No More Learning

There is an œconomical oracle received among the prudential part of the
world, which advises fathers _to marry their daughters, lest they should
marry themselves_; by which I suppose it is implied, that women left to
their own conduct generally unite themselves with such partners as can
contribute very little to their felicity. Who was the author of this
maxim, or with what intention it was originally uttered, I have not yet
discovered; but imagine that however solemnly it may be transmitted,
or however implicitly received, it can confer no authority which nature
has denied; it cannot license Titius to be unjust, lest Caia should be
imprudent; nor give right to imprison for life, lest liberty should be
ill employed.

That the ladies have sometimes incurred imputations which might naturally
produce edicts not much in their favour, must be confessed by their warmest
advocates; and I have indeed seldom observed that when the tenderness or
virtue of their parents has preserved them from forced marriage, and left
them at large to chuse their own path in the labyrinth of life, they
have made any great advantage of their liberty: they commonly take the
opportunity of independance to trifle away youth and lose their bloom in
a hurry of diversions, recurring in a succession too quick to leave room
for any settled reflection; they see the world without gaining experience,
and at last regulate their choice by motives trifling as those of a girl,
or mercenary as those of a miser.

Melanthea came to town upon the death of her father, with a very large
fortune, and with the reputation of a much larger; she was therefore
followed and caressed by many men of rank, and by some of understanding;
but having an insatiable desire of pleasure, she was not at leisure,
from the park, the gardens, the theatres, visits, assemblies, and
masquerades, to attend seriously to any proposal, but was still impatient
for a new flatterer, and neglected marriage as always in her power; till
in time her admirers fell away, wearied with expense, disgusted at her
folly, or offended by her inconstancy; she heard of concerts to which
she was not invited, and was more than once forced to sit still at an
assembly for want of a partner. In this distress, chance threw in her
way Philotryphus, a man vain, glittering, and thoughtless as herself, who
had spent a small fortune in equipage and dress, and was shining in the
last suit for which his tailor would give him credit. He had been long
endeavouring to retrieve his extravagance by marriage, and therefore soon
paid his court to Melanthea, who after some weeks of insensibility saw
him at a ball, and was wholly overcome by his performance in a minuet.
They married; but a man cannot always dance, and Philotryphus had no
other method of pleasing; however, as neither was in any great degree
vicious, they live together with no other unhappiness, than vacuity of
mind, and that tastelessness of life, which proceeds from a satiety of
juvenile pleasures, and an utter inability to fill their place by nobler
employments. As they have known the fashionable world at the same time,
they agree in their notions of all those subjects on which they ever
speak, and being able to add nothing to the ideas of each other, are
not much inclined to conversation, but very often join in one wish,
"That they could sleep more, and think less. "

Argyris, after having refused a thousand offers, at last consented to
marry Cotylus, the younger brother of a duke, a man without elegance of
mien, beauty of person, or force of understanding; who, while he courted
her, could not always forbear allusions to her birth, and hints how
cheaply she would purchase an alliance to so illustrious a family. His
conduct from the hour of his marriage has been insufferably tyrannical,
nor has he any other regard to her than what arises from his desire that
her appearance may not disgrace him. Upon this principle, however, he
always orders that she should be gaily dressed, and splendidly attended;
and she has, among all her mortifications, the happiness to take place of
her eldest sister.




No. 40. SATURDAY, AUGUST 4, 1750.


_----Nec dicet, cur ego amicum_
_Offendam in nugis? Hæ nugæ seria ducent_
_In mala derisum semel. _
HOR. Ars. Poet. 450.

Nor say, for trifles why should I displease
The man I love? For trifles such as these
To serious mischiefs lead the man I love,
If once the flatterer's ridicule he prove.
FRANCIS.


It has been remarked, that authors are _genus irritabile_, a _generation
very easily put out of temper_, and that they seldom fail of giving
proofs of their irascibility upon the slightest attack of criticism, or
the most gentle or modest offer of advice and information.

Writers being best acquainted with one another, have represented this
character as prevailing among men of literature, which a more extensive
view of the world would have shewn them to be diffused through all human
nature, to mingle itself with every species of ambition and desire of
praise, and to discover its effects with greater or less restraint,
and under disguises more or less artful, in all places and all conditions.

The quarrels of writers, indeed, are more observed, because they
necessarily appeal to the decision of the publick. Their enmities are
incited by applauses from their parties, and prolonged by treacherous
encouragement for general diversion; and when the contest happens to
rise high between men of genius and learning, its memory is continued
for the same reason as its vehemence was at first promoted, because it
gratifies the malevolence or curiosity of readers, and relieves the
vacancies of life with amusement and laughter. The personal disputes,
therefore, of rivals in wit are sometimes transmitted to posterity, when
the grudges and heart-burnings of men less conspicuous, though carried
on with equal bitterness, and productive of greater evils, are exposed
to the knowledge of those only whom they nearly affect, and suffered to
pass off and be forgotten among common and casual transactions.

The resentment which the discovery of a fault or folly produces, must
bear a certain proportion to our pride, and will regularly be more
acrimonious as pride is more immediately the principle of action. In
whatever therefore we wish to imagine ourselves to excel, we shall
always be displeased to have our claims to reputation disputed; and more
displeased, if the accomplishment be such as can expect reputation only
for its reward. For this reason it is common to find men break out into
rage at any insinuations to the disadvantage of their wit, who have
borne with great patience reflections on their morals; and of women it
has been always known, that no censure wounds so deeply, or rankles so
long, as that which charges them with want of beauty.

As men frequently fill their imaginations with trifling pursuits, and
please themselves most with things of small importance, I have often
known very severe and lasting malevolence excited by unlucky censures,
which would have fallen without any effect, had they not happened to
wound a part remarkably tender. Gustulus, who valued himself upon the
nicety of his palate, disinherited his eldest son for telling him
that the wine, which he was then commending, was the same which he
had sent away the day before as not fit to be drunk. Proculus withdrew
his kindness from a nephew, whom he had always considered as the most
promising genius of the age, for happening to praise in his presence
the graceful horsemanship of Marius. And Fortunio, when he was privy
counsellor, procured a clerk to be dismissed from one of the publick
offices, in which he was eminent for his skill and assiduity, because
he had been heard to say that there was another man in the kingdom on
whose skill at billiards he would lay his money against Fortunio's.

Felicia and Floretta had been bred up in one house, and shared all the
pleasures and endearments of infancy together. They entered upon life at
the same time, and continued their confidence and friendship; consulted
each other in every change of their dress, and every admission of a new
lover; thought every diversion more entertaining whenever it happened
that both were present, and when separated justified the conduct, and
celebrated the excellencies, of one another. Such was their intimacy,
and such their fidelity; till a birth-night approached, when Floretta
took one morning an opportunity, as they were consulting upon new
clothes, to advise her friend not to dance at the ball, and informed her
that her performance the year before had not answered the expectation
which her other accomplishments had raised. Felicia commended her
sincerity, and thanked her for the caution; but told her that she danced
to please herself, and was in very little concern what the men might
take the liberty of saying, but that if her appearance gave her dear
Floretta any uneasiness, she would stay away. Floretta had now nothing
left but to make new protestations of sincerity and affection, with
which Felicia was so well satisfied, that they parted with more than
usual fondness. They still continued to visit, with this only difference,
that Felicia was more punctual than before, and often declared how
high a value she put upon sincerity, how much she thought that goodness
to be esteemed which would venture to admonish a friend of an errour,
and with what gratitude advice was to be received, even when it might
happen to proceed from mistake.

