, and find it more
easy than I expected to continue my narration.

Our assembly could boast no such constellation of intellects as
Clarendon's band of associates. We had among us no Selden, Falkland or
Waller; but we had men not less important in their own eyes, though less
distinguished by the publick; and many a time have we lamented the
partiality of mankind, and agreed that men of the deepest inquiry
sometimes let their discoveries die away in silence, that the most
comprehensive observers have seldom opportunities of imparting their
remarks, and that modest merit passes in the crowd unknown and unheeded.

One of the greatest men of the society was Sim Scruple, who lives in a
continual equipoise of doubt, and is a constant enemy to confidence and
dogmatism. Sim's favourite topick of conversation is the narrowness of
the human mind, the fallaciousness of our senses, the prevalence of
early prejudice, and the uncertainty of appearances. Sim has many doubts
about the nature of death, and is sometimes inclined to believe that
sensation may survive motion, and that a dead man may feel though he
cannot stir. He has sometimes hinted that man might, perhaps, have been
naturally a quadruped; and thinks it would be very proper, that at the
Foundling Hospital some children should be inclosed in an apartment in
which the nurses should be obliged to walk half upon four and half upon
two legs, that the younglings, being bred without the prejudice of
example, might have no other guide than nature, and might at last come
forth into the world as genius should direct, erect or prone, on two
legs or on four.

The next, in dignity of mien and fluency of talk, was Dick Wormwood,
whose sole delight is to find every thing wrong. Dick never enters a
room but he shows that the door and the chimney are ill-placed. He never
walks into the fields but he finds ground ploughed which is fitter for
pasture. He is always an enemy to the present fashion.

He holds that all the beauty and virtue of women will soon be destroyed
by the use of tea[1]. He triumphs when he talks on the present system of
education, and tells us, with great vehemence, that we are learning
words when we should learn things. He is of opinion that we suck in
errours at the nurse's breast, and thinks it extremely ridiculous that
children should be taught to use the right hand rather than the left.

Bob Sturdy considers it as a point of honour to say again what he has
once said, and wonders how any man, that has been known to alter his
opinion, can look his neighbours in the face. Bob is the most formidable
disputant of the whole company; for, without troubling himself to search
for reasons, he tires his antagonist with repeated affirmations. When
Bob has been attacked for an hour with all the powers of eloquence and
reason, and his position appears to all but himself utterly untenable,
he always closes the debate with his first declaration, introduced by a
stout preface of contemptuous civility. "All this is very judicious; you
may talk, Sir, as you please; but I will still say what I said at
first. " Bob deals much in universals, which he has now obliged us to let
pass without exceptions. He lives on an annuity, and holds that _there
are as many thieves as traders_; he is of loyalty unshaken, and always
maintains, that _he who sees a Jacobite sees a rascal_.

Phil Gentle is an enemy to the rudeness of contradiction and the
turbulence of debate. Phil has no notions of his own, and, therefore,
willingly catches from the last speaker such as he shall drop. This
flexibility of ignorance is easily accommodated to any tenet; his only
difficulty is, when the disputants grow zealous, how to be of two
contrary opinions at once. If no appeal is made to his judgment, he has
the art of distributing his attention and his smiles in such a manner,
that each thinks him of his own party; but if he is obliged to speak, he
then observes that the question is difficult; that he never received so
much pleasure from a debate before; that neither of the controvertists
could have found his match in any other company; that Mr. Wormwood's
assertion is very well supported, and yet there is great force in what
Mr. Scruple advanced against it. By this indefinite declaration both are
commonly satisfied; for he that has prevailed is in good humour; and he
that has felt his own weakness is very glad to have escaped so well.

I am, Sir, yours, &c. ROBIN SPRITELY.

[1] Dr. Johnson was, as he has humorously described himself, "a hardened
and shameless tea-drinker. " See his amusing Review of a Journal of
Eight Days' Journey and his Reply to a paper in the Gazetteer, May
26, 1757.




No. 84. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1759.

Biography is, of the various kinds of narrative writing, that which is
most eagerly read, and most easily applied to the purposes of life.

In romances, when the wide field of possibility lies open to invention,
the incidents may easily be made more numerous, the vicissitudes more
sudden, and the events more wonderful; but from the time of life when
fancy begins to be overruled by reason and corrected by experience, the
most artful tale raises little curiosity when it is known to be
false[1]; though it may, perhaps, be sometimes read as a model of a neat
or elegant style, not for the sake of knowing what it contains, but how
it is written; or those that are weary of themselves, may have recourse
to it as a pleasing dream, of which, when they awake, they voluntarily
dismiss the images from their minds.

The examples and events of history press, indeed, upon the mind with the
weight of truth; but when they are reposited in the memory, they are
oftener employed for show than use, and rather diversify conversation
than regulate life. Few are engaged in such scenes as give them
opportunities of growing wiser by the downfal of statesmen or the defeat
of generals. The stratagems of war, and the intrigues of courts, are
read by far the greater part of mankind with the same indifference as
the adventures of fabled heroes, or the revolutions of a fairy region.
Between falsehood and useless truth there is little difference. As gold
which he cannot spend will make no man rich, so knowledge which he
cannot apply will make no man wise.

The mischievous consequences of vice and folly, of irregular desires and
predominant passions, are best discovered by those relations which are
levelled with the general surface of life, which tell not how any man
became great, but how he was made happy; not how he lost the favour of
his prince, but how he became discontented with himself.

Those relations are, therefore, commonly of most value in which the
writer tells his own story. He that recounts the life of another,
commonly dwells most upon conspicuous events, lessens the familiarity of
his tale to increase its dignity, shows his favourite at a distance,
decorated and magnified like the ancient actors in their tragick dress,
and endeavours to hide the man that he may produce a hero.

