No More Learning

1
2. The necessity and danger of looking into futurity.
Writers naturally sanguine.
Their hopes liable to disappointment. 6
3. An allegory on criticism. 11
4. The modern form of romances preferable to the ancient.
The necessity of characters morally good. 15
5. A meditation on the Spring. 20
6. Happiness not local. 25
7. Retirement natural to a great mind. Its religious use. 30
8. The thoughts to be brought under regulation; as they
respect the past, present, and future. 35
9. The fondness of every man for his profession.
The gradual improvement of manufactures. 40
10. Four billets, with their answers.
Remarks on masquerades. 44
11. The folly of anger. The misery of a peevish old age. 50
12. The history of a young woman that came to London for
a service. 55
13. The duty of secrecy.
The invalidity of all excuses for betraying secrets. 61
14. The difference between an author's writings and his
conversation. 66
15. The folly of cards.
A letter from a lady that has lost her money. 72
16. The dangers and miseries of a literary eminence. 78
17. The frequent contemplation of death necessary to moderate
the passions. 83
18. The unhappiness of marriage caused by irregular motives
of choice. 87
19. The danger of ranging from one study to another.
The importance of the early choice of a profession. 93
20. The folly and inconvenience of affectation. 99
21. The anxieties of literature not less than those of
publick stations. The inequality of authors' writings. 104
22. An allegory on wit and learning. 109
23. The contrariety of criticism. The vanity of objection.
An author obliged to depend upon his own judgment. 113
24. The necessity of attending to the duties of common life.
The natural character not to be forsaken. 117
25. Rashness preferable to cowardice.
Enterprize not to be repressed. 122
26. The mischief of extravagance, and misery of dependence. 127
27. An author's treatment from six patrons. 132
28. The various arts of self-delusion. 136
29. The folly of anticipating misfortunes. 142
30. The observance of Sunday recommended; an allegory. 146
31. The defence of a known mistake highly culpable. 150
32. The vanity of stoicism. The necessity of patience. 156
33. An allegorical history of Rest and Labour. 161
34. The uneasiness and disgust of female cowardice. 165
35. A marriage of prudence without affection. 171
36. The reasons why pastorals delight. 176
37. The true principles of pastoral poetry. 180
38. The advantages of mediocrity; an eastern fable. 185
39. The unhappiness of women whether single or married. 190
40. The difficulty of giving advice without offending. 194
41. The advantages of memory. 199
42. The misery of a modish lady in solitude. 204
43. The inconveniences of precipitation and confidence. 208
44. Religion and Superstition; a vision. 213
45. The causes of disagreement in marriage. 218
46. The mischiefs of rural faction. 222
47. The proper means of regulating sorrow. 227
48. The miseries of an infirm constitution. 231
49. A disquisition upon the value of fame. 235
50. A virtuous old age always reverenced. 240
51. The employments of a housewife in the country. 244
52. The contemplation of the calamities of others,
a remedy for grief. 250
53. The folly and misery of a spendthrift. 254
54. A death-bed the true school of wisdom.
The effects of death upon the survivors. 258
55. The gay widow's impatience of the growth of her daughter.
The history of Miss May-pole. 263
56. The necessity of complaisance.
The Rambler's grief for offending his correspondents. 268
57. Sententious rules of frugality. 273
58. The desire of wealth moderated by philosophy. 277
59. An account of Suspirius, the human screech-owl. 281
60. The dignity and usefulness of biography. 285
61. A Londoner's visit to the country. 290
62. A young lady's impatience to see London. 295
63. Inconstancy not always a weakness. 300
64. The requisites to true friendship. 304
65. Obidah and the hermit; an eastern story. 309
66. Passion not to be eradicated.
The views of women ill directed. 313
67. The garden of Hope; a dream. 317
68. Every man chiefly happy or miserable at home.
The opinion of servants not to be despised. 322
69. The miseries and prejudice of old age. 326
70. Different men virtuous in different degrees.
The vicious not always abandoned. 330
71. No man believes that his own life will be short. 334
72. The necessity of good humour. 338
73. The lingering expectation of an heir. 342
74. Peevishness equally wretched and offensive.
The character of Tetrica. 347
75. The world never known but by a change of fortune.
The history of Melissa. 352
76. The arts by which bad men are reconciled to themselves. 357
77. The learned seldom despised but when they deserve
contempt. 361
78. The power of novelty.
Mortality too familiar to raise apprehensions. 366
79. A suspicious man justly suspected. 370
80. Variety necessary to happiness; a winter scene. 375
81. The great rule of action. Debts of justice to be
distinguished from debts of charity. 369
82. The virtuoso's account of his rarities. 383
83. The virtuoso's curiosity justified. 388
84. A young lady's impatience of controul. 393
85. The mischiefs of total idleness. 398
86. The danger of succeeding a great author: an introduction
to a criticism on Milton's versification. 402
87. The reasons why advice is generally ineffectual. 408
88. A criticism on Milton's versification.
Elisions dangerous in English poetry. 412
89. The luxury of vain imagination. 417
90. The pauses in English poetry adjusted. 421
91. The conduct of Patronage; an allegory. 426
92. The accommodation of sound to the sense, often chimerical. 431
93. The prejudices and caprices of criticism. 438
94. An inquiry how far Milton has accommodated the sound to
the sense. 442
95. The history of Pertinax the sceptick. 449
96. Truth, Falsehood, and Fiction; an allegory. 453
97. Advice to unmarried ladies. 458
98. The necessity of cultivating politeness. 464
99. The pleasures of private friendship.
The necessity of similar dispositions. 468
100. Modish pleasures. 472
101. A proper audience necessary to a wit. 476
102. The voyage of life. 481
103. The prevalence of curiosity. The character of Nugaculus. 486
104. The original of flattery. The meanness of venal praise. 491
105. The universal register; a dream. 495