In a few months Felicia, with great seriousness, told Floretta, that
though her beauty was such as gave charms to whatever she did, and her
qualifications so extensive, that she could not fail of excellence in
any attempt, yet she thought herself obliged by the duties of friendship
to inform her, that if ever she betrayed want of judgment, it was by too
frequent compliance with solicitations to sing, for that her manner was
somewhat ungraceful, and her voice had no great compass. It is true, says
Floretta, when I sung three nights ago at lady Sprightly's, I was hoarse
with a cold; but I sing for my own satisfaction, and am not in the least
pain whether I am liked. However, my dear Felicia's kindness is not the
less, and I shall always think myself happy in so true a friend.

From this time they never saw each other without mutual professions
of esteem, and declarations of confidence, but went soon after into
the country to visit their relations. When they came back, they were
prevailed on, by the importunity of new acquaintance, to take lodgings in
different parts of the town, and had frequent occasion, when they met, to
bewail the distance at which they were placed, and the uncertainty which
each experienced of finding the other at home.

Thus are the fondest and firmest friendships dissolved, by such openness
and sincerity as interrupt our enjoyment of our own approbation, or
recal us to the remembrance of those failings which we are more willing
to indulge than to correct.

It is by no means necessary to imagine, that he who is offended at advice,
was ignorant of the fault, and resents the admonition as a false charge;
for perhaps it is most natural to be enraged, when there is the strongest
conviction of our own guilt. While we can easily defend our character,
we are no more disturbed at an accusation, than we are alarmed by an
enemy whom we are sure to conquer; and whose attack, therefore, will
bring us honour without danger. But when a man feels the reprehension of
a friend seconded by his own heart, he is easily heated into resentment
and revenge, either because he hoped that the fault of which he was
conscious had escaped the notice of others; or that his friend had looked
upon it with tenderness and extenuation, and excused it for the sake
of his other virtues; or had considered him as too wise to need advice,
or too delicate to be shocked with reproach: or, because we cannot feel
without pain those reflections roused which we have been endeavouring
to lay asleep; and when pain has produced anger, who would not willingly
believe, that it ought to be discharged on others, rather than on himself?

The resentment produced by sincerity, whatever be its immediate cause,
is so certain, and generally so keen, that very few have magnanimity
sufficient for the practice of a duty, which, above most others, exposes
its votaries to hardships and persecutions; yet friendship without it
is of very little value since the great use of so close an intimacy is,
that our virtues may be guarded and encouraged, and our vices repressed
in their first appearance by timely detection and salutary
remonstrances.

It is decreed by Providence, that nothing truly valuable shall be obtained
in our present state, but with difficulty and danger. He that hopes for
that advantage which is to be gained from unrestrained communication,
must sometimes hazard, by unpleasing truths, that friendship which he
aspires to merit. The chief rule to be observed in the exercise of this
dangerous office, is to preserve it pure from all mixture of interest
or vanity; to forbear admonition or reproof, when our consciences tell
us that they are incited, not by the hopes of reforming faults, but the
desire of shewing our discernment, or gratifying our own pride by the
mortification of another. It is not indeed certain, that the most refined
caution will find a proper time for bringing a man to the knowledge
of his own failings, or the most zealous benevolence reconcile him to
that judgment, by which they are detected; but he who endeavours only
the happiness of him whom he reproves, will always have either the
satisfaction of obtaining or deserving kindness; if he succeeds, he
benefits his friend, and if he fails, he has at least the consciousness
that he suffers for only doing well.




No. 41. TUESDAY, AUGUST 7, 1750.


_Nulla recordanti lux est ingrata, gravisque:_
_Nulla subit cujus non meminisse velit. _
_Ampliat ætatis spatium sibi vir bonus: hoc est_
_Vivere bis, vitâ posse priore frui. _
MART. lib. x. Epig. 23.

No day's remembrance shall the good regret,
Nor wish one bitter moment to forget:
They stretch the limits of this narrow span;
And, by enjoying, live past life again.
F. LEWIS.


So few of the hours of life are filled up with objects adequate to the
mind of man, and so frequently are we in want of present pleasure or
employment, that we are forced to have recourse every moment to the past
and future for supplemental satisfactions, and relieve the vacuities of
our being, by recollection of former passages, or anticipation of events
to come.

I cannot but consider this necessity of searching on every side for
matter on which the attention may be employed, as a strong proof of the
superior and celestial nature of the soul of man. We have no reason to
believe that other creatures have higher faculties, or more extensive
capacities, than the preservation of themselves, or their species,
requires; they seem always to be fully employed, or to be completely at
ease without employment, to feel few intellectual miseries or pleasures,
and to have no exuberance of understanding to lay out upon curiosity
or caprice, but to have their minds exactly adapted to their bodies,
with few other ideas than such as corporal pain or pleasure impresses
upon them.

Of memory, which makes so large a part of the excellence of the human
soul, and which has so much influence upon all its other powers, but a
small portion has been allotted to the animal world. We do not find the
grief with which the dams lament the loss of their young, proportionate
to the tenderness with which they caress, the assiduity with which they
feed, or the vehemence with which they defend them. Their regard for
their offspring, when it is before their eyes, is not, in appearance,
less than that of a human parent; but when it is taken away, it is very
soon forgotten, and, after a short absence, if brought again, wholly
disregarded.

That they have very little remembrance of any thing once out of the reach
of their senses, and scarce any power of comparing the present with the
past, and regulating their conclusions from experience, may be gathered
from this, that their intellects are produced in their full perfection.
The sparrow that was hatched last spring makes her first nest the ensuing
season, of the same materials, and with the same art, as in any following
year; and the hen conducts and shelters her first brood of chickens with
all the prudence that she ever attains.

It has been asked by men who love to perplex any thing that is plain to
common understandings, how reason differs from instinct; and Prior has
with no great propriety made Solomon himself declare, that to distinguish
them is _the fool's ignorance, and the pedant's pride_. To give an
accurate answer to a question, of which the terms are not completely
understood, is impossible; we do not know in what either reason or
instinct consists, and therefore cannot tell with exactness how they
differ; but surely he that contemplates a ship and a bird's nest, will
not be long without finding out, that the idea of the one was impressed
at once, and continued through all the progressive descents of the
species, without variation or improvement; and that the other is the
result of experiments, compared with experiments, has grown, by
accumulated observation, from less to greater excellence, and exhibits
the collective knowledge of different ages and various professions.

Memory is the purveyor of reason, the power which places those images
before the mind upon which the judgment is to be exercised, and which
treasures up the determinations that are once passed, as the rules of
future action, or grounds of subsequent conclusions.

It is, indeed, the faculty of remembrance, which may be said to place us
in the class of moral agents. If we were to act only in consequence of
some immediate impulse, and receive no direction from internal motives
of choice, we should be pushed forward by an invincible fatality, without
power or reason for the most part to prefer one thing to another, because
we could make no comparison but of objects which might both happen to
be present.

We owe to memory not only the increase of our knowledge, and our progress
in rational inquiries, but many other intellectual pleasures. Indeed,
almost all that we can be said to enjoy is past or future; the present
is in perpetual motion, leaves us as soon as it arrives, ceases to be
present before its presence is well perceived, and is only known to have
existed by the effects which it leaves behind. The greatest part of our
ideas arises, therefore, from the view before or behind us, and we are
happy or miserable, according as we are affected by the survey of our
life, or our prospect of future existence.

With regard to futurity, when events are at such a distance from us that
we cannot take the whole concatenation into our view, we have generally
power enough over our imagination to turn it upon pleasing scenes, and
can promise ourselves riches, honours, and delights, without intermingling
those vexations and anxieties, with which all human enjoyments are
polluted. If fear breaks in on one side, and alarms us with dangers and
disappointments, we can call in hope on the other, to solace us with
rewards, and escapes, and victories; so that we are seldom without
means of palliating remote evils, and can generally sooth ourselves to
tranquillity, whenever any troublesome presage happens to attack us.