But if it be true, which was said by a French prince, "that no man was a
hero to the servants of his chamber," it is equally true, that every man
is yet less a hero to himself. He that is most elevated above the crowd
by the importance of his employments, or the reputation of his genius,
feels himself affected by fame or business but as they influence his
domestick life. The high and low, as they have the same faculties and
the same senses, have no less similitude in their pains and pleasures.
The sensations are the same in all, though produced by very different
occasions. The prince feels the same pain when an invader seizes a
province, as the farmer when a thief drives away his cow. Men thus equal
in themselves will appear equal in honest and impartial biography; and
those whom fortune or nature places at the greatest distance may afford
instruction to each other.

The writer of his own life has, at least, the first qualification of an
historian, the knowledge of the truth; and though it may be plausibly
objected that his temptations to disguise it are equal to his
opportunities of knowing it, yet I cannot but think that impartiality
may be expected with equal confidence from him that relates the passages
of his own life, as from him that delivers the transactions of another.

Certainty of knowledge not only excludes mistake, but fortifies
veracity. What we collect by conjecture, and by conjecture only, can one
man judge of another's motives or sentiments, is easily modified by
fancy or by desire; as objects imperfectly discerned take forms from the
hope or fear of the beholder. But that which is fully known cannot be
falsified but with reluctance of understanding, and alarm of conscience:
of understanding, the lover of truth; of conscience, the sentinel of
virtue.

He that writes the life of another is either his friend or his enemy,
and wishes either to exalt his praise or aggravate his infamy: many
temptations to falsehood will occur in the disguise of passions, too
specious to fear much resistance. Love of virtue will animate
panegyrick, and hatred of wickedness imbitter censure. The zeal of
gratitude, the ardour of patriotism, fondness for an opinion, or
fidelity to a party, may easily overpower the vigilance of a mind
habitually well disposed, and prevail over unassisted and unfriended
veracity.

But he that speaks of himself has no motive to falsehood or partiality
except self-love, by which all have so often been betrayed, that all are
on the watch against its artifices. He that writes an apology for a
single action, to confute an accusation, to recommend himself to favour,
is, indeed, always to be suspected of favouring his own cause; but he
that sits down calmly and voluntarily to review his life for the
admonition of posterity, or to amuse himself, and leaves this account
unpublished, may be commonly presumed to tell truth, since falsehood
cannot appease his own mind, and fame will not be heard beneath the
tomb.

[1] It is somewhere recorded of a retired citizen, that he was in the
habit of again and again perusing the incomparable story of Robinson
Crusoe without a suspicion of its authenticity. At length a friend
assured him of its being a work of fiction. What you say, replied
the old man mournfully, may be true; but your information has taken
away the only comfort of my age.

--Pol, me occidistis, amici,
Non servastis, ait; cui sic extorta voluptas,
Et demtus per vim mentis gratissimus error. HOR. Lib. ii. Ep. ii. 138.




No. 85. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 1, 1759.

One of the peculiarities which distinguish the present age is the
multiplication of books. Every day brings new advertisements of literary
undertakings, and we are flattered with repeated promises of growing
wise on easier terms than our progenitors.

How much either happiness or knowledge is advanced by this multitude of
authors, it is not very easy to decide.

He that teaches us any thing which we knew not before, is undoubtedly to
be reverenced as a master.

He that conveys knowledge by more pleasing ways, may very properly be
loved as a benefactor; and he that supplies life with innocent
amusement, will be certainly caressed as a pleasing companion.

But few of those who fill the world with books have any pretensions to
the hope either of pleasing or instructing. They have often no other
task than to lay two books before them, out of which they compile a
third, without any new materials of their own, and with very little
application of judgment to those which former authors have supplied.

That all compilations are useless, I do not assert. Particles of science
are often very widely scattered. Writers of extensive comprehension have
incidental remarks upon topicks very remote from the principal subject,
which are often more valuable than formal treatises, and which yet are
not known because they are not promised in the title. He that collects
those under proper heads is very laudably employed, for, though he
exerts no great abilities in the work, he facilitates the progress of
others, and by making that easy of attainment which is already written,
may give some mind, more vigorous or more adventurous than his own,
leisure for new thoughts and original designs.

But the collections poured lately from the press have been seldom made
at any great expense of time or inquiry, and, therefore, only serve to
distract choice without supplying any real want.

It is observed that "a corrupt society has many laws;" I know not
whether it is not equally true, that "an ignorant age has many books. "
When the treasures of ancient knowledge lie unexamined, and original
authors are neglected and forgotten, compilers and plagiaries are
encouraged, who give us again what we had before, and grow great by
setting before us what our own sloth had hidden from our view.

Yet are not even these writers to be indiscriminately censured and
rejected. Truth like beauty varies its fashions, and is best recommended
by different dresses to different minds; and he that recalls the
attention of mankind to any part of learning which time has left behind
it, may be truly said to advance the literature of his own age. As the
manners of nations vary, new topicks of persuasion become necessary, and
new combinations of imagery are produced; and he that can accommodate
himself to the reigning taste, may always have readers who, perhaps,
would not have looked upon better performances.

To exact of every man who writes, that he should say something new,
would be to reduce authors to a small number; to oblige the most fertile
genius to say only what is new would be to contract his volumes to a few
pages. Yet, surely, there ought to be some bounds to repetition;
libraries ought no more to be heaped for ever with the same thoughts
differently expressed, than with the same books differently decorated.

The good or evil which these secondary writers produce is seldom of any
long duration. As they owe their existence to change of fashion, they
commonly disappear when a new fashion becomes prevalent. The authors
that in any nation last from age to age are very few, because there are
very few that have any other claim to notice than that they catch hold
on present curiosity, and gratify some accidental desire, or produce
some temporary conveniency.

But however the writers of the day may despair of future fame, they
ought at least to forbear any present mischief. Though they cannot
arrive at eminent heights of excellence, they might keep themselves
harmless. They might take care to inform themselves before they attempt
to inform others, and exert the little influence which they have for
honest purposes.

But such is the present state of our literature, that the ancient sage,
who thought _a great book a great evil_, would now think the multitude
of books a multitude of evils. He would consider a bulky writer who
engrossed a year, and a swarm of pamphleteers who stole each an hour, as
equal wasters of human life, and would make no other difference between
them, than between a beast of prey and a flight of locusts.