THE RAMBLER.




No. 1. TUESDAY, MARCH 20, 1749-50.


_Cur tamen hoc potius libeat decurrere campo,_
_Per quem magnus equos Auruncæ flexit alumnus,_
_Si vacat, et placidi rationem admittitis, edam. _
JUV. Sat. i. 19.

Why to expatiate in this beaten field,
Why arms, oft us'd in vain, I mean to wield;
If time permit, and candour will attend,
Some satisfaction this essay may lend.
ELPHINSTON.


The difficulty of the first address on any new occasion, is felt by every
man in his transactions with the world, and confessed by the settled
and regular forms of salutation which necessity has introduced into
all languages. Judgment was wearied with the perplexity of being forced
upon choice, where there was no motive to preference; and it was found
convenient that some easy method of introduction should be established,
which, if it wanted the allurement of novelty, might enjoy the security
of prescription.

Perhaps few authors have presented themselves before the publick,
without wishing that such ceremonial modes of entrance had been anciently
established, as might have freed them from those dangers which the desire
of pleasing is certain to produce, and precluded the vain expedients
of softening censure by apologies, or rousing attention by abruptness.

The epick writers have found the proemial part of the poem such an
addition to their undertaking, that they have almost unanimously adopted
the first lines of Homer, and the reader needs only be informed of the
subject, to know in what manner the poem will begin.

But this solemn repetition is hitherto the peculiar distinction of
heroick poetry; it has never been legally extended to the lower orders
of literature, but seems to be considered as an hereditary privilege,
to be enjoyed only by those who claim it from their alliance to the
genius of Homer.

The rules which the injudicious use of this prerogative suggested to
Horace, may indeed be applied to the direction of candidates for inferior
fame; it may be proper for all to remember, that they ought not to raise
expectation which it is not in their power to satisfy, and that it is
more pleasing to see smoke brightening into flame, than flame sinking
into smoke.

This precept has been long received, both from regard to the authority
of Horace, and its conformity to the general opinion of the world; yet
there have been always some, that thought it no deviation from modesty
to recommend their own labours, and imagined themselves entitled by
indisputable merit to an exemption from general restraints, and to
elevations not allowed in common life. They perhaps believed, that when,
like Thucydides, they bequeathed to mankind κτημα ες αει, _an estate for
ever_, it was an additional favour to inform them of its value.

It may, indeed, be no less dangerous to claim, on certain occasions,
too little than too much. There is something captivating in spirit and
intrepidity, to which we often yield, as to a resistless power; nor
can he reasonably expect the confidence of others, who too apparently
distrusts himself.