It is, therefore, I believe, much more common for the solitary and
thoughtful to amuse themselves with schemes of the future, than reviews
of the past. For the future is pliant and ductile, and will be easily
moulded by a strong fancy into any form. But the images which memory
presents are of a stubborn and untractable nature, the objects of
remembrance have already existed, and left their signature behind them
impressed upon the mind, so as to defy all attempts of rasure or of
change.

As the satisfactions, therefore, arising from memory are less arbitrary,
they are more solid, and are, indeed, the only joys which we can call
our own. Whatever we have once reposited, as Dryden expresses it, _in
the sacred treasure of the past_, is out of the reach of accident, or
violence, nor can be lost either by our own weakness, or another's malice:

_----Non tamen irritum_
_Quodcunque retro est, efficiet; neque_
_Diffinget, infectumque reddet,_
_Quod fugiens semel hora vexit. _
HOR. lib. iii. Ode 29. 43.

Be fair or foul, or rain or shine,
The joys I have possess'd in spite of fate are mine.
Not Heav'n itself upon the past has pow'r,
But what has been has been, and I have had my hour.
DRYDEN.

There is certainly no greater happiness than to be able to look back
on a life usefully and virtuously employed, to trace our own progress
in existence, by such tokens as excite neither shame nor sorrow. Life,
in which nothing has been done or suffered to distinguish one day from
another, is to him that has passed it, as if it had never been, except
that he is conscious how ill he has husbanded the great deposit of his
Creator. Life, made memorable by crimes, and diversified through its
several periods by wickedness, is indeed easily reviewed, but reviewed
only with horrour and remorse.

The great consideration which ought to influence us in the use of the
present moment, is to arise from the effect, which, as well or ill applied,
it must have upon the time to come; for though its actual existence be
inconceivably short, yet its effects are unlimited; and there is not
the smallest point of time but may extend its consequences, either to
our hurt or our advantage, through all eternity, and give us reason to
remember it for ever, with anguish or exultation.

The time of life, in which memory seems particularly to claim predominance
over the other faculties of the mind, is our declining age. It has been
remarked by former writers, that old men are generally narrative, and
fall easily into recitals of past transactions, and accounts of persons
known to them in their youth. When we approach the verge of the grave it
is more eminently true;

_Vitæ summa brevis spem nos vetat inchoare longam. _
HOR. lib. i. Ode 4. 15.

Life's span forbids thee to extend thy cares,
And stretch thy hopes beyond thy years.
CREECH.

We have no longer any possibility of great vicissitudes in our favour;
the changes which are to happen in the world will come too late for
our accommodation; and those who have no hope before them, and to whom
their present state is painful and irksome, must of necessity turn their
thoughts back to try what retrospect will afford. It ought, therefore, to
be the care of those who wish to pass the last hours with comfort, to lay
up such a treasure of pleasing ideas, as shall support the expenses of
that time, which is to depend wholly upon the fund already acquired.

_----Petite hinc, juvenesque senesque_
_Finem animo certum, miserisque viatica curis. _

Seek here, ye young, the anchor of your mind;
Here, suff'ring age, a bless'd provision find.
ELPHINSTON.

In youth, however unhappy, we solace ourselves with the hope of better
fortune, and however vicious, appease our consciences with intentions
of repentance; but the time comes at last, in which life has no more
to promise, in which happiness can be drawn only from recollection, and
virtue will be all that we can recollect with pleasure.




No. 42. SATURDAY, AUGUST 11, 1750.


_Mihi tarda fluunt ingrataque tempora. _
HOR. lib. i. Epist 1. 15.

How heavily my time revolves along.
ELPHINSTON.


TO THE RAMBLER.

MR. RAMBLER,

I am no great admirer of grave writings, and therefore very frequently
lay your papers aside before I have read them through; yet I cannot
but confess that, by slow degrees, you have raised my opinion of your
understanding, and that, though I believe it will be long before I can be
prevailed upon to regard you with much kindness, you have, however, more
of my esteem than those whom I sometimes make happy with opportunities
to fill my tea-pot, or pick up my fan. I shall therefore chuse you for
the confidant of my distresses, and ask your counsel with regard to
the means of conquering or escaping them, though I never expect from
you any of that softness and pliancy, which constitutes the perfection
of a companion for the ladies: as, in the place where I now am, I have
recourse to the mastiff for protection, though I have no intention of
making him a lap-dog.

My mamma is a very fine lady, who has more numerous and more frequent
assemblies at her house than any other person in the same quarter of
the town. I was bred from my earliest infancy in a perpetual tumult
of pleasure, and remember to have heard of little else than messages,
visits, playhouses, and balls; of the awkwardness of one woman, and the
coquetry of another; the charming convenience of some rising fashion,
the difficulty of playing a new game, the incidents of a masquerade, and
the dresses of a court-night. I knew before I was ten years old all the
rules of paying and receiving visits, and to how much civility every one
of my acquaintance was entitled; and was able to return, with the proper
degree of reserve or of vivacity, the stated and established answer to
every compliment; so that I was very soon celebrated as a wit and a
beauty, and had heard before I was thirteen all that is ever said to
a young lady. My mother was generous to so uncommon a degree as to
be pleased with my advance into life, and allowed me, without envy or
reproof, to enjoy the same happiness with herself; though most women
about her own age were very angry to see young girls so forward, and
many fine gentlemen told her how cruel it was to throw new chains upon
mankind, and to tyrannize over them at the same time with her own charms,
and those of her daughter.

I have now lived two-and-twenty years, and have passed of each year nine
months in town, and three at Richmond; so that my time has been spent
uniformly in the same company, and the same amusements, except as fashion
has introduced new diversions, or the revolutions of the gay world have
afforded new successions of wits and beaux. However, my mother is so good
an economist of pleasure, that I have no spare hours upon my hands; for
every morning brings some new appointment, and every night is hurried
away by the necessity of making our appearance at different places, and
of being with one lady at the opera, and with another at the card-table.

When the time came of settling our schemes of felicity for the summer,
it was determined that I should pay a visit to a rich aunt in a remote
county. As you know the chief conversation of all tea-tables, in the
spring, arises from a communication of the manner in which time is to
be passed till winter, it was a great relief to the barrenness of our
topicks, to relate the pleasures that were in store for me, to describe
my uncle's seat, with the park and gardens, the charming walks and
beautiful waterfalls; and every one told me how much she envied me, and
what satisfaction she had once enjoyed in a situation of the same kind.

As we are all credulous in our own favour, and willing to imagine some
latent satisfaction in any thing which we have not experienced, I will
confess to you, without restraint, that I had suffered my head to be
filled with expectations of some nameless pleasure in a rural life, and
that I hoped for the happy hour that should set me free from noise, and
flutter, and ceremony, dismiss me to the peaceful shade, and lull me in
content and tranquillity. To solace myself under the misery of delay, I
sometimes heard a studious lady of my acquaintance read pastorals, I was
delighted with scarce any talk but of leaving the town, and never went
to bed without dreaming of groves, and meadows, and frisking lambs.