No. 86. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1759.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

I am a young lady newly married to a young gentleman. Our fortune is
large, our minds are vacant, our dispositions gay, our acquaintances
numerous, and our relations splendid. We considered that marriage, like
life, has its youth; that the first year is the year of gaiety and
revel, and resolved to see the shows and feel the joys of London, before
the increase of our family should confine us to domestick cares and
domestick pleasures.

Little time was spent in preparation; the coach was harnessed, and a few
days brought us to London, and we alighted at a lodging provided for us
by Miss Biddy Trifle, a maiden niece of my husband's father, where we
found apartments on a second floor, which my cousin told us would serve
us till we could please ourselves with a more commodious and elegant
habitation, and which she had taken at a very high price, because it was
not worth the while to make a hard bargain for so short a time.

Here I intended to lie concealed till my new clothes were made, and my
new lodging hired; but Miss Trifle had so industriously given notice of
our arrival to all her acquaintance, that I had the mortification next
day of seeing the door thronged with painted coaches and chairs with
coronets, and was obliged to receive all my husband's relations on a
second floor.

Inconveniencies are often balanced by some advantage: the elevation of
my apartments furnished a subject for conversation, which, without some
such help, we should have been in danger of wanting. Lady Stately told
us how many years had passed since she climbed so many steps. Miss Airy
ran to the window, and thought it charming to see the walkers so little
in the street; and Miss Gentle went to try the same experiment, and
screamed to find herself so far above the ground.

They all knew that we intended to remove, and, therefore, all gave me
advice about a proper choice. One street was recommended for the purity
of its air, another for its freedom from noise, another for its nearness
to the Park, another because there was but a step from it to all places
of diversion, and another because its inhabitants enjoyed at once the
town and country.

I had civility enough to hear every recommendation with a look of
curiosity, while it was made, and of acquiescence, when it was
concluded, but in my heart felt no other desire than to be free from the
disgrace of a second floor, and cared little where I should fix, if the
apartments were spacious and splendid.

Next day a chariot was hired, and Miss Trifle was despatched to find a
lodging. She returned in the afternoon, with an account of a charming
place, to which my husband went in the morning to make the contract.
Being young and unexperienced, he took with him his friend Ned Quick, a
gentleman of great skill in rooms and furniture, who sees, at a single
glance, whatever there is to be commended or censured. Mr. Quick, at the
first view of the house, declared that it could not be inhabited, for
the sun in the afternoon shone with full glare on the windows of the
dining-room.

Miss Trifle went out again, and soon discovered another lodging, which
Mr. Quick went to survey, and found, that, whenever the wind should blow
from the, east, all the smoke of the city would be driven upon it.

A magnificent set of rooms was then found in one of the streets near
Westminster-Bridge, which Miss Trifle preferred to any which she had yet
seen; but Mr. Quick, having mused upon it for a time, concluded that it
would be too much exposed in the morning to the fogs that rise from the
river.

Thus Mr. Quick proceeded to give us every day new testimonies of his
taste and circumspection; sometimes the street was too narrow for a
double range of coaches; sometimes it was an obscure place, not
inhabited by persons of quality. Some places were dirty, and some
crowded; in some houses the furniture was ill-suited, and in others the
stairs were too narrow. He had such fertility of objections that Miss
Trifle was at last tired, and desisted from all attempts for our
accommodation.

In the mean time I have still continued to see my company on a second
floor, and am asked twenty times a day when I am to leave those odious
lodgings, in which I live tumultuously without pleasure, and expensively
without honour. My husband thinks so highly of Mr. Quick, that he cannot
be persuaded to remove without his approbation; and Mr. Quick thinks his
reputation raised by the multiplication of difficulties.

In this distress to whom can I have recourse? I find my temper vitiated
by daily disappointment, by the sight of pleasures which I cannot
partake, and the possession of riches which I cannot enjoy. Dear Mr.
Idler, inform my husband that he is trifling away, in superfluous
vexation, the few months which custom has appropriated to delight; that
matrimonial quarrels are not easily reconciled between those that have
no children; that wherever we settle he must always find some
inconvenience; but nothing is so much to be avoided as a perpetual state
of inquiry and suspense.

I am, Sir,

Your humble servant,

PEGGY HEARTLESS.




No. 87. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 15, 1759.

Of what we know not, we can only judge by what we know. Every novelty
appears more wonderful as it is more remote from any thing with which
experience or testimony has hitherto acquainted us; and, if it passes
further beyond the notions that we have been accustomed to form, it
becomes at last incredible.

We seldom consider that human knowledge is very narrow, that national
manners are formed by chance, that uncommon conjunctures of causes
produce rare effects, or that what is impossible at one time or place
may yet happen in another. It is always easier to deny than to inquire.
To refuse credit confers for a moment an appearance of superiority,
which every little mind is tempted to assume when it may be gained so
cheaply as by withdrawing attention from evidence, and declining the
fatigue of comparing probabilities. The most pertinacious and vehement
demonstrator may be wearied in time by continual negation; and
incredulity, which an old poet, in his address to Raleigh, calls _the
wit of fools_, obtunds the argument which it cannot answer, as woolsacks
deaden arrows though they cannot repel them.

Many relations of travellers have been slighted as fabulous, till more
frequent voyages have confirmed their veracity; and it may reasonably be
imagined, that many ancient historians are unjustly suspected of
falsehood, because our own times afford nothing that resembles what they
tell[1].

Had only the writers of antiquity informed us, that there was once a
nation in which the wife lay down upon the burning pile only to mix her
ashes with those of her husband, we should have thought it a tale to be
told with that of Endymion's commerce with the moon. Had only a single
traveller related, that many nations of the earth were black, we should
have thought the accounts of the Negroes and of the Phoenix equally
credible. But of black men the numbers are too great who are now
repining under English cruelty; and the custom of voluntary cremation is
not yet lost among the ladies of India.

