No More Learning

I have now known Suspirius fifty-eight years and four months, and have
never yet passed an hour with him in which he has not made some attack
upon my quiet. When we were first acquainted, his great topick was the
misery of youth without riches; and whenever we walked out together he
solaced me with a long enumeration of pleasures, which, as they were
beyond the reach of my fortune, were without the verge of my desires, and
which I should never have considered as the objects of a wish, had not
his unseasonable representations placed them in my sight.

Another of his topicks is the neglect of merit, with which he never fails
to amuse every man whom he sees not eminently fortunate. If he meets
with a young officer, he always informs him of gentlemen whose personal
courage is unquestioned, and whose military skill qualifies them to
command armies, that have, notwithstanding all their merit, grown old
with subaltern commissions. For a genius in the church, he is always
provided with a curacy for life. The lawyer he informs of many men of
great parts and deep study, who have never had an opportunity to speak
in the courts: and meeting Serenus the physician, "Ah, doctor," says
he, "what a-foot still, when so many block-heads are rattling in their
chariots? I told you seven years ago that you would never meet with
encouragement, and I hope you will now take more notice, when I tell you
that your Greek, and your diligence, and your honesty, will never enable
you to live like yonder apothecary, who prescribes to his own shop, and
laughs at the physician. "

Suspirius has, in his time, intercepted fifteen authors in their way to
the stage; persuaded nine and thirty merchants to retire from a prosperous
trade for fear of bankruptcy, broke off an hundred and thirteen matches
by prognostications of unhappiness, and enabled the small-pox to kill
nineteen ladies, by perpetual alarms of the loss of beauty.

Whenever my evil stars bring us together, he never fails to represent to
me the folly of my pursuits, and informs me that we are much older than
when we began our acquaintance, that the infirmities of decrepitude are
coming fast upon me, that whatever I now get, I shall enjoy but a little
time, that fame is to a man tottering on the edge of the grave of very
little importance, and that the time is at hand when I ought to look for
no other pleasures than a good dinner and an easy chair.

Thus he goes on in his unharmonious strain, displaying present miseries,
and foreboding more, νυκτικοραξ αει θανατηφορος, every syllable is loaded
with misfortune, and death is always brought nearer to the view. Yet, what
always raises my resentment and indignation, I do not perceive that his
mournful meditations have much effect upon himself. He talks and has long
talked of calamities, without discovering otherwise than by the tone of
his voice, that he feels any of the evils which he bewails or threatens,
but has the same habit of uttering lamentations, as others of telling
stories, and falls into expressions of condolence for past, or
apprehension of future mischiefs, as all men studious of their ease have
recourse to those subjects upon which they can most fluently or copiously
discourse[47].

It is reported of the Sybarites, that they destroyed all their cocks, that
they might dream out their morning dreams without disturbance. Though I
would not so far promote effeminacy as to propose the Sabarites for an
example, yet since there is no man so corrupt or foolish, but something
useful may be learned from him, I could wish that, in imitation of a
people not often to be copied, some regulations might be made to exclude
screech-owls from all company, as the enemies of mankind, and confine
them to some proper receptacle, where they may mingle sighs at leisure,
and thicken the gloom of one another.

_Thou prophet of evil_, says Homer's Agamemnon, _thou never foretellest me
good, but the joy of thy heart is to predict misfortunes_. Whoever is of
the same temper, might there find the means of indulging his thoughts,
and improving his vein of denunciation, and the flock of screech-owls
might hoot together without injury to the rest of the world.

Yet, though I have so little kindness for this dark generation, I am very
far from intending to debar the soft and tender mind from the privilege of
complaining, when the sigh arises from the desire not of giving pain, but
of gaining ease. To hear complaints with patience, even when complaints
are vain, is one of the duties of friendship; and though it must be
allowed that he suffers most like a hero that hides his grief in silence,

_Spem vultu simulat, premit altum corde dolorem;_

His outward smiles conceal'd his inward smart;
DRYDEN.

yet it cannot be denied, that he who complains acts like a man, like a
social being, who looks for help from his fellow-creatures. Pity is to
many of the unhappy a source of comfort in hopeless distresses, as it
contributes to recommend them to themselves, by proving that they have
not lost the regard of others; and heaven seems to indicate the duty even
of barren compassion, by inclining us to weep for evils which we cannot
remedy.

[Footnote 47: Suspirius, the screech-owl, is presumed by some to have
suggested the character of Croaker to Goldsmith, in his Comedy of the
Good-natured Man. ]




No. 60. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1750.


_Quid sit pulchrum, quid turpe, quid utile, quid non,_
_Plenius ac melius Chrysippo et Crantore dicit. _
HOR. Lib. i. Epist. ii. 3.

Whose works the beautiful and base contain,
Of vice and virtue more instructive rules,
Than all the sober sages of the schools.
FRANCIS.


All joy or sorrow for the happiness or calamities of others is produced
by an act of the imagination, that realizes the event however fictitious,
or approximates it however remote, by placing us, for a time, in the
condition of him whose fortune we contemplate; so that we feel, while the
deception lasts, whatever motions would be excited by the same good or
evil happening to ourselves.

Our passions are therefore more strongly moved, in proportion as we
can more readily adopt the pains or pleasure proposed to our minds,
by recognising them as once our own, or considering them as naturally
incident to our state of life. It is not easy for the most artful
writer to give us an interest in happiness or misery, which we think
ourselves never likely to feel, and with which we have never yet been
made acquainted. Histories of the downfal of kingdoms, and revolutions of
empires, are read with great tranquillity; the imperial tragedy pleases
common auditors only by its pomp of ornament, and grandeur of ideas; and
the man whose faculties have been engrossed by business, and whose heart
never fluttered but at the rise or fall of the stocks, wonders how the
attention can be seized, or the affection agitated, by a tale of love.

Those parallel circumstances and kindred images, to which we readily
conform our minds, are, above all other writings, to be found in
narratives of the lives of particular persons; and therefore no species
of writing seems more worthy of cultivation than biography, since none
can be more delightful or more useful, none can more certainly enchain
the heart by irresistible interest, or more widely diffuse instruction to
every diversity of condition.

The general and rapid narratives of history, which involve a thousand
fortunes in the business of a day, and complicate innumerable incidents
in one great transaction, afford few lessons applicable to private
life, which derives its comforts and its wretchedness from the right
or wrong management of things, which nothing but their frequency makes
considerable, _Parva si non fiant quotidie_, says Pliny, and which
can have no place in those relations which never descend below the
consultation of senates, the motions of armies, and the schemes of
conspirators.