At length I had all my clothes in a trunk, and saw the coach at the door;
I sprung in with ecstasy, quarrelled with my maid for being too long in
taking leave of the other servants, and rejoiced as the ground grew less
which lay between me and the completion of my wishes. A few days brought
me to a large old house, encompassed on three sides with woody hills,
and looking from the front on a gentle river, the sight of which renewed
all my expectations of pleasure, and gave me some regret for having
lived so long without the enjoyment which these delightful scenes were
now to afford me. My aunt came out to receive me, but in a dress so far
removed from the present fashion, that I could scarcely look upon her
without laughter, which would have been no kind requital for the trouble
which she had taken to make herself fine against my arrival. The night
and the next morning were driven along with inquiries about our family;
my aunt then explained our pedigree, and told me stories of my great
grandfather's bravery in the civil wars, nor was it less than three days
before I could persuade her to leave me to myself.

At last economy prevailed; she went in the usual manner about her own
affairs, and I was at liberty to range in the wilderness, and sit by the
cascade. The novelty of the objects about me pleased me for a while, but
after a few days they were new no longer, and I soon began to perceive
that the country was not my element; that shades, and flowers, and lawns,
and waters, had very soon exhausted all their power of pleasing, and that
I had not in myself any fund of satisfaction, with which I could supply
the loss of my customary amusements.

I unhappily told my aunt, in the first warmth of our embraces, that I had
leave to stay with her ten weeks. Six only yet are gone, and how shall I
live through the remaining four? I go out and return; I pluck a flower,
and throw it away; I catch an insect, and when I have examined its
colours set it at liberty; I fling a pebble into the water, and see one
circle spread after another. When it chances to rain, I walk in the great
hall, and watch the minute-hand upon the dial, or play with a litter of
kittens, which the cat happens to have brought in a lucky time.

My aunt is afraid I shall grow melancholy, and therefore encourages the
neighbouring gentry to visit us. They came at first with great eagerness
to see the fine lady from London; but when we met, we had no common
topick on which we could converse; they had no curiosity after plays,
operas, or musick: and I find as little satisfaction from their accounts
of the quarrels or alliances of families, whose names, when once I can
escape, I shall never hear. The women have now seen me, know how my gown
is made, and are satisfied; the men are generally afraid of me, and say
little, because they think themselves not at liberty to talk rudely.

Thus I am condemned to solitude; the day moves slowly forward, and I
see the dawn with uneasiness, because I consider that night is at a
great distance. I have tried to sleep by a brook, but find its murmurs
ineffectual; so that I am forced to be awake at least twelve hours,
without visits, without cards, without laughter, and without flattery. I
walk because I am disgusted with sitting still, and sit down because I am
weary with walking. I have no motive to action, nor any object of love,
or hate, or fear, or inclination. I cannot dress with spirit, for I have
neither rival nor admirer. I cannot dance without a partner; nor be kind
or cruel, without a lover.

Such is the life of Euphelia; and such it is likely to continue for a
month to come. I have not yet declared against existence, nor called
upon the destinies to cut my thread; but I have sincerely resolved not to
condemn myself to such another summer, nor too hastily to flatter myself
with happiness. Yet I have heard, Mr. Rambler, of those who never thought
themselves so much at ease as in solitude, and cannot but suspect it to be
some way or other my own fault, that, without great pain, either of mind
or body, I am thus weary of myself: that the current of youth stagnates,
and that I am languishing in a dead calm, for want of some external
impulse. I shall therefore think you a benefactor to our sex, if you will
teach me the art of living alone; for I am confident that a thousand and
a thousand ladies, who affect to talk with ecstasies of the pleasures of
the country, are in reality, like me, longing for the winter, and wishing
to be delivered from themselves by company and diversion.

I am, Sir, Yours,

EUPHELIA.




No. 43. TUESDAY, AUGUST 14, 1750.


_Flumine perpetuo torrens solet acrius ire. _
_Sed tamen hæc brevis est, illa perennis aqua. _
OVID, Rem. 651.

In course impetuous soon the torrent dries,
The brook a constant peaceful stream supplies.
F. LEWIS.


It is observed by those who have written on the constitution of the human
body, and the original of those diseases by which it is afflicted, that
every man comes into the world morbid, that there is no temperature so
exactly regulated but that some humour is fatally predominant, and that
we are generally impregnated, in our first entrance upon life, with the
seeds of that malady, which, in time, shall bring us to the grave.

This remark has been extended by others to the intellectual faculties.
Some that imagine themselves to have looked with more than common
penetration into human nature, have endeavoured to persuade us that each
man is born with a mind formed peculiarly for certain purposes, and with
desires unalterably determined to particular objects, from which the
attention cannot be long diverted, and which alone, as they are well or
ill pursued, must produce the praise or blame, the happiness or misery of
his future life.

This position has not, indeed, been hitherto proved with strength
proportionate to the assurance with which it has been advanced, and
perhaps will never gain much prevalence by a close examination.

If the doctrine of innate ideas be itself disputable, there seems to
be little hope of establishing an opinion, which supposes that even
complications of ideas have been given us at our birth, and that we are
made by nature ambitious, or covetous, before we know the meaning of
either power or money.

Yet as every step in the progression of existence changes our position
with respect to the things about us, so as to lay us open to new assaults
and particular dangers, and subjects us to inconveniences from which any
other situation is exempt; as a publick or a private life, youth and age,
wealth and poverty, have all some evil closely adherent, which cannot
wholly be escaped but by quitting the state to which it is annexed, and
submitting to the incumbrances of some other condition; so it cannot
be denied that every difference in the structure of the mind has its
advantages and its wants; and that failures and defects being inseparable
from humanity, however the powers of understanding be extended or
contracted, there will on one side or the other always be an avenue to
errour and miscarriage.

There seem to be some souls suited to great, and others to little
employments; some formed to soar aloft, and take in wide views, and
others to grovel on the ground, and confine their regard to a narrow
sphere. Of these the one is always in danger of becoming useless by a
daring negligence, the other by a scrupulous solicitude; the one collects
many ideas, but confused and indistinct; the other is busied in minute
accuracy, but without compass and without dignity.

The general errour of those who possess powerful and elevated
understandings, is, that they form schemes of too great extent, and
flatter themselves too hastily with success; they feel their own force
to be great, and by the complacency with which every man surveys himself,
imagine it still greater: they therefore look out for undertakings worthy
of their abilities, and engage in them with very little precaution, for
they imagine that without premeditated measures, they shall be able to
find expedients in all difficulties. They are naturally apt to consider
all prudential maxims as below their regard, to treat with contempt those
securities and resources which others know themselves obliged to provide,
and disdain to accomplish their purposes by established means, and common
gradations.

Precipitation thus incited by the pride of intellectual superiority,
is very fatal to great designs. The resolution of the combat is seldom
equal to the vehemence of the charge. He that meets with an opposition
which he did not expect, loses his courage. The violence of his first
onset is succeeded by a lasting and unconquerable languor; miscarriage
makes him fearful of giving way to new hopes; and the contemplation of an
attempt in which he has fallen below his own expectations is painful and
vexatious; he therefore naturally turns his attention to more pleasing
objects, and habituates his imagination to other entertainments, till, by
slow degrees, he quits his first pursuit, and suffers some other project
to take possession of his thoughts, in which the same ardour of mind
promises him again certain success, and which disappointments of the same
kind compel him to abandon.

Thus too much vigour in the beginning of an undertaking, often intercepts
and prevents the steadiness and perseverance always necessary in the
conduct of a complicated scheme, where many interests are to be connected,
many movements to be adjusted, and the joint effort of distinct and
independent powers to be directed to a single point. In all important
events which have been suddenly brought to pass, chance has been the
agent rather than reason; and, therefore, however those who seemed to
preside in the transaction, may have been celebrated by such as loved or
feared them, succeeding times have commonly considered them as fortunate
rather than prudent. Every design in which the connexion is regularly
traced from the first motion to the last, must be formed and executed by
calm intrepidity, and requires not only courage which danger cannot turn
aside, but constancy which fatigues cannot weary, and contrivance which
impediments cannot exhaust.