Few narratives will either to men or women appear more incredible than
the histories of the Amazons; of female nations of whose constitution it
was the essential and fundamental law to exclude men from all
participation, either of publick affairs or domestick business; where
female armies marched under female captains, female farmers gathered the
harvest, female partners danced together, and female wits diverted one
another.

Yet several ages of antiquity have transmitted accounts of the Amazons
of Caucasus; and of the Amazons of America, who have given their name to
the greatest river in the world, Condamine lately found such memorials,
as can be expected among erratick and unlettered nations, where events
are recorded only by tradition, and new settling in the country from
time to time, confuse and efface all traces of former times.

To die with husbands, or to live without them, are the two extremes
which the prudence and moderation of European ladies have, in all ages,
equally declined; they have never been allured to death by the kindness
or civility of the politest nations, nor has the roughness and brutality
of more savage countries ever provoked them to doom their male
associates to irrevocable banishment. The Bohemian matrons are said to
have made one short struggle for superiority; but, instead of banishing
the men, they contented themselves with condemning them to servile
offices; and their constitution, thus left imperfect, was quickly
overthrown.

There is, I think, no class of English women from whom we are in any
danger of Amazonian usurpation. The old maids seem nearest to
independence, and most likely to be animated by revenge against
masculine authority; they often speak of men with acrimonious vehemence,
but it is seldom found that they have any settled hatred against them,
and it is yet more rarely observed that they have any kindness for each
other. They will not easily combine in any plot; and if they should ever
agree to retire and fortify themselves in castles or in mountains, the
sentinel will betray the passes in spite, and the garrison will
capitulate upon easy terms, if the besiegers have handsome swordknots,
and are well supplied with fringe and lace.

The gamesters, if they were united, would make a formidable body; and,
since they consider men only as beings that are to lose their money,
they might live together without any wish for the officiousness of
gallantry or the delights of diversified conversation. But as nothing
would hold them together but the hope of plundering one another, their
government would fail from the defect of its principles; the men would
need only to neglect them, and they would perish in a few weeks by a
civil war.

I do not mean to censure the ladies of England as defective in knowledge
or in spirit, when I suppose them unlikely to revive the military
honours of their sex. The character of the ancient Amazons was rather
terrible than lovely; the hand could not be very delicate that was only
employed in drawing the bow and brandishing the battle-axe; their power
was maintained by cruelty, their courage was deformed by ferocity, and
their example only shows that men and women live best together.

[1] _Le vrai n'est pas toujours le vraisemblable. _ The researches of
Gibbon, Rennel and Mitford, the travels of Bruce and Belzoni have
fully proved the truth of this maxim in the case of Herodotus.




No. 88. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1759.

_Hodie quid egisti? _

When the philosophers of the last age were first congregated into the
Royal Society, great expectations were raised of the sudden progress of
useful arts; the time was supposed to be near, when engines should turn
by a perpetual motion, and health be secured by the universal medicine;
when learning should be facilitated by a real character, and commerce
extended by ships which could reach their ports in defiance of the
tempest.

But improvement is naturally slow. The society met and parted without
any visible diminution of the miseries of life. The gout and stone were
still painful, the ground that was not ploughed brought no harvest, and
neither oranges nor grapes would grow upon the hawthorn. At last, those
who were disappointed began to be angry; those likewise who hated
innovation were glad to gain an opportunity of ridiculing men who had
depreciated, perhaps with too much arrogance, the knowledge of
antiquity. And it appears, from some of their earliest apologies, that
the philosophers felt with great sensibility the unwelcome importunities
of those who were daily asking, "What have ye done?
"

The truth is, that little had been done compared with what fame had been
suffered to promise; and the question could only be answered by general
apologies and by new hopes, which, when they were frustrated, gave a new
occasion to the same vexatious inquiry.

This fatal question has disturbed the quiet of many other minds. He that
in the latter part of his life too strictly inquires what he has done,
can very seldom receive from his own heart such an account as will give
him satisfaction.

We do not indeed so often disappoint others as ourselves. We not only
think more highly than others of our own abilities, but allow ourselves
to form hopes which we never communicate, and please our thoughts with
employments which none ever will allot us, and with elevations to which
we are never expected to rise; and when our days and years have passed
away in common business or common amusements, and we find at last that
we have suffered our purposes to sleep till the time of action is past,
we are reproached only by our own reflections; neither our friends nor
our enemies wonder that we live and die like the rest of mankind; that
we live without notice, and die without memorial; they know not what
task we had proposed, and, therefore, cannot discern whether it is
finished.

He that compares what he has done with what he has left undone, will
feel the effect which must always follow the comparison of imagination
with reality; he will look with contempt on his own unimportance, and
wonder to what purpose he came into the world; he will repine that he
shall leave behind him no evidence of his having been, that he has added
nothing to the system of life, but has glided from youth to age among
the crowd, without any effort for distinction.

Man is seldom willing to let fall the opinion of his own dignity, or to
believe that he does little only because every individual is a very
little being. He is better content to want diligence than power, and
sooner confesses the depravity of his will than the imbecility of his
nature.

From this mistaken notion of human greatness it proceeds, that many who
pretend to have made great advances in wisdom so loudly declare that
they despise themselves. If I had ever found any of the self-contemners
much irritated or pained by the consciousness of their meanness, I
should have given them consolation by observing, that a little more than
nothing is as much as can be expected from a being, who, with respect to
the multitudes about him, is himself little more than nothing. Every man
is obliged by the Supreme Master of the universe to improve all the
opportunities of good which are afforded him, and to keep in continual
activity such abilities as are bestowed upon him. But he has no reason
to repine, though his abilities are small and his opportunities few. He
that has improved the virtue, or advanced the happiness of one
fellow-creature, he that has ascertained a single moral proposition, or
added one useful experiment to natural knowledge, may be contented with
his own performance, and, with respect to mortals like himself, may
demand, like Augustus, to be dismissed at his departure with applause.