I have often thought that there has rarely passed a life of which a
judicious and faithful narrative would not be useful. For, not only
every man has, in the mighty mass of the world, great numbers in the same
condition with himself, to whom his mistakes and miscarriages, escapes
and expedients, would be of immediate and apparent use; but there is such
an uniformity in the state of man, considered apart from adventitious and
separable decorations and disguises, that there is scarce any possibility
of good or ill, but is common to human kind. A great part of the time of
those who are placed at the greatest distance by fortune, or by temper,
must unavoidably pass in the same manner; and though, when the claims of
nature are satisfied, caprice, and vanity, and accident, begin to produce
discriminations and peculiarities, yet the eye is not very heedful or
quick, which cannot discover the same causes still terminating their
influence in the same effects, though sometimes accelerated, sometimes
retarded, or perplexed by multiplied combinations. We are all prompted
by the same motives, all deceived by the same fallacies, all animated by
hope, obstructed by danger, entangled by desire, and seduced by pleasure.

It is frequently objected to relations of particular lives, that they are
not distinguished by any striking or wonderful vicissitudes. The scholar
who passed his life among his books, the merchant who conducted only
his own affairs, the priest, whose sphere of action was not extended
beyond that of his duty, are considered as no proper objects of publick
regard, however they might have excelled in their several stations,
whatever might have been their learning, integrity, and piety. But this
notion arises from false measures of excellence and dignity, and must be
eradicated by considering, that in the esteem of uncorrupted reason, what
is of most use is of most value.

It is, indeed, not improper to take honest advantages of prejudice, and
to gain attention by a celebrated name; but the business of a biographer
is often to pass slightly over those performances and incidents, which
produce vulgar greatness, to lead the thoughts into domestick privacies,
and display the minute details of daily life, where exterior appendages
are cast aside, and men excel each other only by prudence and by virtue.
The account of Thuanus is, with great propriety, said by its author to
have been written, that it might lay open to posterity the private and
familiar character of that man, _cujus ingenium et candorem ex ipsius
scriptis sunt olim semper miraturi_, whose candour and genius will to
the end of time be by his writings preserved in admiration.

There are many invisible circumstances which, whether we read as inquirers
after natural and moral knowledge, whether we intend to enlarge our
science, or increase our virtue, are more important than publick
occurrences. Thus Sallust, the great master of nature, has not forgot,
in his account of Cataline, to remark that _his walk was now quick, and
again slow_, as an indication of a mind revolving something with violent
commotion. Thus the story of Melancthon affords a striking lecture on
the value of time, by informing us, that when he made an appointment,
he expected not only the hour, but the minute to be fixed, that the day
might not run out in the idleness of suspense: and all the plans and
enterprizes of De Witt are now of less importance to the world, than that
part of his personal character, which represents him as _careful of his
health, and negligent of his life_.

But biography has often been allotted to writers who seem very little
acquainted with the nature of their task, or very negligent about the
performance. They rarely afford any other account than might be collected
from publick papers, but imagine themselves writing a life when they
exhibit a chronological series of actions or preferments; and so little
regard the manners or behaviour of their heroes, that more knowledge may
be gained of a man's real character, by a short conversation with one of
his servants, than from a formal and studied narrative, begun with his
pedigree, and ended with his funeral.

If now and then they condescend to inform the world of particular facts,
they are not always so happy as to select the most important. I know not
well what advantage posterity can receive from the only circumstance by
which Tickell has distinguished Addison from the rest of mankind, _the
irregularity of his pulse_: nor can I think myself overpaid for the time
spent in reading the life of Malherb by being enabled to relate after
the learned biographer, that Malherb had two predominant opinions;
one, that the looseness of a single woman might destroy all her boast
of ancient descent; the other, that the French beggars made use very
improperly and barbarously of the phrase _noble Gentleman_, because
either word included the sense to both.

There are, indeed, some natural reasons why these narratives are often
written by such as were not likely to give much instruction or delight,
and why most accounts of particular persons are barren and useless. If
a life be delayed till interest and envy are at an end, we may hope for
impartiality, but must expect little intelligence; for the incidents
which give excellence to biography are of a volatile and evanescent kind,
such as soon escape the memory, and are rarely transmitted by tradition.
We know how few can pourtray a living acquaintance, except by his most
prominent and observable particularities, and the grosser features of his
mind; and it may be easily imagined how much of this little knowledge may
be lost in imparting it, and how soon a succession of copies will lose
all resemblance of the original.

If the biographer writes from personal knowledge, and makes haste to
gratify the public curiosity, there is danger lest his interest, his
fear, his gratitude, or his tenderness, overpower his fidelity, and tempt
him to conceal, if not to invent. There are many who think it an act of
piety to hide the faults or failings of their friends, even when they
can no longer suffer by their detection; we therefore see whole ranks of
characters adorned with uniform panegyrick, and not to be known from one
another, but by extrinsick and casual circumstances. "Let me remember,"
says Hale, "when I find myself inclined to pity a criminal, that there
is likewise a pity due to the country. " If we owe regard to the memory of
the dead, there is yet more respect to be paid to knowledge, to virtue,
and to truth.




No. 61. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 16, 1750.


_Falsus honor juvat, et mendax infamia terret,_
_Quem, nisi mendosum et mendacem? _
HOR. Lib. i. Ep. xvi. 39.

False praise can charm, unreal shame controul,
Whom but a vicious or a sickly soul?
FRANCIS.


TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

It is extremely vexatious to a man of eager and thirsty curiosity to be
placed at a great distance from the fountain of intelligence, and not
only never to receive the current of report till it has satiated the
greatest part of the nation, but at last to find it mudded in its course,
and corrupted with taints or mixtures from every channel through which
it flowed.

One of the chief pleasures of my life is to hear what passes in the world;
to know what are the schemes of the politick, the aims of the busy,
and the hopes of the ambitious; what changes of publick measures are
approaching; who is likely to be crushed in the collision of parties; who
is climbing to the top of power, and who is tottering on the precipice
of disgrace. But as it is very common for us to desire most what we
are least qualified to obtain, I have suffered this appetite of news to
outgrow all the gratifications which my present situation can afford it;
for being placed in a remote country, I am condemned always to confound
the future with the past, to form prognostications of events no longer
doubtful, and to consider the expediency of schemes already executed or
defeated. I am perplexed with a perpetual deception in my prospects, like
a man pointing his telescope at a remote star, which before the light
reaches his eye has forsaken the place from which it was emitted.

The mortification of being thus always behind the active world in my
reflections and discoveries, is exceedingly aggravated by the petulance
of those whose health, or business, or pleasure, brings them hither from
London. For, without considering the insuperable disadvantages of my
condition, and the unavoidable ignorance which absence must produce,
they often treat me with the utmost superciliousness of contempt, for
not knowing what no human sagacity can discover; and sometimes seem
to consider me as a wretch scarcely worthy of human converse, when I
happen to talk of the fortune of a bankrupt, or propose the healths of
the dead, when I warn them of mischiefs already incurred, or wish for
measures that have been lately taken. They seem to attribute to the
superiority of their intellects what they only owe to the accident of
their condition, and think themselves indisputably entitled to airs
of insolence and authority, when they find another ignorant of facts,
which, because they echoed in the streets of London, they suppose equally
publick in all other places, and known where they could neither be seen,
related, nor conjectured.