All the performances of human art, at which we look with praise or wonder,
are instances of the resistless force of perseverance: it is by this
that the quarry becomes a pyramid, and that distant countries are united
with canals. If a man was to compare the effect of a single stroke of the
pick-axe, or of one impression of the spade, with the general design and
last result, he would be overwhelmed by the sense of their disproportion;
yet those petty operations, incessantly continued, in time surmount the
greatest difficulties, and mountains are levelled, and oceans bounded, by
the slender force of human beings.

It is therefore of the utmost importance that those, who have any intention
of deviating from the beaten roads of life, and acquiring a reputation
superior to names hourly swept away by time among the refuse of fame,
should add to their reason, and their spirit, the power of persisting in
their purposes; acquire the art of sapping what they cannot batter, and
the habit of vanquishing obstinate resistance by obstinate attacks.

The student who would build his knowledge on solid foundations, and
proceed by just degrees to the pinnacles of truth, is directed by the
great philosopher of France to begin by doubting of his own existence.
In like manner, whoever would complete any arduous and intricate
enterprise, should, as soon as his imagination can cool after the first
blaze of hope, place before his own eyes every possible embarrassment
that may retard or defeat him. He should first question the probability
of success, and then endeavour to remove the objections that he has
raised. It is proper, says old Markham[43], to exercise your horse on the
more inconvenient side of the course, that if he should, in the race,
be forced upon it, he may not be discouraged; and Horace advises his
poetical friend to consider every day as the last which he shall enjoy,
because that will always give pleasure which we receive beyond our hopes.
If we alarm ourselves beforehand with more difficulties than we really
find, we shall be animated by unexpected facility with double spirit;
and if we find our cautions and fears justified by the consequence, there
will however happen nothing against which provision has not been made, no
sudden shock will be received, nor will the main scheme be disconcerted.

There is, indeed, some danger lest he that too scrupulously balances
probabilities, and too perspicaciously foresees obstacles, should
remain always in a state of inaction, without venturing upon attempts
on which he may perhaps spend his labour without advantage. But previous
despondence is not the fault of those for whom this essay is designed;
they who require to be warned against precipitation, will not suffer more
fear to intrude into their contemplations than is necessary to allay the
effervescence of an agitated fancy. As Des Cartes has kindly shewn how a
man may prove to himself his own existence, if once he can be prevailed
upon to question it, so the ardent and adventurous will not be long
without finding some plausible extenuation of the greatest difficulties.
Such, indeed, is the uncertainty of all human affairs, that security
and despair are equal follies; and as it is presumption and arrogance
to anticipate triumphs, it is weakness and cowardice to prognosticate
miscarriages. The numbers that have been stopped in their career of
happiness are sufficient to shew the uncertainty of human foresight; but
there are not wanting contrary instances of such success obtained against
all appearances, as may warrant the boldest flights of genius, if they
are supported by unshaken perseverance.

[Footnote 43: Gervase Markham, in his book entitled "Perfect Horsemanship,"
12mo. 1671. He was a dramatic poet, and a voluminous writer on various
subjects. ]




No. 44. SATURDAY, AUGUST 18, 1750.


Ὁναρ εκ Διος εστιν.
HOMER, Il. lib. i. 63.

----Dreams descend from Jove.
POPE.


TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

I had lately a very remarkable dream, which made so strong an impression
on me, that I remember it every word; and if you are not better employed,
you may read the relation of it as follows:

Methought I was in the midst of a very entertaining set of company,
and extremely delighted in attending to a lively conversation, when
on a sudden I perceived one of the most shocking figures imagination
can frame, advancing towards me. She was drest in black, her skin was
contracted into a thousand wrinkles, her eyes sunk deep in her head,
and her complexion pale and livid as the countenance of death. Her looks
were filled with terrour and unrelenting severity, and her hands armed
with whips and scorpions. As soon as she came near, with a horrid frown,
and a voice that chilled my very blood, she bid me follow her. I obeyed,
and she led me through rugged paths, beset with briars and thorns,
into a deep solitary valley. Wherever she passed, the fading verdure
withered beneath her steps; her pestilential breath infected the air with
malignant vapours, obscured the lustre of the sun, and involved the fair
face of Heaven in universal gloom. Dismal howlings resounded through the
forest, from every baleful tree the night raven uttered his dreadful note,
and the prospect was filled with desolation and horrour. In the midst of
this tremendous scene my execrable guide addressed me in the following
manner:

"Retire with me, O rash unthinking mortal, from the vain allurements of
a deceitful world, and learn that pleasure was not designed the portion
of human life. Man was born to mourn and to be wretched; this is the
condition of all below the stars, and whoever endeavours to oppose
it, acts in contradiction to the will of Heaven. Fly then from the
fatal enchantments of youth, and social delight, and here consecrate
the solitary hours to lamentation and woe. Misery is the duty of all
sublunary beings, and every enjoyment is an offence to the Deity, who is
to be worshipped only by the mortification of every sense of pleasure,
and the everlasting exercise of sighs and tears. "

This melancholy picture of life quite sunk my spirits, and seemed to
annihilate every principle of joy within me. I threw myself beneath a
blasted yew, where the winds blew cold and dismal round my head, and
dreadful apprehensions chilled my heart. Here I resolved to lie till
the hand of death, which I impatiently invoked, should put an end to
the miseries of a life so deplorably wretched. In this sad situation I
espied on one hand of me a deep muddy river, whose heavy waves rolled on
in slow sullen murmurs. Here I determined to plunge, and was just upon
the brink, when I found myself suddenly drawn back. I turned about, and
was surprised by the sight of the loveliest object I had ever beheld.
The most engaging charms of youth and beauty appeared in all her form;
effulgent glories sparkled in her eyes, and their awful splendours were
softened by the gentlest looks of compassion and peace. At her approach
the frightful spectre who had before tormented me, vanished away, and
with her all the horrours she had caused. The gloomy clouds brightened
into cheerful sunshine, the groves recovered their verdure, and the
whole region looked gay and blooming as the garden of Eden. I was quite
transported at this unexpected change, and reviving pleasure began to glad
my thoughts, when, with a look of inexpressible sweetness my beauteous
deliverer thus uttered her divine instructions:

"My name is Religion. I am the offspring of Truth and Love, and the parent
of Benevolence, Hope, and Joy. That monster from whose power I have
freed you is called Superstition; she is the child of Discontent, and her
followers are Fear and Sorrow. Thus different as we are, she has often
the insolence to assume my name and character, and seduces unhappy mortals
to think us the same, till she, at length, drives them to the borders of
Despair, that dreadful abyss into which you were just going to sink.