No. 89. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1759.

[Greek: Anechou kai apechou. ] EPICT.

How evil came into the world; for what reason it is that life is
overspread with such boundless varieties of misery; why the only
thinking being of this globe is doomed to think merely to be wretched,
and to pass his time from youth to age in fearing or in suffering
calamities, is a question which philosophers have long asked, and which
philosophy could never answer.

Religion informs us that misery and sin were produced together. The
depravation of human will was followed by a disorder of the harmony of
nature; and by that providence which often places antidotes in the
neighbourhood of poisons, vice was checked by misery, lest it should
swell to universal and unlimited dominion.

A state of innocence and happiness is so remote from all that we have
ever seen, that though we can easily conceive it possible, and may,
therefore, hope to attain it, yet our speculations upon it must be
general and confused. We can discover that where there is universal
innocence, there will probably be universal happiness; for, why should
afflictions be permitted to infest beings who are not in danger of
corruption from blessings, and where there is no use of terrour nor
cause of punishment? But in a world like ours, where our senses assault
us, and our hearts betray us, we should pass on from crime to crime,
heedless and remorseless, if misery did not stand in our way, and our
own pains admonish us of our folly.

Almost all the moral good, which is left among us, is the apparent
effect of physical evil.

Goodness is divided by divines into soberness, righteousness and
godliness. Let it be examined how each of these duties would be
practised, if there were no physical evil to enforce it.

Sobriety, or temperance, is nothing but the forbearance of pleasure; and
if pleasure was not followed by pain, who would forbear it? We see every
hour those in whom the desire of present indulgence overpowers all sense
of past and all foresight of future misery. In a remission of the gout,
the drunkard returns to his wine, and the glutton to his feast; and if
neither disease nor poverty were felt or dreaded, every one would sink
down in idle sensuality, without any care of others, or of himself. To
eat and drink, and lie down to sleep, would be the whole business of
mankind.

Righteousness, or the system of social duty, may be subdivided into
justice and charity. Of justice one of the Heathen sages has shown, with
great acuteness, that it was impressed upon mankind only by the
inconveniencies which injustice had produced. "In the first ages," says
he, "men acted without any rule but the impulse of desire; they
practised injustice upon others, and suffered it from others in their
turn; but in time it was discovered, that the pain of suffering wrong
was greater than the pleasure of doing it; and mankind, by a general
compact, submitted to the restraint of laws, and resigned the pleasure
to escape the pain. "

Of charity it is superfluous to observe, that it could have no place if
there were no want; for of a virtue which could not be practised, the
omission could not be culpable. Evil is not only the occasional, but the
efficient cause of charity; we are incited to the relief of misery by
the consciousness that we have the same nature with the sufferer, that
we are in danger of the same distresses, and may sometimes implore the
same assistance.

Godliness, or piety, is elevation of the mind towards the Supreme Being,
and extension of the thoughts to another life. The other life is future,
and the Supreme Being is invisible. None would have recourse to an
invisible power, but that all other subjects have eluded their hopes.
None would fix their attention upon the future, but that they are
discontented with the present. If the senses were feasted with perpetual
pleasure, they would always keep the mind in subjection. Reason has no
authority over us, but by its power to warn us against evil.

In childhood, while our minds are yet unoccupied, religion is impressed
upon them, and the first years of almost all who have been well educated
are passed in a regular discharge of the duties of piety. But as we
advance forward into the crowds of life, innumerable delights solicit
our inclinations, and innumerable cares distract our attention; the time
of youth is passed in noisy frolicks; manhood is led on from hope to
hope, and from project to project; the dissoluteness of pleasure, the
inebriation of success, the ardour of expectation, and the vehemence of
competition, chain down the mind alike to the present scene, nor is it
remembered how soon this mist of trifles must be scattered, and the
bubbles that float upon the rivulet of life be lost for ever in the
gulph of eternity. To this consideration scarcely any man is awakened
but by some pressing and resistless evil. The death of those from whom
he derived his pleasures, or to whom he destined his possessions, some
disease which shows him the vanity of all external acquisitions, or the
gloom of age, which intercepts his prospects of long enjoyment, forces
him to fix his hopes upon another state; and when he has contended with
the tempests of life till his strength fails him, he flies at last to
the shelter of religion.

That misery does not make all virtuous, experience too certainly informs
us; but it is no less certain that of what virtue there is, misery
produces far the greater part. Physical evil may be, therefore, endured
with patience, since it is the cause of moral good; and patience itself
is one virtue by which we are prepared for that state in which evil
shall be no more[1].

[1] For a fuller exposition of Johnson's sentiments on this dark and
deep subject, see his Review of Soame Jenyns' Nature and Origin of
Evil.




No. 90. SATURDAY, JANUARY 5, 1760.

It is a complaint which has been made from time to time, and which seems
to have lately become more frequent, that English oratory, however
forcible in argument, or elegant in expression, is deficient and
inefficacious, because our speakers want the grace and energy of action.

Among the numerous projectors who are desirous to refine our manners,
and improve our faculties, some are willing to supply the deficiency of
our speakers[1]. We have had more than one exhortation to study the
neglected art of moving the passions, and have been encouraged to
believe that our tongues, however feeble in themselves, may, by the help
of our hands and legs, obtain an uncontroulable dominion over the most
stubborn audience, animate the insensible, engage the careless, force
tears from the obdurate, and money from the avaricious.

If by sleight of hand, or nimbleness of foot, all these wonders can be
performed, he that shall neglect to attain the free use of his limbs may
be justly censured as criminally lazy. But I am afraid that no specimen
of such effects will easily be shown. If I could once find a speaker in
'Change-Alley raising the price of stocks by the power of persuasive
gestures, I should very zealously recommend the study of his art; but
having never seen any action by which language was much assisted, I have
been hitherto inclined to doubt whether my countrymen are not blamed too
hastily for their calm and motionless utterance.