To this haughtiness they are indeed too much encouraged by the respect
which they receive amongst us, for no other reason than that they come
from London. For no sooner is the arrival of one of these disseminators
of knowledge known in the country, than we crowd about him from every
quarter, and by innumerable inquiries flatter him into an opinion of his
own importance. He sees himself surrounded by multitudes, who propose
their doubts, and refer their controversies, to him, as to a being
descended from some nobler region, and he grows on a sudden oraculous and
infallible, solves all difficulties, and sets all objections at defiance.

There is, in my opinion, great reason for suspecting, that they sometimes
take advantage of this reverential modesty, and impose upon rustick
understandings, with a false show of universal intelligence; for I do not
find that they are willing to own themselves ignorant of any thing, or
that they dismiss any inquirer with a positive and decisive answer. The
court, the city, the park, and exchange, are those men of unbounded
observation equally familiar, and they are alike ready to tell the hour
at which stocks will rise, or the ministry be changed.

A short residence at London entitles a man to knowledge, to wit, to
politeness, and to a despotick and dictatorial power of prescribing to
the rude multitude, whom he condescends to honour with a biennial visit;
yet, I know not well upon what motives, I have lately found myself
inclined to cavil at this prescription, and to doubt whether it be not,
on some occasions, proper to withhold our veneration, till we are more
authentically convinced of the merits of the claimant.

It is well remembered here, that about seven years ago, one Frolick,
a tall boy, with lank hair, remarkable for stealing eggs, and sucking
them, was taken from the school in this parish, and sent up to London
to study the law. As he had given amongst us no proofs of a genius
designed by nature for extraordinary performances, he was, from the
time of his departure, totally forgotten, nor was there any talk of
his vices or virtues, his good or his ill fortune, till last summer
a report burst upon us, that Mr. Frolick was come down in the first
post-chaise which this village had seen, having travelled with such
rapidity that one of his postillions had broke his leg, and another
narrowly escaped suffocation in a quicksand; but that Mr. Frolick seemed
totally unconcerned, for such things were never heeded at London.

Mr. Frolick next day appeared among the gentlemen at their weekly
meeting on the bowling-green, and now were seen the effects of a London
education. His dress, his language, his ideas, were all new, and he did
not much endeavour to conceal his contempt of every thing that differed
from the opinions, or practice, of the modish world. He showed us the
deformity of our skirts and sleeves, informed us where hats of the proper
size were to be sold, and recommended to us the reformation of a thousand
absurdities in our clothes, our cookery, and our conversation. When any
of his phrases were unintelligible, he could not suppress the joy of
confessed superiority, but frequently delayed the explanation, that he
might enjoy his triumph over our barbarity.

When he is pleased to entertain us with a story, he takes care to crowd
into it names of streets, squares, and buildings, with which he knows we
are unacquainted. The favourite topicks of his discourse are the pranks
of drunkards, and the tricks put upon country gentlemen by porters and
link-boys. When he is with ladies, he tells them of the innumerable
pleasures to which he can introduce them; but never fails to hint how
much they will be deficient, at their first arrival, in the knowledge
of the town. What it is _to know the town_, he has not indeed hitherto
informed us, though there is no phrase so frequent in his mouth, nor any
science which he appears to think of so great a value, or so difficult
attainment.

But my curiosity has been most engaged by the recital of his own
adventures and achievements. I have heard of the union of various
characters in single persons, but never met with such a constellation
of great qualities as this man's narrative affords. Whatever has
distinguished the hero; whatever has elevated the wit; whatever has
endeared the lover, are all concentered in Mr. Frolick, whose life has,
for seven years, been a regular interchange of intrigues, dangers, and
waggeries, and who has distinguished himself in every character that can
be feared, envied, or admired.

I question whether all the officers of the royal navy can bring together,
from all their journals, a collection of so many wonderful escapes as
this man has known upon the Thames, on which he has been a thousand and
a thousand times on the point of perishing, sometimes by the terrours
of foolish women in the same boat, sometimes by his own acknowledged
imprudence in passing the river in the dark, and sometimes by shooting
the bridge under which he has rencountered mountainous waves, and
dreadful cataracts.

Nor less has been his temerity by land, nor fewer his hazards. He has
reeled with giddiness on the top of the monument; he has crossed the
street amidst the rush of coaches; he has been surrounded by robbers
without number; he has headed parties at the playhouse; he has scaled
the windows of every toast, of whatever condition; he has been hunted for
whole winters by his rivals; he has slept upon bulks, he has cut chairs,
he has bilked coachmen; he has rescued his friends from the bailiffs, has
knocked down the constable, has bullied the justice, and performed many
other exploits, that have filled the town with wonder and with merriment.

But yet greater is the fame of his understanding than his bravery; for
he informs us, that he is, at London, the established arbitrator of all
points of honour, and the decisive judge of all performances of genius;
that no musical performer is in reputation till the opinion of Frolick
has ratified his pretensions; that the theatres suspend their sentence
till he begins the clap or hiss, in which all are proud to concur; that
no publick entertainment has failed or succeeded, but because he opposed
or favoured it; that all controversies at the gaming-table are referred
to his determination; that he adjusts the ceremonial at every assembly,
and prescribes every fashion of pleasure or of dress.

With every man whose name occurs in the papers of the day, he his
intimately acquainted; and there are very few posts either in the state
or army, of which he has not more or less influenced the disposal. He has
been very frequently consulted both upon war and peace; but the time is
not yet come when the nation shall know how much it is indebted to the
genius of Frolick.

Yet, notwithstanding all these declarations, I cannot hitherto persuade
myself to see Mr. Frolick has more wit, or knowledge, or courage, than
the rest of mankind, or that any uncommon enlargement of his faculties
has happened in the time of his absence. For when he talks on subjects
known to the rest of the company, he has no advantage over us, but by
catches of interruption, briskness of interrogation, and pertness of
contempt; and therefore if he has stunned the world with his name, and
gained a place in the first ranks of humanity, I cannot but conclude,
that either a little understanding confers eminence at London, or that
Mr. Frolick thinks us unworthy of the exertion of his powers, or that
his faculties are benumbed by rural stupidity, as the magnetick needle
loses its animation in the polar climes.

I would not, however, like many hasty philosophers, search after the cause
till I am certain of the effect; and therefore I desire to be informed,
whether you have yet heard the great name of Mr. Frolick. If he is
celebrated by other tongues than his own, I shall willingly propagate
his praise; but if he has swelled among us with empty boasts, and honours
conferred only by himself, I shall treat him with rustick sincerity, and
drive him as an impostor from this part of the kingdom to some region of
more credulity.

I am, &c.

RURICOLA.




No. 62. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1750.