Plutarch, in his enumeration of the various occasions on which a man may
without just offence proclaim his own excellencies, has omitted the case
of an author entering the world; unless it may be comprehended under
his general position, that a man may lawfully praise himself for those
qualities which cannot be known but from his own mouth; as when he is
among strangers, and can have no opportunity of an actual exertion of his
powers. That the case of an author is parallel will scarcely be granted,
because he necessarily discovers the degree of his merit to his judges
when he appears at his trial. But it should be remembered, that unless
his judges are inclined to favour him, they will hardly be persuaded to
hear the cause.

In love, the state which fills the heart with a degree of solicitude
next that of an author, it has been held a maxim, that success is most
easily obtained by indirect and unperceived approaches; he who too soon
professes himself a lover, raises obstacles to his own wishes, and those
whom disappointments have taught experience, endeavour to conceal their
passion till they believe their mistress wishes for the discovery. The
same method, if it were practicable to writers, would save many complaints
of the severity of the age, and the caprices of criticism. If a man could
glide imperceptibly into the favour of the publick, and only proclaim his
pretensions to literary honours when he is sure of not being rejected,
he might commence author with better hopes, as his failings might escape
contempt, though he shall never attain much regard.

But since the world supposes every man that writes ambitious of applause,
as some ladies have taught themselves to believe that every man intends
love, who expresses civility, the miscarriage of any endeavour in learning
raises an unbounded contempt, indulged by most minds, without scruple,
as an honest triumph over unjust claims and exorbitant expectations. The
artifices of those who put themselves in this hazardous state, have
therefore been multiplied in proportion to their fear as well as their
ambition; and are to be looked upon with more indulgence, as they are
incited at once by the two great movers of the human mind--the desire
of good, and the fear of evil. For who can wonder that, allured on one
side, and frightened on the other, some should endeavour to gain favour
by bribing the judge with an appearance of respect which they do not
feel, to excite compassion by confessing weakness of which they are
not convinced; and others to attract regard by a show of openness and
magnanimity, by a daring profession of their own deserts, and a publick
challenge of honours and rewards?

The ostentatious and haughty display of themselves has been the usual
refuge of diurnal writers, in vindication of whose practice it may be
said, that what it wants in prudence is supplied by sincerity, and who
at least may plead, that if their boasts deceive any into the perusal
of their performances, they defraud them of but little time.

_----Quid enim? Concurritur--horæ_
_Momento cita mors venit, aut victoria læta. _
HOR. lib. i. Sat. 7.

The battle join, and in a moment's flight,
Death, or a joyful conquest, ends the fight.
FRANCIS.

The question concerning the merit of the day is soon decided, and we
are not condemned to toil through half a folio, to be convinced that
the writer has broke his promise.

It is one among many reasons for which I purpose to endeavour the
entertainment of my countrymen by a short essay on Tuesday and Saturday,
that I hope not much to tire those whom I shall not happen to please; and
if I am not commended for the beauty of my works, to be at least pardoned
for their brevity. But whether my expectations are most fixed on pardon
or praise, I think it not necessary to discover; for having accurately
weighed the reasons for arrogance and submission, I find them so nearly
equiponderant, that my impatience to try the event of my first performance
will not suffer me to attend any longer the trepidations of the balance.

There are, indeed, many conveniencies almost peculiar to this method
of publication, which may naturally flatter the author, whether he be
confident or timorous. The man to whom the extent of his knowledge, or
the sprightliness of his imagination, has, in his own opinion, already
secured the praises of the world, willingly takes that way of displaying
his abilities which will soonest give him an opportunity of hearing the
voice of fame; it heightens his alacrity to think in how many places he
shall hear what he is now writing, read with ecstasies to-morrow. He will
often please himself with reflecting, that the author of a large treatise
must proceed with anxiety, lest, before the completion of his work, the
attention of the publick may have changed its object; but that he who
is confined to no single topick may follow the national taste through
all its variations, and catch the _aura popularis_, the gale of favour,
from what point soever it shall blow.