Foreigners of many nations accompany their speech with action; but why
should their example have more influence upon us than ours upon them?
Customs are not to be changed but for better. Let those who desire to
reform us show the benefits of the change proposed. When the Frenchman
waves his hands and writhes his body in recounting the revolutions of a
game at cards, or the Neapolitan, who tells the hour of the day, shows
upon his fingers the number which he mentions; I do not perceive that
their manual exercise is of much use, or that they leave any image more
deeply impressed by their bustle and vehemence of communication.

Upon the English stage there is no want of action; but the difficulty of
making it at once various and proper, and its perpetual tendency to
become ridiculous, notwithstanding all the advantages which art and
show, and custom and prejudice can give it, may prove how little it can
be admitted into any other place, where it can have no recommendation
but from truth and nature.

The use of English oratory is only at the bar, in the parliament, and in
the church. Neither the judges of our laws nor the representatives of
our people would be much affected by laboured gesticulation, or believe
any man the more because he rolled his eyes, or puffed his cheeks, or
spread abroad his arms, or stamped the ground, or thumped his breast, or
turned his eyes sometimes to the ceiling and sometimes to the floor.
Upon men intent only upon truth, the arm of an orator has little power;
a credible testimony, or a cogent argument will overcome all the art of
modulation, and all the violence of contortion.

It is well known that, in the city which may be called the parent of
oratory, all the arts of mechanical persuasion were banished from the
court of supreme judicature. The judges of the Areopagus considered
action and vociferation as a foolish appeal to the external senses, and
unworthy to be practised before those who had no desire of idle
amusement, and whose only pleasure was to discover right.

Whether action may not be yet of use in churches, where the preacher
addresses a mingled audience, may deserve inquiry. It is certain that
the senses are more powerful as the reason is weaker; and that he whose
ears convey little to his mind, may sometimes listen with his eyes till
truth may gradually take possession of his heart. If there be any use of
gesticulation, it must be applied to the ignorant and rude, who will be
more affected by vehemence than delighted by propriety. In the pulpit
little action can be proper, for action can illustrate nothing but that
to which it may be referred by nature or by custom. He that imitates by
his hand a motion which he describes, explains it by natural similitude;
he that lays his hand on his breast, when he expresses pity, enforces
his words by a customary allusion. But theology has few topicks to which
action can be appropriated; that action which is vague and indeterminate
will at last settle into habit, and habitual peculiarities are quickly
ridiculous.

It is, perhaps, the character of the English to despise trifles; and
that art may surely be accounted a trifle which is at once useless and
ostentatious, which can seldom be practised with propriety, and which,
as the mind is more cultivated, is less powerful. Yet as all innocent
means are to be used for the propagation of truth, I would not deter
those who are employed in preaching to common congregations from any
practice which they may find persuasive: for, compared with the
conversion of sinners, propriety and elegance are less than nothing.

[1] Johnson might here be glancing at the oratorical lectures of the
modern _Rhetor_ Sheridan, whose plans he delighted incessantly to
ridicule. See Boswell. Many acute remarks occur in Hume's Essay on
Eloquence.




No. 91. SATURDAY, JANUARY 12, 1760.

It is common to overlook what is near, by keeping the eye fixed upon
something remote. In the same manner present opportunities are
neglected, and attainable good is slighted, by minds busied in extensive
ranges, and intent upon future advantages. Life, however short, is made
still shorter by waste of time, and its progress towards happiness,
though naturally slow, is yet retarded by unnecessary labour.

The difficulty of obtaining knowledge is universally confessed. To fix
deeply in the mind the principles of science, to settle their
limitations, and deduce the long succession of their consequences; to
comprehend the whole compass of complicated systems, with all the
arguments, objections and solutions, and to reposite in the intellectual
treasury the numberless facts, experiments, apophthegms and positions,
which must stand single in the memory, and of which none has any
perceptible connexion with the rest, is a task which, though undertaken
with ardour and pursued with diligence, must at last be left unfinished
by the frailty of our nature.

To make the way to learning either less short or less smooth, is
certainly absurd; yet this is the apparent effect of the prejudice which
seems to prevail among us in favour of foreign authors, and of the
contempt of our native literature, which this excursive curiosity must
necessarily produce. Every man is more speedily instructed by his own
language, than by any other; before we search the rest of the world for
teachers, let us try whether we may not spare our trouble by finding
them at home.

The riches of the English language are much greater than they are
commonly supposed. Many useful and valuable books lie buried in shops
and libraries, unknown and unexamined, unless some lucky compiler opens
them by chance, and finds an easy spoil of wit and learning. I am far
from intending to insinuate, that other languages are not necessary to
him who aspires to eminence, and whose whole life is devoted to study;
but to him who reads only for amusement, or whose purpose is not to deck
himself with the honours of literature, but to be qualified for
domestick usefulness, and sit down content with subordinate reputation,
we have authors sufficient to fill up all the vacancies of his time, and
gratify most of his wishes for information.

Of our poets I need say little, because they are, perhaps, the only
authors to whom their country has done justice. We consider the whole
succession from Spenser to Pope as superior to any names which the
continent can boast; and, therefore, the poets of other nations, however
familiarly they may be sometimes mentioned, are very little read, except
by those who design to borrow their beauties.

There is, I think, not one of the liberal arts which may not be
competently learned in the English language. He that searches after
mathematical knowledge may busy himself among his own countrymen, and
will find one or other able to instruct him in every part of those
abstruse sciences. He that is delighted with experiments, and wishes to
know the nature of bodies from certain and visible effects, is happily
placed where the mechanical philosophy was first established by a
publick institution, and from which it was spread to all other
countries.

The more airy and elegant studies of philology and criticism have little
need of any foreign help. Though our language, not being very
analogical, gives few opportunities for grammatical researches, yet we
have not wanted authors who have considered the principles of speech;
and with critical writings we abound sufficiently to enable pedantry to
impose rules which can seldom be observed, and vanity to talk of books
which are seldom read.