_Nunc ego Triptolemi cuperem conscendere currus,_
_Misit in ignotam qui rude semen humum:_
_Nunc ego Medeæ vellem frænare dracones,_
_Quos habuit fugiens arce, Corinthe, tua;_
_Nunc ego jactandas optarem sumere pennas,_
_Sive tuas, Perseu; Dædale, sive tuas. _
OVID, Trist. Lib. iii. El. 8. 1.

Now would I mount his car, whose bounteous hand
First sow'd with teeming seed the furrow'd land:
Now to Medæa's dragons fix my reins,
That swiftly bore her from Corinthian plains;
Now on Dædalian waxen pinions stray,
Or those which wafted Perseus on his way.
F. LEWIS.


TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

I am a young woman of very large fortune, which, if my parents would have
been persuaded to comply with the rules and customs of the polite part of
mankind, might long since have raised me to the highest honours of the
female world; but so strangely have they hitherto contrived to waste my
life, that I am now on the borders of twenty, without having ever danced
but at our monthly assembly, or been toasted but among a few gentlemen
of the neighbourhood, or seen in any company in which it was worth a
wish to be distinguished.

My father having impaired his patrimony in soliciting a place at court, at
last grew wise enough to cease his pursuit; and to repair the consequences
of expensive attendance and negligence of his affairs, married a lady
much older than himself, who had lived in the fashionable world till she
was considered as an incumbrance upon parties of pleasure, and as I can
collect from incidental informations, retired from gay assemblies just
time enough to escape the mortifications of universal neglect.

She was, however, still rich, and not yet wrinkled; my father was too
distressfully embarrassed to think much on any thing but the means of
extrication, and though it is not likely that he wanted the delicacy which
polite conversation will always produce in understandings not remarkably
defective, yet he was contented with a match, by which he might be set
free from inconveniencies, that would have destroyed all the pleasures of
imagination, and taken from softness and beauty the power of delighting.

As they were both somewhat disgusted with their treatment in the world,
and married, though without any dislike of each other, yet principally
for the sake of setting themselves free from dependance on caprice or
fashion, they soon retired into the country, and devoted their lives to
rural business and diversions.

They had not much reason to regret the change of their situation;
for their vanity, which had so long been tormented by neglect and
disappointment, was here gratified with every honour that could be paid
them. Their long familiarity with publick life made them the oracles of
all those who aspired to intelligence, or politeness. My father dictated
politicks, my mother prescribed the mode, and it was sufficient to entitle
any family to some consideration, that they were known to visit at Mrs.
Courtly's.

In this state they were, to speak in the style of novelists, made happy
by the birth of your correspondent. My parents had no other child, I was
therefore not brow-beaten by a saucy brother, or lost in a multitude of
coheiresses, whose fortunes being equal, would probably have conferred
equal merit, and procured equal regard; and as my mother was now old, my
understanding and my person had fair play, my inquiries were not checked,
my advances towards importance were not repressed, and I was soon suffered
to tell my own opinions, and early accustomed to hear my own praises.

By these accidental advantages I was much exalted above the young ladies
with whom I conversed, and was treated by them with great deference. I
saw none who did not seem to confess my superiority, and to be held in
awe by the splendour of my appearance; for the fondness of my father made
him pleased to see me dressed, and my mother had no vanity nor expenses
to hinder her from concurring with his inclination.

Thus, Mr. Rambler, I lived without much desire after any thing beyond
the circle of our visits; and here I should have quietly continued to
portion out my time among my books, and my needle, and my company, had
not my curiosity been every moment excited by the conversation of my
parents, who, whenever they sit down to familiar prattle, and endeavour
the entertainment of each other, immediately transport themselves to
London, and relate some adventure in a hackney-coach, some frolick
at a masquerade, some conversation in the park, or some quarrel at
an assembly, display the magnificence of a birth-night, relate the
conquests of maids of honour, or give a history of diversions, shows,
and entertainments, which I had never known but from their accounts.

I am so well versed in the history of the gay world, that I can relate,
with great punctuality, the lives of all the last race of wits and
beauties; can enumerate with exact chronology, the whole succession of
celebrated singers, musicians, tragedians, comedians, and harlequins;
can tell to the last twenty years all the changes of fashions; and am,
indeed, a complete antiquary with respect to head-dresses, dances, and
operas.

You will easily imagine, Mr. Rambler, that I could not hear these
narratives, for sixteen years together, without suffering some
impression, and wishing myself nearer to those places where every hour
brings some new pleasure, and life is diversified with an unexhausted
succession of felicity.

I indeed often asked my mother why she left a place which she recollected
with so much delight, and why she did not visit London once a year,
like some other ladies, and initiate me in the world by showing me its
amusements, its grandeur, and its variety. But she always told me that
the days which she had seen were such as will never come again; that all
diversion is now degenerated, that the conversation of the present age
is insipid, that their fashions are unbecoming, their customs absurd,
and their morals corrupt; that there is no ray left of the genius which
enlightened the times that she remembers; that no one who had seen, or
heard, the ancient performers, would be able to bear the bunglers of this
despicable age: and that there is now neither politeness, nor pleasure,
nor virtue, in the world. She therefore assures me that she consults
my happiness by keeping me at home, for I should now find nothing but
vexation and disgust, and she should be ashamed to see me pleased with
such fopperies and trifles, as take up the thoughts of the present set of
young people.

With this answer I was kept quiet for several years, and thought it no
great inconvenience to be confined to the country, till last summer a
young gentleman and his sister came down to pass a few months with one
of our neighbours. They had generally no great regard for the country
ladies, but distinguished me by a particular complaisance, and, as we
grew intimate, gave me such a detail of the elegance, the splendour,
the mirth, the happiness of the town, that I am resolved to be no longer
buried in ignorance and obscurity, but to share with other wits the joy
of being admired, and divide with other beauties the empire of the world.

I do not find, Mr. Rambler, upon a deliberate and impartial comparison,
that I am excelled by Belinda in beauty, in wit, in judgment, in
knowledge, or in any thing, but a kind of gay, lively familiarity,
by which she mingles with strangers as with persons long acquainted,
and which enables her to display her powers without any obstruction,
hesitation, or confusion. Yet she can relate a thousand civilities paid
to her in publick, can produce, from a hundred lovers, letters filled
with praises, protestations, ecstacies, and despair; has been handed
by dukes to her chair; has been the occasion of innumerable quarrels;
has paid twenty visits in an afternoon; been invited to six balls in an
evening, and been forced to retire to lodgings in the country from the
importunity of courtship, and the fatigue of pleasure.

I tell you, Mr. Rambler, I will stay here no longer. I have at last
prevailed upon my mother to send me to town, and shall set out in three
weeks on the grand expedition. I intend to live in publick, and to crowd
into the winter every pleasure which money can purchase, and every honour
which beauty can obtain.

But this tedious interval how shall I endure? Cannot you alleviate the
misery of delay by some pleasing description of the entertainments of
the town? I can read, I can talk, I can think of nothing else; and if you
will not sooth my impatience, heighten my ideas, and animate my hopes,
you may write for those who have more leisure, but are not to expect any
longer the honour of being read by those eyes which are now intent only
on conquest and destruction.