Nor is the prospect less likely to ease the doubts of the cautious, and
the terrours of the fearful; for to such the shortness of every single
paper is a powerful encouragement. He that questions his abilities to
arrange the dissimilar parts of an extensive plan, or fears to be lost
in a complicated system, may yet hope to adjust a few pages without
perplexity; and if, when he turns over the repositories of his memory,
he finds his collection too small for a volume, he may yet have enough to
furnish out an essay. He that would fear to lay out too much time upon
an experiment of which he knows not the event, persuades himself that
a few days will show him what he is to expect from his learning and his
genius. If he thinks his own judgment not sufficiently enlightened, he
may, by attending the remarks which every paper will produce, rectify his
opinions. If he should with too little premeditation encumber himself by
an unwieldy subject, he can quit it without confessing his ignorance,
and pass to other topicks less dangerous, or more tractable. And if
he finds, with all his industry, and all his artifices, that he cannot
deserve regard, or cannot attain it, he may let the design fall at once,
and, without injury to others or himself, retire to amusements of greater
pleasure, or to studies of better prospect.




No. 2. SATURDAY, MARCH 24, 1749-50.


_Stare loco nescit, pereunt vestigia mille_
_Ante fugam, absentemque ferit gratis ungula campum. _
STATIUS.

Th' impatient courser pants in every vein,
And pawing seems to beat the distant plain;
Hills, vales, and floods appear already crost,
And ere he starts, a thousand steps are lost.
POPE.


That the mind of man is never satisfied with the objects immediately
before it, but is always breaking away from the present moment, and
losing itself in schemes of future felicity; and that we forget the
proper use of the time, now in our power, to provide for the enjoyment
of that which, perhaps, may never be granted us, has been frequently
remarked; and as this practice is a commodious subject of raillery to
the gay, and of declamation to the serious, it has been ridiculed with
all the pleasantry of wit, and exaggerated with all the amplifications
of rhetorick. Every instance, by which its absurdity might appear most
flagrant, has been studiously collected; it has been marked with every
epithet of contempt, and all the tropes and figures have been called
forth against it.

Censure is willingly indulged, because it always implies some superiority:
men please themselves with imagining that they have made a deeper search,
or wider survey, than others, and detected faults and follies, which
escape vulgar observation. And the pleasure of wantoning in common
topicks is so tempting to a writer, that he cannot easily resign it;
a train of sentiments generally received enables him to shine without
labour, and to conquer without a contest. It is so easy to laugh at the
folly of him who lives only in idea, refuses immediate ease for distant
pleasures, and, instead of enjoying the blessings of life, lets life
glide away in preparations to enjoy them; it affords such opportunities
of triumphant exultation, to exemplify the uncertainty of the human state,
to rouse mortals from their dream, and inform them of the silent celerity
of time, that we may believe authors willing rather to transmit than
examine so advantageous a principle, and more inclined to pursue a track
so smooth and so flowery, than attentively to consider whether it leads
to truth.

This quality of looking-forward into futurity seems the unavoidable
condition of a being, whose motions are gradual, and whose life is
progressive: as his powers are limited, he must use means for the
attainment of his ends, and intend first what he performs last; as by
continual advances from his first stage of existence, he is perpetually
varying the horizon of his prospects, he must always discover new motives
of action, new excitements of fear, and allurements of desire.

The end therefore which at present calls forth our efforts, will be found,
when it is once gained, to be only one of the means to some remoter
end. The natural flights of the human mind are not from pleasure to
pleasure, but from hope to hope.

He that directs his steps to a certain point, must frequently turn
his eyes to that place which he strives to reach; he that undergoes the
fatigue of labour, must solace his weariness with the contemplation of its
reward. In agriculture, one of the most simple and necessary employments,
no man turns up the ground but because he thinks of the harvest, that
harvest which blights may intercept, which inundations may sweep away,
or which death or calamity may hinder him from reaping.

Yet, as few maxims are widely received or long retained but for some
conformity with truth and nature, it must be confessed, that this caution
against keeping our view too intent upon remote advantages is not without
its propriety or usefulness, though it may have been recited with too
much levity, or enforced with too little distinction; for, not to speak
of that vehemence of desire which presses through right and wrong to its
gratification, or that anxious inquietude which is justly chargeable
with distrust of heaven, subjects too solemn for my present purpose;
it frequently happens that by indulging early the raptures of success,
we forget the measures necessary to secure it, and suffer the imagination
to riot in the fruition of some possible good, till the time of obtaining
it has slipped away.