"Look round and survey the various beauties of the globe, which heaven has
destined for the seat of the human race, and consider whether a world
thus exquisitely framed could be meant for the abode of misery and pain.
For what end has the lavish hand of Providence diffused such innumerable
objects of delight, but that all might rejoice in the privilege of
existence, and be filled with gratitude to the beneficent author of it?
Thus to enjoy the blessings he has sent, is virtue and obedience; and to
reject them merely as means of pleasure, is pitiable ignorance or absurd
perverseness. Infinite goodness is the source of created existence;
the proper tendency of every rational being, from the highest order of
raptured seraphs, to the meanest rank of men, is to rise incessantly
from the lower degrees of happiness to higher. They have each faculties
assigned them for various orders of delights. "

"What," cried I, "is this the language of Religion? Does she lead her
votaries through flowery paths, and bid them pass an unlaborious life?
Where are the painful toils of virtue, the mortifications of penitents,
the self-denying exercises of saints and heroes? "

"The true enjoyments of a reasonable being," answered she mildly, "do not
consist in unbounded indulgence, or luxurious ease, in the tumult of
passions, the languor of indolence, or the flutter of light amusements.
Yielding to immoral pleasure corrupts the mind, living to animal and
trifling ones debases it; both in their degree disqualify it for its
genuine good, and consign it over to wretchedness. Whoever would be really
happy, must make the diligent and regular exercise of his superior powers
his chief attention, adoring the perfections of his Maker, expressing
good-will to his fellow-creatures, cultivating inward rectitude. To his
lower faculties he must allow such gratifications as will, by refreshing
him, invigorate his nobler pursuits. In the regions inhabited by angelic
natures, unmingled felicity for ever blooms, joy flows there with a
perpetual and abundant stream, nor needs there any mound to check its
course. Beings conscious of a frame of mind originally diseased, as
all the human race has cause to be, must use the regimen of a stricter
self-government. Whoever has been guilty of voluntary excesses must
patiently submit both to the painful workings of nature and needful
severities of medicine, in order to his cure. Still he is entitled to a
moderate share of whatever alleviating accommodations this fair mansion
of his merciful Parent affords, consistent with his recovery. And in
proportion as this recovery advances, the liveliest joy will spring
from his secret sense of an amended and improving heart. --So far from
the horrours of despair is the condition even of the guilty. --Shudder,
poor mortal, at the thought of the gulf into which thou wast but now
going to plunge.

"While the most faulty have every encouragement to amend, the more
innocent soul will be supported with still sweeter consolations under
all its experience of human infirmities; supported by the gladdening
assurances that every sincere endeavour to outgrow them shall be assisted,
accepted, and rewarded. To such a one the lowliest self-abasement is
but a deep-laid foundation for the most elevated hopes; since they who
faithfully examine and acknowledge what they are, shall be enabled under
my conduct to become what they desire. The christian and the hero are
inseparable; and to aspirings of unassuming trust, and filial confidence,
are set no bounds. To him who is animated with a view of obtaining
approbation from the Sovereign of the universe, no difficulty
is insurmountable. Secure in this pursuit of every needful aid, his
conflict with the severest pains and trials, is little more than the
vigorous exercises of a mind in health. His patient dependence on that
Providence which looks through all eternity, his silent resignation,
his ready accommodation of his thoughts and behaviour to its inscrutable
ways, is at once the most excellent sort of self-denial, and a source
of the most exalted transports. Society is the true sphere of human
virtue. In social, active life, difficulties will perpetually be met
with; restraints of many kinds will be necessary; and studying to behave
right in respect of these is a discipline of the human heart, useful to
others, and improving to itself. Suffering is no duty, but where it is
necessary to avoid guilt, or to do good; nor pleasure a crime, but where
it strengthens the influence of bad inclinations, or lessens the generous
activity of virtue. The happiness allotted to man in his present state,
is indeed faint and low, compared with his immortal prospects and noble
capacities; but yet whatever portion of it the distributing hand of
heaven offers to each individual, is a needful support and refreshment
for the present moment, so far as it may not hinder the attaining of
his final destination.

"Return then with me from continual misery to moderate enjoyment and
grateful alacrity. Return from the contracted views of solitude to the
proper duties of a relative and dependent being. Religion is not confined
to cells and closets, nor restrained to sullen retirement. These are
the gloomy doctrines of Superstition, by which she endeavours to break
those chains of benevolence and social affection, that link the welfare
of every particular with that of the whole. Remember that the greatest
honour you can pay to the Author of your being is by such a cheerful
behaviour, as discovers a mind satisfied with his dispensations. "

Here my preceptress paused, and I was going to express my acknowledgments
for her discourse, when a ring of bells from the neighbouring village,
and a new-risen sun darting his beams through my windows, awaked me[44].

I am, Yours, &c.

[Footnote 44: This paper, and No. 100, were written by the late Mrs.
Elizabeth Carter, of Deal in Kent, who died Feb. 19, 1806. ]




No. 45. TUESDAY, AUGUST 21, 1750.


Hηπερ μεγιστη γιγνεται σωτηρια,
Ὁταν γυνη πρως ανδρα μη διχοστατη.
Νυν δ' εχθρα παντα.
EURIP. Med. 14.

This is the chief felicity of life,
That concord smile on the connubial bed;
But now 'tis hatred all.


TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Though, in the dissertations which you have given us on marriage, very
just cautions are laid down against the common causes of infelicity,
and the necessity of having, in that important choice, the first regard
to virtue, is carefully inculcated; yet I cannot think the subject so
much exhausted, but that a little reflection would present to the mind
many questions, in the discussion of which great numbers are interested,
and many precepts which deserve to be more particularly and forcibly
impressed.

You seem, like most of the writers that have gone before you, to have
allowed as an uncontested principle, that _marriage is generally unhappy_:
but I know not whether a man who professes to think for himself, and
concludes from his own observations, does not depart from his character
when he follows the crowd thus implicitly, and receives maxims without
recalling them to a new examination, especially when they comprise so
wide a circuit of life, and include such a variety of circumstances. As
I have an equal right with others to give my opinion of the objects about
me, and a better title to determine concerning that state which I have
tried, than many who talk of it without experience, I am unwilling to be
restrained by mere authority from advancing what, I believe, an accurate
view of the world will confirm, that marriage is not commonly unhappy,
otherwise than as life is unhappy; and that most of those who complain of
connubial miseries, have as much satisfaction as their nature would have
admitted, or their conduct procured, in any other condition.

It is, indeed, common to hear both sexes repine at their change, relate
the happiness of their earlier years, blame the folly and rashness
of their own choice, and warn those whom they see coming into the
world against the same precipitance and infatuation. But it is to be
remembered, that the days which they so much wish to call back, are
the days not only of celibacy but of youth, the days of novelty and
improvement, of ardour and of hope, of health and vigour of body, of
gaiety and lightness of heart. It is not easy to surround life with any
circumstances in which youth will not be delightful; and I am afraid that
whether married or unmarried, we shall find the vesture of terrestrial
existence more heavy and cumbrous, the longer it is worn.

That they censure themselves for the indiscretion of their choice, is
not a sufficient proof that they have chosen ill, since we see the same
discontent at every other part of life which we cannot change. Converse
with almost any man, grown old in a profession, and you will find him
regretting that he did not enter into some different course, to which
he too late finds his genius better adapted, or in which he discovers
that wealth and honour are more easily attained. "The merchant," says
Horace, "envies the soldier, and the soldier recounts the felicity of the
merchant; the lawyer, when his clients harass him, calls out for the quiet
of the countryman; and the countryman, when business calls him to town,
proclaims that there is no happiness but amidst opulence and crowds. "
Every man recounts the inconveniences of his own station, and thinks
those of any other less, because he has not felt them. Thus the married
praise the ease and freedom of a single state, and the single fly to
marriage from the weariness of solitude. From all our observations we
may collect with certainty, that misery is the lot of man, but cannot
discover in what particular condition it will find most alleviations;
or whether all external appendages are not, as we use them, the causes
either of good or ill.

Whoever feels great pain, naturally hopes for ease from change of posture;
he changes it, and finds himself equally tormented: and of the same
kind are the expedients by which we endeavour to obviate or elude those
uneasinesses, to which mortality will always be subject. It is not likely
that the married state is eminently miserable, since we see such numbers,
whom the death of their partners has set free from it, entering it again.