But our own language has, from the Reformation to the present time, been
chiefly dignified and adorned by the works of our divines, who,
considered as commentators, controvertists, or preachers, have
undoubtedly left all other nations far behind them. No vulgar language
can boast such treasures of theological knowledge, or such multitudes of
authors at once learned, elegant and pious. Other countries and other
communions have authors, perhaps, equal in abilities and diligence to
ours; but if we unite number with excellence, there is certainly no
nation which must not allow us to be superior. Of morality little is
necessary to be said, because it is comprehended in practical divinity,
and is, perhaps, better taught in English sermons than in any other
books, ancient and modern. Nor shall I dwell on our excellence in
metaphysical speculations, because he that reads the works of our
divines will easily discover how far human subtilty has been able to
penetrate.

Political knowledge is forced upon us by the form of our constitution;
and all the mysteries of government are discovered in the attack or
defence of every minister. The original law of society, the rights of
subjects and the prerogatives of kings, have been considered with the
utmost nicety, sometimes profoundly investigated, and sometimes
familiarly explained.

Thus copiously instructive is the English language; and thus needless is
all recourse to foreign writers. Let us not, therefore, make our
neighbours proud by soliciting help which we do not want, nor discourage
our own industry by difficulties which we need not suffer.




No. 92. SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 1760.

Whatever is useful or honourable will be desired by many who never can
obtain it; and that which cannot be obtained when it is desired,
artifice or folly will be diligent to counterfeit. Those to whom fortune
has denied gold and diamonds decorate themselves with stones and metals,
which have something of the show, but little of the value; and every
moral excellence or intellectual faculty has some vice or folly which
imitates its appearance.

Every man wishes to be wise, and they who cannot be wise are almost
always cunning. The less is the real discernment of those whom business
or conversation brings together, the more illusions are practised; nor
is caution ever so necessary as with associates or opponents of feeble
minds.

Cunning differs from wisdom as twilight from open day. He that walks in
the sunshine goes boldly forward by the nearest way; he sees that where
the path is straight and even, he may proceed in security, and where it
is rough and crooked he easily complies with the turns, and avoids the
obstructions. But the traveller in the dusk fears more as he sees less;
he knows there may be danger, and, therefore, suspects that he is never
safe, tries every step before he fixes his foot, and shrinks at every
noise lest violence should approach him. Wisdom comprehends at once the
end and the means, estimates easiness or difficulty, and is cautious or
confident in due proportion. Cunning discovers little at a time, and has
no other means of certainty than multiplication of stratagems and
superfluity of suspicion. The man of cunning always considers that he
can never be too safe, and, therefore, always keeps himself enveloped in
a mist, impenetrable, as he hopes, to the eye of rivalry or curiosity.

Upon this principle Tom Double has formed a habit of eluding the most
harmless question. What he has no inclination to answer, he pretends
sometimes not to hear, and endeavours to divert the inquirer's attention
by some other subject; but if he be pressed hard by repeated
interrogation, he always evades a direct reply. Ask him whom he likes
best on the stage; he is ready to tell that there are several excellent
performers. Inquire when he was last at the coffee-house; he replies,
that the weather has been bad lately. Desire him to tell the age of any
of his acquaintance; he immediately mentions another who is older or
younger.

Will Puzzle values himself upon a long reach. He foresees every thing
before it will happen, though he never relates his prognostications till
the event is past. Nothing has come to pass for these twenty years of
which Mr. Puzzle had not given broad hints, and told at least that it
was not proper to tell. Of those predictions, which every conclusion
will equally verify, he always claims the credit, and wonders that his
friends did not understand them. He supposes very truly that much may be
known which he knows not, and, therefore, pretends to know much of which
he and all mankind are equally ignorant. I desired his opinion yesterday
of the German war, and was told, that if the Prussians were well
supported, something great may be expected; but that they have very
powerful enemies to encounter; that the Austrian general has long
experience, and the Russians are hardy and resolute; but that no human
power is invincible. I then drew the conversation to our own affairs,
and invited him to balance the probabilities of war and peace. He told
me that war requires courage, and negociation judgment, and that the
time will come when it will be seen, whether our skill in treaty is
equal to our bravery in battle. To this general prattle he will appeal
hereafter, and will demand to have his foresight applauded, whoever
shall at last be conquered or victorious.

With Ned Smuggle all is a secret. He believes himself watched by
observation and malignity on every side, and rejoices in the dexterity
by which he has escaped snares that never were laid. Ned holds that a
man is never deceived if he never trusts, and, therefore, will not tell
the name of his tailor or his hatter. He rides out every morning for the
air, and pleases himself with thinking that nobody knows where he has
been. When he dines with a friend, he never goes to his house the
nearest way, but walks up a by-street to perplex the scent. When he has
a coach called, he never tells him at the door the true place to which
he is going, but stops him in the way that he may give him directions
where nobody can hear him. The price of what he buys or sells is always
concealed. He often takes lodgings in the country by a wrong name, and
thinks that the world is wondering where he can be hid. All these
transactions he registers in a book, which, he says, will some time or
other amaze posterity.

It is remarked by Bacon, that many men try to procure reputation only by
objections, of which, if they are once admitted, the nullity never
appears, because the design is laid aside. "This false feint of wisdom,"
says he, "is the ruin of business. " The whole power of cunning is
privative; to say nothing, and to do nothing, is the utmost of its
reach. Yet men thus narrow by nature, and mean by art, are sometimes
able to rise by the miscarriages of bravery and the openness of
integrity; and by watching failures and snatching opportunities, obtain
advantages which belong properly to higher characters.




No. 93. SATURDAY, JANUARY 26, 1760.