There would, however, be few enterprises of great labour or hazard
undertaken, if we had not the power of magnifying the advantages which
we persuade ourselves to expect from them. When the knight of La Mancha
gravely recounts to his companion the adventures by which he is to
signalize himself in such a manner that he shall be summoned to the
support of empires, solicited to accept the heiress of the crown which
he has preserved, have honours and riches to scatter about him, and an
island to bestow on his worthy squire, very few readers, amidst their
mirth or pity, can deny that they have admitted visions of the same
kind; though they have not, perhaps, expected events equally strange,
or by means equally inadequate. When we pity him, we reflect on our own
disappointments; and when we laugh, our hearts inform us that he is
not more ridiculous than ourselves, except that he tells what we have
only thought.

The understanding of a man naturally sanguine, may, indeed, be easily
vitiated by luxurious indulgence of hope, however necessary to the
production of every thing great or excellent, as some plants are
destroyed by too open exposure to that sun which gives life and beauty
to the vegetable world.

Perhaps no class of the human species requires more to be cautioned
against this anticipation of happiness, than those that aspire to the
name of authors. A man of lively fancy no sooner finds a hint moving
in his mind, than he makes momentaneous excursions to the press, and
to the world, and, with a little encouragement from flattery, pushes
forward into future ages, and prognosticates the honours to be paid him,
when envy is extinct, and faction forgotten, and those, whom partiality
now suffers to obscure him, shall have given way to the triflers of as
short duration as themselves.

Those who have proceeded so far as to appeal to the tribunal of succeeding
times are not likely to be cured of their infatuation, but all endeavours
ought to be used for the prevention of a disease, for which, when it has
attained its height, perhaps no remedy will be found in the gardens of
philosophy, however she may boast her physick of the mind, her catharticks
of vice, or lenitives of passion.

I shall, therefore, while I am yet but lightly touched with the symptoms
of the writer's malady, endeavour to fortify myself against the infection,
not without some weak hope, that my preservatives may extend their
virtues to others, whose employment exposes them to the same danger:

_Laudis amore tumes? Sunt certa piacula, quæ te_
_Ter pure lecto poterunt recreare libello. _
HOR. Ep. i. v. 36.

Is fame your passion? Wisdom's powerful charm,
If thrice read over, shall its force disarm.
FRANCIS.

It is the sage advice of Epictetus, that a man should accustom himself
often to think of what is most shocking and terrible, that by such
reflections he may be preserved from too ardent wishes for seeming good,
and from too much dejection in real evil.

There is nothing more dreadful to an author than neglect, compared with
which reproach, hatred, and opposition, are names of happiness; yet this
worst, this meanest fate, every one who dares to write has reason to fear.

_I nunc, et versus tecum meditare canoros. _
HOR. lib. ii. v. 76.

Go now, and meditate thy tuneful lays.
ELPHINSTON.

It may not be unfit for him who makes a new entrance into the lettered
world, so far to suspect his own powers, as to believe that he possibly
may deserve neglect; that nature may not have qualified him much
to enlarge or embellish knowledge, nor sent him forth entitled by
indisputable superiority to regulate the conduct of the rest of mankind
that, though the world must be granted to be yet in ignorance, he is not
destined to dispel the cloud, nor to shine out as one of the luminaries
of life. For this suspicion, every catalogue of a library will furnish
sufficient reason; as he will find it crowded with names of men, who,
though now forgotten, were once no less enterprising or confident than
himself, equally pleased with their own productions, equally caressed by
their patrons, and flattered by their friends.

But though it should happen that an author is capable of excelling, yet
his merit may pass without notice, huddled in the variety of things, and
thrown into the general miscellany of life. He that endeavours after fame
by writing, solicits the regard of a multitude fluctuating in pleasures,
or immersed in business, without time for intellectual amusements; he
appeals to judges prepossessed by passions, or corrupted by prejudices,
which preclude their approbation of any new performance. Some are
too indolent to read any thing, till its reputation is established;
others too envious to promote that fame which gives them pain by its
increase. What is new is opposed, because most are unwilling to be
taught; and what is known is rejected, because it is not sufficiently
considered that men more frequently require to be reminded than informed.
The learned are afraid to declare their opinion early, lest they should
put their reputation in hazard; the ignorant always imagine themselves
giving some proof of delicacy, when they refuse to be pleased: and he
that finds his way to reputation through all these obstructions, must
acknowledge that he is indebted to other causes besides his industry,
his learning, or his wit.