RHODOCLIA.




No. 63. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 23, 1750.


_----Habebat sæpe ducentos,_
_Sæpe decem servos: modo Reges, atque Tetrarchus,_
_Omnia magna loquens; modo, Sit mihi mensa tripes, et_
_Concha salis puri, et toga, quæ defendere frigus,_
_Quamvis crassa, queat. _
HOR. Lib. i. Sat. iii. 11.

Now with two hundred slaves he crowds his train;
Now walks with ten. In high and haughty strain
At morn, of kings and governors he prates;
At night--"A frugal table, O ye fates,
"A little shell the sacred salt to hold,
"And clothes, tho' coarse, to keep me from the cold. "
FRANCIS.


It has been remarked, perhaps, by every writer who has left behind him
observations upon life, that no man is pleased with his present state;
which proves equally unsatisfactory, says Horace, whether fallen upon by
chance, or chosen with deliberation; we are always disgusted with some
circumstance or other of our situation, and imagine the condition of
others more abundant in blessings, or less exposed to calamities.

This universal discontent has been generally mentioned with great severity
of censure, as unreasonable in itself, since of two, equally envious of
each other, both cannot have the larger share of happiness, and as tending
to darken life with unnecessary gloom, by withdrawing our minds from the
contemplation and enjoyment of that happiness which our state affords us,
and fixing our attention upon foreign objects, which we only behold to
depress ourselves, and increase our misery by injurious comparisons.

When this opinion of the felicity of others predominates in the heart, so
as to excite resolutions of obtaining, at whatever price, the condition
to which such transcendent privileges are supposed to be annexed; when it
bursts into action, and produces fraud, violence, and injustice, it is to
be pursued with all the rigour of legal punishments. But while operating
only upon the thoughts it disturbs none but him who has happened to admit
it, and, however it may interrupt content, makes no attack on piety or
virtue, I cannot think it so far criminal or ridiculous, but that it may
deserve some pity, and admit some excuse.

That all are equally happy, or miserable, I suppose none is sufficiently
enthusiastical to maintain; because though we cannot judge of the
condition of others, yet every man has found frequent vicissitudes in
his own state, and must therefore be convinced that life is susceptible
of more or less felicity. What then shall forbid us to endeavour the
alteration of that which is capable of being improved, and to grasp at
augmentations of good, when we know it possible to be increased, and
believe that any particular change of situation will increase it?

If he that finds himself uneasy may reasonably make efforts to rid
himself from vexation, all mankind have a sufficient plea for some degree
of restlessness, and the fault seems to be little more than too much
temerity of conclusion, in favour of something not yet experienced, and
too much readiness to believe, that the misery which our own passions and
appetites produce, is brought upon us by accidental causes, and external
efficients.

It is, indeed, frequently discovered by us, that we complained too
hastily of peculiar hardships, and imagined ourselves distinguished by
embarrassments, in which other classes of men are equally entangled. We
often change a lighter for a greater evil, and wish ourselves restored
again to the state from which we thought it desirable to be delivered.
But this knowledge, though it is easily gained by the trial, is not
always attainable any other way; and that errour cannot justly be
reproached, which reason could not obviate, nor prudence avoid.

To take a view at once distinct and comprehensive of human life, with all
its intricacies of combination, and varities of connexion, is beyond the
power of mortal intelligences. Of the state with which practice has not
acquainted us we snatch a glimpse, we discern a point, and regulate the
rest by passion, and by fancy. In this inquiry every favourite prejudice,
every innate desire, is busy to deceive us. We are unhappy, at least
less happy than our nature seems to admit; we necessarily desire the
melioration of our lot; what we desire we very reasonably seek, and
what we seek we are naturally eager to believe that we have found. Our
confidence is often disappointed, but our reason is not convinced,
and there is no man who does not hope for something which he has not,
though perhaps his wishes lie unactive, because he foresees the difficulty
of attainment. As among the numerous students of Hermetick philosophy,
not one appears to have desisted from the task of transmutation, from
conviction of its impossibility, but from weariness of toil, or impatience
of delay, a broken body, or exhausted fortune.

Irresolution and mutability are often the faults of men, whose views
are wide, and whose imagination is vigorous and excursive, because they
cannot confine their thoughts within their own boundaries of action,
but are continually ranging over all the scenes of human existence, and
consequently are often apt to conceive that they fall upon new regions of
pleasure, and start new possibilities of happiness. Thus they are busied
with a perpetual succession of schemes, and pass their lives in alternate
elation and sorrow, for want of that calm and immovable acquiescence
in their condition, by which men of slower understandings are fixed for
ever to a certain point, or led on in the plain beaten track, which their
fathers and grandsires have trod before them.

Of two conditions of life equally inviting to the prospect, that will
always have the disadvantage which we have already tried; because the
evils which we have felt we cannot extenuate; and though we have, perhaps
from nature, the power as well of aggravating the calamity which we
fear, as of heightening the blessing we expect, yet in those meditations
which we indulge by choice, and which are not forced upon the mind by
necessity, we have always the art of fixing our regard upon the more
pleasing images, and suffer hope to dispose the lights by which we look
upon futurity.

The good and ill of different modes of life are sometimes so equally
opposed, that perhaps no man ever yet made his choice between them upon
a full conviction, and adequate knowledge; and therefore fluctuation
of will is not more wonderful, when they are proposed to the election,
than oscillations of a beam charged with equal weights.
The mind no
sooner imagines itself determined by some prevalent advantage, than some
convenience of equal weight is discovered on the other side, and the
resolutions, which are suggested by the nicest examination, are often
repented as soon as they are taken.

Eumenes, a young man of great abilities, inherited a large estate
from a father, long eminent in conspicuous employments. His father,
harassed with competitions, and perplexed with multiplicity of business,
recommended the quiet of a private station with so much force, that
Eumenes for some years resisted every motion of ambitious wishes; but
being once provoked by the sight of oppression, which he could not
redress, he began to think it the duty of an honest man to enable himself
to protect others, and gradually felt a desire of greatness, excited by
a thousand projects of advantage to his country. His fortune placed him
in the senate, his knowledge and eloquence advanced him at court, and he
possessed that authority and influence which he had resolved to exert for
the happiness of mankind.

He now became acquainted with greatness, and was in a short time
convinced, that in proportion as the power of doing well is enlarged,
the temptations to do ill are multiplied and enforced. He felt himself
every moment in danger of being either seduced or driven from his honest
purposes. Sometimes a friend was to be gratified, and sometimes a rival
to be crushed, by means which his conscience could not approve. Sometimes
he was forced to comply with the prejudices of the publick, and sometimes
with the schemes of the ministry. He was by degrees wearied with perpetual
struggles to unite policy and virtue, and went back to retirement as the
shelter of innocence, persuaded that he could only hope to benefit mankind
by a blameless example of private virtue. Here he spent some years in
tranquillity and beneficence; but finding that corruption increased,
and false opinions in government prevailed, he thought himself again
summoned to posts of publick trust, from which new evidence of his own
weakness again determined him to retire.