Wives and husbands are, indeed, incessantly complaining of each other; and
there would be reason for imagining that almost every house was infested
with perverseness or oppression beyond human sufferance, did we not know
upon how small occasions some minds bursts out, into lamentations and
reproaches, and how naturally every animal revenges his pain upon those
who happen to be near, without any nice examination of its cause. We are
always willing to fancy ourselves within a little of happiness, and when,
with repeated efforts, we cannot reach it, persuade ourselves that it
is intercepted by an ill-paired mate, since, if we could find any other
obstacle, it would be our own fault that it was not removed.

Anatomists have often remarked, that though our diseases are sufficiently
numerous and severe, yet when we inquire into the structure of the body,
the tenderness of some parts, the minuteness of others, and the immense
multiplicity of animal functions that must concur to the healthful and
vigorous exercise of all our powers, there appears reason to wonder rather
that we are preserved so long, than that we perish so soon, and that our
frame subsists for a single day, or hour, without disorder, rather than
that it should be broken or obstructed by violence of accidents, or length
of time.

The same reflection arises in my mind, upon observation of the manner in
which marriage is frequently contracted. When I see the avaricious and
crafty, taking companions to their tables and their beds without any
inquiry, but after farms and money; or the giddy and thoughtless uniting
themselves for life to those whom they have only seen by the light of
tapers at a ball; when parents make articles for their children, without
inquiring after their consent; when some marry for heirs to disappoint
their brothers, and others throw themselves into the arms of those whom
they do not love, because they have found themselves rejected where they
were most solicitous to please; when some marry because their servants
cheat them, some because they squander their own money, some because
their houses are pestered with company, some because they will live like
other people, and some only because they are sick in themselves, I am not
so much inclined to wonder that marriage is sometimes unhappy, as that
it appears so little loaded with calamity; and cannot but conclude that
society has something in itself eminently agreeable to human nature, when
I find its pleasures so great, that even the ill choice of a companion
can hardly overbalance them.

By the ancient customs of the Muscovites, the men and women never saw
each other till they were joined beyond the power of parting. It may be
suspected that by this method many unsuitable matches were produced, and
many tempers associated that were not qualified to give pleasure to each
other. Yet, perhaps, among a people so little delicate, where the paucity
of gratifications, and the uniformity of life, gave no opportunity for
imagination to interpose its objections, there was not much danger of
capricious dislike; and while they felt neither cold nor hunger they might
live quietly together, without any thought of the defects of one another.

Amongst us, whom knowledge has made nice and affluence wanton, there are,
indeed, more cautions requisite to secure tranquillity; and yet if we
observe the manner in which those converse, who have singled out each
other for marriage, we shall, perhaps, not think that the Russians
lost much by their restraint. For the whole endeavour of both parties,
during the time of courtship, is to hinder themselves from being known,
and to disguise their natural temper, and real desires, in hypocritical
imitation, studied compliance, and continual affectation. From the time
that their love is avowed, neither sees the other but in a mask, and the
cheat is managed often on both sides with so much art, and discovered
afterwards with so much abruptness, that each has reason to suspect
that some transformation has happened on the wedding night, and that,
by a strange imposture, one has been courted, and another married.

I desire you, therefore, Mr. Rambler, to question all who shall hereafter
come to you with matrimonial complaints, concerning their behaviour in
the time of courtship, and inform them that they are neither to wonder
nor repine, when a contract begun with fraud has ended in disappointment.

I am, &c.




No. 46. SATURDAY, AUGUST 25, 1750.


_----Genus, et proavos, et quæ non fecimus ipsi,_
_Via ea nostra voco. _
OVID, Metam. xiii. 140.

Nought from my birth or ancestors I claim;
All is my own, my honour and my shame.


TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Since I find that you have paid so much regard to my complaints as to
publish them, I am inclined by vanity, or gratitude, to continue our
correspondence; and indeed, without either of these motives, am glad of an
opportunity to write, for I am not accustomed to keep in any thing that
swells my heart, and have here none with whom I can freely converse. While
I am thus employed, some tedious hours will slip away, and when I return
to watch the clock, I shall find that I have disburdened myself of part
of the day.

You perceive that I do not pretend to write with much consideration
of any thing but my own convenience; and, not to conceal from you my
real sentiments, the little time which I have spent, against my will,
in solitary meditation, has not much contributed to my veneration for
authors. I have now sufficient reason to suspect, that, with all your
splendid professions of wisdom, and seeming regard for truth, you have
very little sincerity; that you either write what you do not think, and
willingly impose upon mankind, or that you take no care to think right,
but while you set up yourselves as guides, mislead your followers by
credulity or negligence; that you produce to the publick whatever notions
you can speciously maintain, or elegantly express, without enquiring
whether they are just, and transcribe hereditary falsehoods from old
authors perhaps as ignorant and careless as yourselves.

You may perhaps wonder that I express myself with so much acrimony on a
question in which women are supposed to have very little interest; and
you are likely enough, for I have seen many instances of the sauciness
of scholars, to tell me, that I am more properly employed in playing with
my kittens, than in giving myself airs of criticism, and censuring the
learned. But you are mistaken, if you imagine that I am to be intimidated
by your contempt, or silenced by your reproofs. As I read, I have a
right to judge; as I am injured, I have a right to complain; and these
privileges, which I have purchased at so dear a rate, I shall not easily
be persuaded to resign.

To read has, indeed, never been my business, but as there are hours of
leisure in the most active life, I have passed the superfluities of
time, which the diversions of the town left upon my hands, in turning
over a large collection of tragedies and romances, where, amongst other
sentiments common to all authors of this class, I have found almost every
page filled with the charms and happiness of a country life; that life
to which every statesman in the highest elevation of his prosperity is
contriving to retire; that life to which every tragic heroine in some
scene or other wishes to have been born, and which is represented as a
certain refuge from folly, from anxiety, from passion, and from guilt.

It was impossible to read so many passionate exclamations, and soothing
descriptions, without feeling some desire to enjoy the state in which all
this felicity was to be enjoyed; and therefore I received with raptures
the invitation of my good aunt, and expected that by some unknown
influence I should find all hopes and fears, jealousies and competitions,
vanish from my heart upon my first arrival at the seats of innocence
and tranquillity; that I should sleep in halcyon bowers, and wander in
elysian gardens, where I should meet with nothing but the softness of
benevolence, the candour of simplicity, and the cheerfulness of content;
where I should see reason exerting her sovereignty over life, without any
interruption from envy, avarice, or ambition, and every day passing in
such a manner as the severest wisdom should approve.

This, Mr. Rambler, I tell you I expected, and this I had by an hundred
authors been taught to expect. By this expectation I was led hither, and
here I live in perpetual uneasiness, without any other comfort than that
of hoping to return to London.

Having, since I wrote my former letter, been driven by the mere necessity
of escaping from absolute inactivity, to make myself more acquainted
with the affairs and inhabitants of this place, I am now no longer an
absolute stranger to rural conversation and employments, but am far from
discovering in them more innocence or wisdom, than in the sentiments
or conduct of those with whom I have passed more cheerful and more
fashionable hours.

It is common to reproach the tea-table, and the park, with given
opportunities and encouragement to scandal. I cannot wholly clear them
from the charge; but must, however, observe in favour of the modish
prattlers, that if not by principle, we are at least by accident, less
guilty of defamation than the country ladies. For having greater numbers
to observe and censure, we are commonly content to charge them only with
their own faults or follies, and seldom give way to malevolence, but
such as arises from some injury or affront, real or imaginary, offered
to ourselves. But in these distant provinces, where the same families
inhabit the same houses from age to age, they transmit and recount the
faults of a whole succession. I have been informed how every estate
in the neighbourhood was originally got, and find, if I may credit the
accounts given me, that there is not a single acre in the hands of the
right owner. I have been told of intrigues between beaux and toasts
that have been now three centuries in their quiet graves, and am often
entertained with traditional scandal on persons of whose names there
would have been no remembrance, had they not committed somewhat that
might disgrace their descendants.