No. 3. TUESDAY, MARCH 27, 1750.


VIRTUS, _repulsæ nescia sordidæ,_
_Intaminatis fulget honoribus,_
_Nec sumit aut pouit secures_
_Arbitrio popularis auræ. _
HOR. lib. iii. Od. II. 18.

Undisappointed in designs,
With native honours virtue shines;
Nor takes up pow'r, nor lays it down,
As giddy rabbles smile or frown.
ELPHINSTON.


The task of an author is, either to teach what is not known, or to
recommend known truths by his manner of adorning them; either to let
new light in upon the mind, and open new scenes to the prospect, or
to vary the dress and situation of common objects, so as to give them
fresh grace and more powerful attractions, to spread such flowers over
the regions through which the intellect has already made its progress,
as may tempt it to return, and take a second view of things hastily
passed over, or negligently regarded.

Either of these labours is very difficult, because, that they may not
be fruitless, men must not only be persuaded of their errours, but
reconciled to their guide; they must not only confess their ignorance,
but, what is still less pleasing, must allow that he from whom they are
to learn is more knowing than themselves.

It might be imagined that such an employment was in itself sufficiently
irksome and hazardous; that none would be found so malevolent as wantonly
to add weight to the stone of Sisyphus; and that few endeavours would be
used to obstruct those advances to reputation, which must be made at such
an expense of time and thought, with so great hazard in the miscarriage,
and with so little advantage from the success.

Yet there is a certain race of men, that either imagine it their duty,
or make it their amusement, to hinder the reception of every work of
learning or genius, who stand as sentinels in the avenues of fame, and
value themselves upon giving Ignorance and Envy the first notice of
a prey.

To these men, who distinguish themselves by the appellation of Criticks,
it is necessary for a new author to find some means of recommendation.
It is probable, that the most malignant of these persecutors might be
somewhat softened, and prevailed on, for a short time, to remit their
fury. Having for this purpose considered many expedients, I find in the
records of ancient times, that Argus was lulled by musick, and Cerberus
quieted with a sop; and am, therefore, inclined to believe that modern
criticks, who, if they have not the eyes, have the watchfulness of Argus,
and can bark as loud as Cerberus, though, perhaps, they cannot bite with
equal force, might be subdued by methods of the same kind. I have heard
how some have been pacified with claret and a supper, and others laid
asleep by the soft notes of flattery.

Though the nature of my undertaking gives me sufficient reason to dread
the united attacks of this virulent generation, yet I have not hitherto
persuaded myself to take any measures for flight or treaty. For I am in
doubt whether they can act against me by lawful authority, and suspect
that they have presumed upon a forged commission, styled themselves the
ministers of Criticism, without any authentick evidence of delegation, and
uttered their own determinations as the decrees of a higher judicature.

Criticism, from whom they derive their claim to decide the fate of
writers, was the eldest daughter of Labour and of Truth: she was at
her birth committed to the care of Justice, and brought up by her
in the palace of Wisdom. Being soon distinguished by the celestials,
for her uncommon qualities, she was appointed the governess of Fancy,
and empowered to beat time to the chorus of the Muses, when they sung
before the throne of Jupiter.

When the Muses condescended to visit this lower world, they came
accompanied by Criticism, to whom, upon her descent from her native
regions, Justice gave a sceptre, to be carried aloft in her right hand,
one end of which was tinctured with ambrosia, and inwreathed with
a golden foliage of amaranths and bays; the other end was encircled
with cypress and poppies, and dipped in the waters of oblivion. In her
left hand she bore an unextinguishable torch, manufactured by Labour,
and lighted by Truth, of which it was the particular quality immediately
to shew every thing in its true form, however it might be disguised to
common eyes. Whatever Art could complicate, or Folly could confound, was,
upon the first gleam of the torch of Truth, exhibited in its distinct
parts and original simplicity; it darted through the labyrinths of
sophistry, and shewed at once all the absurdities to which they served
for refuge; it pierced through the robes, which Rhetoric often sold to
Falsehood, and detected the disproportion of parts, which artificial
veils had been contrived to cover.

Thus furnished for the execution of her office, Criticism came down to
survey the performances of those who professed themselves the votaries
of the Muses. Whatever was brought before her, she beheld by the steady
light of the torch of Truth, and when her examination had convinced her
that the laws of just writing had been observed, she touched it with
the amaranthine end of the sceptre, and consigned it over to immortality.