Thus men may be made inconstant by virtue and by vice, by too much or
too little thought; yet inconstancy, however dignified by its motives,
is always to be avoided, because life allows us but a small time for
inquiry and experiment, and he that steadily endeavours at excellence, in
whatever employment, will more benefit mankind than he that hesitates in
chusing his part till he is called to the performance. The traveller that
resolutely follows a rough and winding path, will sooner reach the end of
his journey, than he that is always changing his direction, and wastes the
hours of day-light in looking for smoother ground and shorter passages.




No. 64. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1750.


_Idem velle, et idem nolle, ea demum firma amicitia est. _
SALL. Bell. Cat. 20.

To live in friendship is to have the same desires and the same aversions.


When Socrates was building himself a house at Athens, being asked by one
that observed the littleness of the design, why a man so eminent would
not have an abode more suitable to his dignity? he replied, that he
should think himself sufficiently accommodated, if he could see that
narrow habitation filled with real friends[48]. Such was the opinion of
this great master of human life, concerning the infrequency of such an
union of minds as might deserve the name of friendship, that among the
multitudes whom vanity or curiosity, civility or veneration, crowded
about him, he did not expect, that very spacious apartments would be
necessary to contain all that should regard him with sincere kindness,
or adhere to him with steady fidelity.

So many qualities are indeed requisite to the possibility of friendship,
and so many accidents must concur to its rise and continuance, that the
greatest part of mankind content themselves without it, and supply its
place as they can, with interest and dependance.

Multitudes are unqualified for a constant and warm reciprocation of
benevolence, as they are incapacitated for any other elevated excellence,
by perpetual attention to their interest, and unresisting subjection to
their passions. Long habits may superinduce inability to deny any desire,
or repress, by superior motives, the importunities of any immediate
gratification, and an inveterate selfishness will imagine all advantages
diminished in proportion as they are communicated.

But not only this hateful and confirmed corruption, but many varieties of
disposition, not inconsistent with common degrees of virtue, may exclude
friendship from the heart. Some ardent enough in their benevolence,
and defective neither in officiousness nor liberality, are mutable and
uncertain, soon attracted by new objects, disgusted without offence, and
alienated without enmity. Others are soft and flexible, easily influenced
by reports or whispers, ready to catch alarms from every dubious
circumstance, and to listen to every suspicion which envy and flattery
shall suggest, to follow the opinion of every confident adviser, and move
by the impulse of the last breath. Some are impatient of contradiction,
more willing to go wrong by their own judgment, than to be indebted for
a better or a safer way to the sagacity of another, inclined to consider
counsel as insult, and inquiry as want of confidence, and to confer
their regard on no other terms than unreserved submission, and implicit
compliance. Some are dark and involved, equally careful to conceal good
and bad purposes; and pleased with producing effects by invisible means,
and shewing their design only in its execution. Others are universally
communicative, alike open to every eye, and equally profuse of their
own secrets and those of others, without the necessary vigilance of
caution, or the honest arts of prudent integrity, ready to accuse without
malice, and to betray without treachery. Any of these may be useful to
the community, and pass through the world with the reputation of good
purposes and uncorrupted morals, but they are unfit for close and tender
intimacies. He cannot properly be chosen for a friend, whose kindness
is exhaled by its own warmth, or frozen by the first blast of slander;
he cannot be a useful counsellor who will hear no opinion but his own;
he will not much invite confidence whose principal maxim is to suspect;
nor can the candour and frankness of that man be much esteemed, who
spreads his arms to humankind, and makes every man, without distinction,
a denizen of his bosom.

That friendship may be at once fond and lasting, there must not only be
equal virtue on each part, but virtue of the same kind; not only the
same end must be proposed, but the same means must be approved by both.
We are often, by superficial accomplishments and accidental endearments,
induced to love those whom we cannot esteem; we are sometimes, by great
abilities, and incontestable evidences of virtue, compelled to esteem
those whom we cannot love. But friendship, compounded of esteem and love,
derives from one its tenderness, and its permanence from the other;
and therefore requires not only that its candidates should gain the
judgment, but that they should attract the affections; that they should
not only be firm in the day of distress, but gay in the hour of jollity;
not only useful in exigencies, but pleasing in familiar life; their
presence should give cheerfulness as well as courage, and dispel alike
the gloom of fear and of melancholy.

To this mutual complacency is generally requisite an uniformity of
opinions, at least of those active and conspicuous principles which
discriminate parties in government, and sects in religion, and which
every day operate more or less on the common business of life. For though
great tenderness has, perhaps, been sometimes known to continue between
men eminent in contrary factions; yet such friends are to be shewn rather
as prodigies than examples, and it is no more proper to regulate our
conduct by such instances, than to leap a precipice, because some have
fallen from it and escaped with life.

It cannot but be extremely difficult to preserve private kindness in
the midst of publick opposition, in which will necessarily be involved
a thousand incidents, extending their influence to conversation and
privacy. Men engaged, by moral or religious motives, in contrary parties,
will generally look with different eyes upon every man, and decide almost
every question upon different principles. When such occasions of dispute
happen, to comply is to betray our cause, and to maintain friendship by
ceasing to deserve it; to be silent is to lose the happiness and dignity
of independence, to live in perpetual constraint, and to desert, if not
to betray: and who shall determine which of two friends shall yield,
where neither believes himself mistaken, and both confess the importance
of the question? What then remains but contradiction and debate? and from
those what can be expected, but acrimony and vehemence, the insolence of
triumph, the vexation of defeat, and, in time, a weariness of contest,
and an extinction of benevolence? Exchange of endearments and intercourse
of civility may continue, indeed, as boughs may for a while be verdant,
when the root is wounded; but the poison of discord is infused, and
though the countenance may preserve its smile, the heart is hardening
and contracting.

That man will not be long agreeable, whom we see only in times of
seriousness and severity; and therefore to maintain the softness and
serenity of benevolence, it is necessary that friends partake each
other's pleasures as well as cares, and be led to the same diversions
by similitude of taste. This is, however, not to be considered as
equally indispensable with conformity of principles, because any man may
honestly, according to the precepts of Horace, resign the gratifications
of taste to the humour of another, and friendship may well deserve the
sacrifice of pleasure, though not of conscience.

It was once confessed to me, by a painter, that no professor of his art
ever loved another. This declaration is so far justified by the knowledge
of life, as to damp the hopes of warm and constant friendship, between
men whom their studies have made competitors, and whom every favourer
and every censurer are hourly inciting against each other. The utmost
expectation that experience can warrant, is, that they should forbear
open hostilities and secret machinations, and when the whole fraternity
is attacked, be able to unite against a common foe. Some, however,
though few, may perhaps be found, in whom emulation has not been able to
overpower generosity, who are distinguished from lower beings by nobler
motives than the love of fame, and can preserve the sacred flame of
friendship from the gusts of pride, and the rubbish of interest.