In one of my visits I happened to commend the air and dignity of a young
lady, who had just left the company; upon which two grave matrons looked
with great sliness at each other, and the elder asked me whether I had
ever seen the picture of Henry the eighth. You may imagine that I did
not immediately perceive the propriety of the question: but after having
waited awhile for information, I was told that the lady's grandmother
had a great-great-grandmother that was an attendant on Anna Bullen, and
supposed to have been too much a favourite of the king.

If once there happens a quarrel between the principal persons of two
families, the malignity is continued without end, and it is common for
old maids to fall out about some election, in which their grandfathers
were competitors; the heart-burnings of the civil war are not yet
extinguished; there are two families in the neighbourhood who have
destroyed each other's game from the time of Philip and Mary; and when
an account came of an inundation, which had injured the plantations of
a worthy gentleman, one of the hearers remarked, with exultation, that
he might now have some notion of the ravages committed by his ancestors
in their retreat from Bosworth.

Thus malice and hatred descend here with an inheritance, and it is
necessary to be well versed in history, that the various factions of
this county may be understood. You cannot expect to be on good terms with
families who are resolved to love nothing in common; and, in selecting
your intimates, you are perhaps to consider which party you most favour
in the barons' wars. I have often lost the good opinion of my aunt's
visitants by confounding the interests of York and Lancaster, and was
once censured for sitting silent when William Rufus was called a tyrant.
I have, however, now thrown aside all pretences to circumspection, for
I find it impossible in less than seven years to learn all the requisite
cautions. At London, if you know your company, and their parents,
you are safe; but you are here suspected of alluding to the slips of
great-grandmothers, and of reviving contests which were decided in armour
by the redoubted knights of ancient times. I hope, therefore, that you
will not condemn my impatience, if I am weary of attending where nothing
can be learned, and of quarrelling where there is nothing to contest, and
that you will contribute to divert me while I stay here by some facetious
performance.

I am, sir,

EUPHELIA.




No. 47. TUESDAY, AUGUST 28, 1750.


_Quamquam his solatiis acquiescam, debilitor et frangor eadem
illa humanitate quæ me, ut hoc ipsum permitterem, induxit. Non
ideo tamen velim durior fieri: nec ignoro alios hujusmodi casus
nihil amplius vocare quam damnum; eoque sibi magnos homines
et sapientes videri. Qui an magni sapientesque sint, nescio;
homines non sunt. Hominis est enim affici dolore, sentire:
resistere tamen, et solatia admittere. _
PLIN. Epist. viii. 16.

These proceedings have afforded me some comfort in my distress;
notwithstanding which, I am still dispirited and unhinged
by the same motives of humanity that induced me to grant such
indulgences. However, I by no means wish to become less susceptible
of tenderness. I know these kind of misfortunes would be estimated
by other persons only as common losses, and from such sensations
they would conceive themselves great and wise men. I shall not
determine either their greatness or their wisdom; but I am certain
they have no humanity. It is the part of a man to be affected with
grief; to feel sorrow, at the same time that he is to resist it,
and to admit of comfort.
Earl of ORRERY.


Of the passions with which the mind of man is agitated, it may be
observed, that they naturally hasten towards their own extinction, by
inciting and quickening the attainment of their objects. Thus fear urges
our flight, and desire animates our progress; and if there are some which
perhaps may be indulged till they outgrow the good appropriated to their
satisfaction, as it is frequently observed of avarice and ambition, yet
their immediate tendency is to some means of happiness really existing,
and generally within the prospect. The miser always imagines that
there is a certain sum that will fill his heart to the brim; and every
ambitious man, like king Pyrrhus, has an acquisition in his thoughts that
is to terminate his labours, after which he shall pass the rest of his
life in ease or gaiety, in repose or devotion.

Sorrow is perhaps the only affection of the breast that can be expected
from this general remark, and it therefore deserves the particular
attention of those who have assumed the arduous province of preserving
the balance of the mental constitution. The other passions are diseases
indeed, but they necessarily direct us to their proper cure. A man at
once feels the pain and knows the medicine, to which he is carried with
greater haste as the evil which requires it is more excruciating,
and cures himself by unerring instinct, as the wounded stags of Crete
are related by Ælian to have recourse to vulnerary herbs. But for
sorrow there is no remedy provided by nature; it is often occasioned by
accidents irreparable, and dwells upon objects that have lost or changed
their existence; it required what it cannot hope, that the laws of the
universe should be repealed; that the dead should return, or the past
should be recalled.

Sorrow is not that regret for negligence or errour which may animate us to
future care or activity, or that repentance of crimes for which, however
irrevocable, our Creator has promised to accept it as an atonement; the
pain which arises from these causes has very salutary effects, and is
every hour extenuating itself by the reparation of those miscarriages
that produce it. Sorrow is properly that state of the mind in which our
desires are fixed upon the past, without looking forward to the future,
an incessant wish that something were otherwise than it has been, a
tormenting and harassing want of some enjoyment or possession which
we have lost, and which no endeavours can possibly regain. Into such
anguish many have sunk upon some sudden diminution of their fortune,
an unexpected blast of their reputation, or the loss of children or of
friends. They have suffered all sensibility of pleasure to be destroyed
by a single blow, have given up for ever the hopes of substituting any
other object in the room of that which they lament, resigned their lives
to gloom and despondency, and worn themselves out in unavailing misery.

Yet so much is this passion the natural consequence of tenderness and
endearment, that, however painful and however useless, it is justly
reproachful not to feel it on some occasions; and so widely and
constantly has it always prevailed, that the laws of some nations, and
the customs of others, have limited a time for the external appearances
of grief caused by the dissolution of close alliances, and the breach of
domestick union.

It seems determined by the general suffrage of mankind, that sorrow
is to a certain point laudable, as the offspring of love, or at least
pardonable, as the effect of weakness; but that it ought not to be
suffered to increase by indulgence, but must give way, after a stated
time, to social duties, and the common avocations of life. It is at
first unavoidable, and therefore must be allowed, whether with or without
our choice; it may afterwards be admitted as a decent and affectionate
testimony of kindness and esteem; something will be extorted by nature,
and something may be given to the world. But all beyond the bursts of
passion, or the forms of solemnity, is not only useless, but culpable;
for we have no right to sacrifice, to the vain longings of affection,
that time which Providence allows us for the task of our station.

Yet it too often happens that sorrow, thus lawfully entering, gains such
a firm possession of the mind, that it is not afterwards to be ejected;
the mournful ideas, first violently impressed and afterwards willingly
received, so much engross the attention, as to predominate in every
thought, to darken gaiety, and perplex ratiocination. An habitual sadness
seizes upon the soul, and the faculties are chained to a single object,
which can never be contemplated but with hopeless uneasiness.

From this state of dejection it is very difficult to rise to cheerfulness
and alacrity; and therefore many who have laid down rules of intellectual
health, think preservatives easier than remedies, and teach us not to
trust ourselves with favourite enjoyments, not to indulge the luxury of
fondness, but to keep our minds always suspended in such indifference,
that we may change the objects about us without emotion.

An exact compliance with this rule might, perhaps, contribute to
tranquillity, but surely it would never produce happiness. He that
regards none so much as to be afraid of losing them, must live for ever
without the gentle pleasures of sympathy and confidence; he must feel no
melting fondness, no warmth of benevolence, nor any of those honest joys
which nature annexes to the power of pleasing. And as no man can justly
claim more tenderness than he pays, he must forfeit his share in that
officious and watchful kindness which love only can dictate, and those
lenient endearments by which love only can soften life.