But it more frequently happened, that in the works, which required
her inspection, there was some imposture attempted; that false colours
were laboriously laid; that some secret inequality was found between
the words and sentiments, or some dissimilitude of the ideas and the
original objects; that incongruities were linked together, or that
some parts were of no use but to enlarge the appearance of the whole,
without contributing to its beauty, solidity, or usefulness.

Wherever such discoveries were made, and they were made whenever these
faults were committed, Criticism refused the touch which conferred the
sanction of immortality, and, when the errours were frequent and gross,
reversed the sceptre, and let drops of lethe distil from the poppies
and cypress, a fatal mildew, which immediately began to waste the work
away, till it was at last totally destroyed.

There were some compositions brought to the test, in which, when the
strongest light was thrown upon them, their beauties and faults appeared
so equally mingled, that Criticism stood with her sceptre poised in her
hand, in doubt whether to shed lethe, or ambrosia, upon them. These at
last increased to so great a number, that she was weary of attending
such doubtful claims, and, for fear of using improperly the sceptre of
Justice, referred the cause to be considered by Time.

The proceedings of Time, though very dilatory, were, some few caprices
excepted, conformable to Justice: and many who thought themselves secure
by a short forbearance, have sunk under his scythe, as they were posting
down with their volumes in triumph to futurity. It was observable that
some were destroyed by little and little, and others crushed for ever
by a single blow.

Criticism having long kept her eye fixed steadily upon Time, was at last
so well satisfied with his conduct, that she withdrew from the earth
with her patroness Astrea, and left Prejudice and False Taste to ravage
at large as the associates of Fraud and Mischief; contenting herself
thenceforth to shed her influence from afar upon some select minds,
fitted for its reception by learning and by virtue.

Before her departure she broke her sceptre, of which the shivers, that
formed the ambrosial end, were caught up by Flattery, and those that had
been infected with the waters of lethe were, with equal haste, seized
by Malevolence. The followers of Flattery, to whom she distributed
her part of the sceptre, neither had nor desired light, but touched
indiscriminately whatever Power or Interest happened to exhibit. The
companions of Malevolence were supplied by the Furies with a torch,
which had this quality peculiar to infernal lustre, that its light fell
only upon faults.

No light, but rather darkness visible
Serv'd only to discover sights of woe.
MILTON.

With these fragments of authority, the slaves of Flattery and Malevolence
marched out, at the command of their mistresses, to confer immortality,
or condemn to oblivion. But the sceptre had now lost its power;
and Time passes his sentence at leisure, without any regard to their
determinations.




No. 4. SATURDAY, MARCH 31, 1750.


_Simul et jucunda et idonea dicere vitæ. _
HOR. A. P. 334.

And join both profit and delight in one.
CREECH.


The works of fiction, with which the present generation seems more
particularly delighted, are such as exhibit life in its true state,
diversified only by accidents that daily happen in the world, and
influenced by passions and qualities which are really to be found in
conversing with mankind.

This kind of writing may be termed not improperly the comedy of romance,
and is to be conducted nearly by the rules of comick poetry. Its province
is to bring about natural events by easy means, and to keep up curiosity
without the help of wonder: it is therefore precluded from the machines
and expedients of the heroic romance, and can neither employ giants
to snatch away a lady from the nuptial rites, nor knights to bring her
back from captivity; it can neither bewilder its personages in deserts,
nor lodge them in imaginary castles.

I remember a remark made by Scaliger upon Pontanus, that all his writings
are filled with the same images; and that if you take from him his
lilies and his roses, his satyrs and his dryads, he will have nothing
left that can be called poetry. In like manner almost all the fictions
of the last age will vanish, if you deprive them of a hermit and a wood,
a battle and a shipwreck.

Why this wild strain of imagination found reception so long in polite
and learned ages, it is not easy to conceive; but we cannot wonder that
while readers could be procured, the authors were willing to continue it;
for when a man had by practice gained some fluency of language, he had
no further care than to retire to his closet, let loose his invention,
and heat his mind with incredibilities; a book was thus produced without
fear of criticism, without the toil of study, without knowledge of nature,
or acquaintance with life.