Friendship is seldom lasting but between equals, or where the superiority
on one side is reduced by some equivalent advantage on the other.
Benefits which cannot be repaid, and obligations which cannot be
discharged, are not commonly found to increase affection; they excite
gratitude indeed, and heighten veneration; but commonly take away that
easy freedom and familiarity of intercourse, without which, though
there may be fidelity, and zeal, and admiration, there cannot be
friendship. Thus imperfect are all earthly blessings; the great effect
of friendship is beneficence, yet by the first act of uncommon kindness
it is endangered, like plants that bear their fruit and die. Yet this
consideration ought not to restrain bounty, or repress compassion; for
duty is to be preferred before convenience, and he that loses part of
the pleasures of friendship by his generosity, gains in its place the
gratulation of his conscience.

[Footnote 48: This passage is almost a literal translation from Phædrus,
lib. iii. 9.

Vulgare amici nomen, sed rara est fides.
Quum parvas ædes sibi fundasset Socrates,
(Cujus non fugio mortem, si famam adsequar,
Et cedo invidiæ, dum modo absolvar cinis. )
E populo sic, nescio quis, ut fieri solet:
Quæso tam angustam, talis vir, ponis domum?
Utinam, inquit, veris hanc amicis impleam. ]




No. 65. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 30, 1750.


_----Garrit aniles_
_Ex re fabellas. ----_
HOR. Lib. i. Sat. vi. 77.

The cheerful sage, when solemn dictates fail,
Conceals the moral counsel in a tale.


Obidah, the son of Abensina, left the caravansera early in the morning,
and pursued his journey through the plains of Indostan. He was fresh and
vigorous with rest; he was animated with hope; he was incited by desire;
he walked swiftly forward over the valleys, and saw the hills gradually
rising before him. As he passed along, his ears were delighted with the
morning song of the bird of paradise, he was fanned by the last flutters
of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew by groves of spices; he
sometimes contemplated the towering height of the oak, monarch of the
hills; and sometimes caught the gentle fragrance of the primrose, eldest
daughter of the spring; all his senses were gratified, and all care was
banished from his heart.

Thus he went on till the sun approached his meridian, and the increasing
heat preyed upon his strength; he then looked round about him for some
more commodious path. He saw, on his right hand, a grove that seemed to
wave its shades as a sign of invitation; he entered it, and found the
coolness and verdure irresistibly pleasant. He did not, however, forget
whither he was travelling, but found a narrow way bordered with flowers,
which appeared to have the same direction with the main road, and was
pleased that, by this happy experiment, he had found means to unite
pleasure with business, and to gain the rewards of diligence without
suffering its fatigues. He, therefore, still continued to walk for a time,
without the least remission of his ardour, except that he was sometimes
tempted to stop by the musick of the birds whom the heat had assembled
in the shade; and sometimes amused himself with plucking the flowers
that covered the banks on either side, or the fruits that hung upon
the branches. At last the green path began to decline from its first
tendency, and to wind among hills and thickets, cooled with fountains
and murmuring with waterfalls. Here Obidah paused for a time, and began
to consider whether it were longer safe to forsake the known and common
track; but remembering that the heat was now in its greatest violence,
and that the plain was dusty and uneven, he resolved to pursue the new
path, which he supposed only to make a few meanders, in compliance with
the varieties of the ground, and to end at last in the common road.

Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace, though he suspected
that he was not gaining ground. This uneasiness of his mind inclined him
to lay hold on every new object, and give way to every sensation that
might sooth or divert him. He listened to every echo, he mounted every
hill for a fresh prospect, he turned aside to every cascade, and pleased
himself with tracing the course of a gentle river that rolled among the
trees, and watered a large region with innumerable circumvolutions. In
these amusements the hours passed away uncounted, his deviations had
perplexed his memory, and he knew not towards what point to travel. He
stood pensive and confused, afraid to go forward lest he should go wrong,
yet conscious that the time of loitering was now past. While he was thus
tortured with uncertainty, the sky was overspread with clouds, the
day vanished from before him, and a sudden tempest gathered round his
head. He was now roused by his danger to a quick and painful remembrance
of his folly; he now saw how happiness is lost when ease is consulted;
he lamented the unmanly impatience that prompted him to seek shelter
in the grove, and despised the petty curiosity that led him on from
trifle to trifle. While he was thus reflecting, the air grew blacker,
and a clap of thunder broke his meditation.

He now resolved to do what remained yet in his power, to tread back the
ground which he had passed, and try to find some issue where the wood
might open into the plain. He prostrated himself on the ground, and
commended his life to the Lord of nature. He rose with confidence and
tranquillity, and pressed on with his sabre in his hand, for the beasts
of the desert were in motion, and on every hand were heard the mingled
howls of rage and fear, and ravage and expiration; all the horrours of
darkness and solitude surrounded him; the winds roared in the woods, and
the torrents tumbled from the hills,

----χειμαρῥοι ποταμοι κατ' ορεσφι ῥεοντες
Ες μισγαγκειαν συμβαλλετον οβριμον ὑδωρ,
Τονδε τε τηλοσε δουπον εν ουρεσιν εκλυε ποιμην.

Work'd into sudden rage by wintry show'rs,
Down the steep hill the roaring torrent pours;
The mountain shepherd hears the distant noise.

Thus forlorn and distressed, he wandered through the wild, without knowing
whither he was going, or whether he was every moment drawing nearer to
safety or to destruction. At length not fear but labour began to overcome
him; his breath grew short, and his knees trembled, he was on the point
of lying down in resignation to his fate, when he beheld through the
brambles the glimmer of a taper. He advanced towards the light, and
finding that it proceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly
at the door, and obtained admission. The old man set before him such
provisions as he had collected for himself, on which Obidah fed with
eagerness and gratitude.

When the repast was over, "Tell me," said the hermit, "by what chance thou
hast been brought hither; I have been now twenty years an inhabitant of
the wilderness, in which I never saw a man before. " Obidah then related
the occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or palliation.