Sam Softly was bred a sugar-baker; but succeeding to a considerable
estate on the death of his elder brother, he retired early from
business, married a fortune, and settled in a country-house near
Kentish-town, Sam, who formerly was a sportsman, and in his
apprenticeship used to frequent Barnet races, keeps a high chaise, with
a brace of seasoned geldings. During the summer months, the principal
passion and employment of Sam's life is to visit, in this vehicle, the
most eminent seats of the nobility and gentry in different parts of the
kingdom, with his wife and some select friends. By these periodical
excursions Sam gratifies many important purposes. He assists the several
pregnancies of his wife; he shows his chaise to the best advantage; he
indulges his insatiable curiosity for finery, which, since he has turned
gentleman, has grown upon him to an extraordinary degree; he discovers
taste and spirit, and, what is above all, he finds frequent
opportunities of displaying to the party, at every house he sees, his
knowledge of family connexion. At first, Sam was contented with driving
a friend between London and his villa. Here he prided himself in
pointing out the boxes of the citizens on each side of the road, with an
accurate detail of their respective failures or successes in trade; and
harangued on the several equipages that were accidentally passing. Here,
too, the seats, interspersed on the surrounding hills, afforded ample
matter for Sam's curious discoveries. For one, he told his companion, a
rich Jew had offered money; and that a retired widow was courted at
another, by an eminent dry-salter. At the same time he discussed the
utility, and enumerated the expenses, of the Islington turnpike. But
Sam's ambition is at present raised to nobler undertakings.

When the happy hour of the annual expedition arrives, the seat of the
chaise is furnished with Ogilvy's Book of Roads, and a choice quantity
of cold tongues. The most alarming disaster which can happen to our
hero, who thinks he _throws a whip_ admirably well, is to be overtaken
in a road which affords no _quarter_ for wheels. Indeed, few men possess
more skill or discernment for concerting and conducting a _party of
pleasure_. When a seat is to be surveyed, he has a peculiar talent in
selecting some shady bench in the park, where the company may most
commodiously refresh themselves with cold tongue, chicken and French
rolls; and is very sagacious in discovering what cool temple in the
garden will be best adapted for drinking tea, brought for this purpose,
in the afternoon, and from which the chaise may be resumed with the
greatest convenience. In viewing the house itself, he is principally
attracted by the chairs and beds, concerning the cost of which his
minute inquiries generally gain the clearest information. An agate table
easily diverts his eyes from the most capital strokes of Rubens, and a
Turkey carpet has more charms than a Titian. Sam, however, dwells with
some attention on the family portraits, particularly the most modern
ones; and as this is a topick on which the housekeeper usually harangues
in a more copious manner, he takes this opportunity of improving his
knowledge of intermarriages. Yet, notwithstanding this appearance of
satisfaction, Sam has some objection to all he sees. One house has too
much gilding; at another, the chimney-pieces are all monuments; at a
third, he conjectures that the beautiful canal must certainly be dried
up in a hot summer. He despises the statues at Wilton, because he thinks
he can see much better carving in Westminster Abbey. But there is one
general objection which he is sure to make at almost every house,
particularly at those which are most distinguished. He allows that all
the apartments are extremely fine, but adds, with a sneer, that they are
too fine to be inhabited.

Misapplied genius most commonly proves ridiculous. Had Sam, as Nature
intended, contentedly continued in the calmer and less conspicuous
pursuits of sugar-baking, he might have been a respectable and useful
character. At present he dissipates his life in a specious idleness,
which neither improves himself nor his friends. Those talents, which
might have benefited society, he exposes to contempt by false
pretensions. He affects pleasures which he cannot enjoy, and is
acquainted only with those subjects on which he has no right to talk,
and which it is no merit to understand[1].

[1] This humorous paper was written by Mr. Thomas Warton, who is said to
have sketched from a character in real life, distantly related to
himself. --Drake's Essays, Vol. II.




No. 94. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 1760.

It is common to find young men ardent and diligent in the pursuit of
knowledge; but the progress of life very often produces laxity and
indifference; and not only those who are at liberty to choose their
business and amusements, but those likewise whose professions engage
them in literary inquiries, pass the latter part of their time without
improvement, and spend the day rather in any other entertainment than
that which they might find among their books.

This abatement of the vigour of curiosity is sometimes imputed to the
insufficiency of learning. Men are supposed to remit their labours,
because they find their labours to have been vain; and to search no
longer after truth and wisdom, because they at last despair of finding
them.

But this reason is, for the most part, very falsely assigned. Of
learning, as of virtue, it may be affirmed, that it is at once honoured
and neglected. Whoever forsakes it will for ever look after it with
longing, lament the loss which he does not endeavour to repair, and
desire the good which he wants resolution to seize and keep. The Idler
never applauds his own idleness, nor does any man repent of the
diligence of his youth.

So many hindrances may obstruct the acquisition of knowledge, that there
is little reason for wondering that it is in a few hands. To the greater
part of mankind the duties of life are inconsistent with much study; and
the hours which they would spend upon letters must be stolen from their
occupations and their families. Many suffer themselves to be lured by
more sprightly and luxurious pleasures from the shades of contemplation,
where they find seldom more than a calm delight, such as, though greater
than all others, its certainty and its duration being reckoned with its
power of gratification, is yet easily quitted for some extemporary joy,
which the present moment offers, and another, perhaps, will put out of
reach.

It is the great excellence of learning, that it borrows very little from
time or place; it is not confined to season or to climate, to cities or
to the country, but may be cultivated and enjoyed where no other
pleasure can be obtained. But this quality, which constitutes much of
its value, is one occasion of neglect; what may be done at all times
with equal propriety, is deferred from day to day, till the mind is
gradually reconciled to the omission, and the attention is turned to
other objects. Thus habitual idleness gains too much power to be
conquered, and the soul shrinks from the idea of intellectual labour and
intenseness of meditation.

That those who profess to advance learning sometimes obstruct it, cannot
be denied; the continual multiplication of books not only distracts
choice, but disappoints inquiry. To him that has moderately stored his
mind with images, few writers afford any novelty, or what little they
have to add to the common stock of learning, is so buried in the mass of
general notions, that, like silver mingled with the ore of lead, it is
too little to pay for the labour of separation; and he that has often
been deceived by the promise of a title, at last grows weary of
examining, and is tempted to consider all as equally fallacious.