"Son," said the hermit, "let the errours and follies, the dangers and
escape of this day, sink deep into thy heart. Remember, my son, that
human life is the journey of a day. We rise in the morning of youth,
full of vigour and full of expectation; we set forward with spirit
and hope, with gaiety and with diligence, and travel on a while in the
straight road of piety towards the mansions of rest. In a short time we
remit our fervour, and endeavour to find some mitigation of our duty,
and some more easy means of obtaining the same end. We then relax our
vigour, and resolve no longer to be terrified with crimes at a distance,
but rely upon our own constancy, and venture to approach what we resolve
never to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease, and repose in the shades
of security. Here the heart softens and vigilance subsides; we are then
willing to inquire whether another advance cannot be made, and whether
we may not, at least, turn our eyes upon the gardens of pleasure. We
approach them with scruple and hesitation; we enter them, but enter
timorous and trembling, and always hope to pass through them without
losing the road of virtue, which we, for a while, keep in our sight,
and to which we propose to return. But temptation succeeds temptation,
and one compliance prepares us for another; we in time lose the happiness
of innocence, and solace our disquiet with sensual gratifications. By
degrees we let fall the remembrance of our original intention, and quit
the only adequate object of rational desire. We entangle ourselves in
business, immerge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths
of inconstancy, till the darkness of old age begins to invade us, and
disease and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look back upon our lives
with horrour, with sorrow, with repentance; and wish, but too often vainly
wish, that we had not forsaken the ways of virtue. Happy are they, my son,
who shall learn from thy example not to despair, but shall remember, that
though the day is past, and their strength is wasted, there yet remains
one effort to be made; that reformation is never hopeless, nor sincere
endeavours ever unassisted; that the wanderer may at length return after
all his errours, and that he who implores strength and courage from above,
shall find danger and difficulty give way before him. Go now, my son,
to thy repose, commit thyself to the care of Omnipotence, and when the
morning calls again to toil, begin anew thy journey and thy life. "




No. 66. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1750.


_----Pauci dignoscere possunt_
_Vera bona, atque illis multum diversa, remotâ_
_Erroris nebula. _
JUV. Sat. x. 2.

----How few
Know their own good; or, knowing it, pursue!
How void of reason are our hopes and fears!
DRYDEN.


The folly of human wishes and pursuits has always been a standing subject
of mirth and declamation, and has been ridiculed and lamented from age
to age; till perhaps the fruitless repetition of complaints and censures,
may be justly numbered among the subjects of censure and complaint.

Some of these instructors of mankind have not contented themselves with
checking the overflows of passion, and lopping the exuberance of desire,
but have attempted to destroy the root as well as the branches; and not
only to confine the mind within bounds, but to smooth it for ever by a
dead calm. They have employed their reason and eloquence to persuade us,
that nothing is worth the wish of a wise man, have represented all earthly
good and evil as indifferent, and counted among vulgar errours the dread
of pain, and the love of life.

It is almost always the unhappiness of a victorious disputant, to destroy
his own authority by claiming too many consequences, or diffusing his
proposition to an indefensible extent. When we have heated our zeal in a
cause, and elated our confidence with success, we are naturally inclined
to pursue the same train of reasoning, to establish some collateral
truth, to remove some adjacent difficulty, and to take in the whole
comprehension of our system. As a prince, in the ardour of acquisition,
is willing to secure his first conquest by the addition of another, add
fortress to fortress, and city to city, till despair and opportunity turn
his enemies upon him, and he loses in a moment the glory of a reign.

The philosophers having found an easy victory over those desires which
we produce in ourselves, and which terminate in some imaginary state of
happiness unknown and unattainable, proceeded to make further inroads
upon the heart, and attacked at last our senses and our instincts. They
continued to war upon nature with arms, by which only folly could be
conquered; they therefore lost the trophies of their former combats, and
were considered no longer with reverence or regard.

Yet it cannot be with justice denied, that these men have been very useful
monitors, and have left many proofs of strong reason, deep penetration,
and accurate attention to the affairs of life, which it is now our
business to separate from the foam of a boiling imagination, and to apply
judiciously to our own use. They have shewn that most of the conditions
of life, which raise the envy of the timorous, and rouse the ambition
of the daring, are empty shows of felicity, which, when they become
familiar, lose their power of delighting; and that the most prosperous
and exalted have very few advantages over a meaner and more obscure
fortune, when their dangers and solicitudes are balanced against their
equipage, their banquets, and their palaces.

It is natural for every man uninstructed to murmur at his condition,
because, in the general infelicity of life, he feels his own miseries,
without knowing that they are common to all the rest of the species;
and therefore, though he will not be less sensible of pain by being
told that others are equally tormented, he will at least be freed from
the temptation of seeking, by perpetual changes, that ease which is no
where to be found; and though his disease still continues, he escapes the
hazard of exasperating it by remedies.

The gratifications which affluence of wealth, extent of power, and
eminence of reputation confer, must be always, by their own nature,
confined to a very small number; and the life of the greater part of
mankind must be lost in empty wishes and painful comparisons, were
not the balm of philosophy shed upon us, and our discontent at the
appearances of an unequal distribution soothed and appeased.

It seemed, perhaps, below the dignity of the great masters of moral
learning, to descend to familiar life, and caution mankind against that
petty ambition which is known among us by the name of Vanity; which
yet had been an undertaking not unworthy of the longest beard, and most
solemn austerity. For though the passions of little minds, acting in
low stations, do not fill the world with bloodshed and devastations, or
mark, by great events, the periods of time, yet they torture the breast
on which they seize, infest those that are placed within the reach of
their influence, destroy private quiet and private virtue, and undermine
insensibly the happiness of the world.

The desire of excellence is laudable, but is very frequently ill directed.
We fall, by chance, into some class of mankind, and, without consulting
nature or wisdom, resolve to gain their regard by those qualities which
they happen to esteem. I once knew a man remarkably dim-sighted, who,
by conversing much with country gentlemen, found himself irresistibly
determined to sylvan honours. His great ambition was to shoot flying,
and he therefore spent whole days in the woods pursuing game; which,
before he was near enough to see them, his approach frighted away.

When it happens that the desire tends to objects which produce no
competition, it may be overlooked with some indulgence, because, however
fruitless or absurd, it cannot have ill effects upon the morals. But most
of our enjoyments owe their value to the peculiarity of possession, and
when they are rated at too high a value, give occasion to stratagems of
malignity, and incite opposition, hatred, and defamation. The contest of
two rural beauties for preference and distinction, is often sufficiently
keen and rancorous to fill their breasts with all those passions, which
are generally thought the curse only of senates, of armies, and of
courts; and the rival dancers of an obscure assembly have their partizans
and abettors, often not less exasperated against each other, than those
who are promoting the interests of rival monarchs.

It is common to consider those whom we find infected with an unreasonable
regard for trifling accomplishments, as chargeable with all the
consequences of their folly, and as the authors of their own unhappiness:
but, perhaps, those whom we thus scorn or detest, have more claim to
tenderness than has been yet allowed them. Before we permit our severity
to break loose upon any fault or errour, we ought surely to consider how
much we have countenanced or promoted it. We see multitudes busy in the
pursuit of riches, at the expense of wisdom and of virtue; but we see the
rest of mankind approving their conduct, and inciting their eagerness, by
paying that regard and deference to wealth, which wisdom and virtue only
can deserve. We see women universally jealous of the reputation of their
beauty, and frequently look with contempt on the care with which they
study their complexions, endeavour to preserve or to supply the bloom
of youth, regulate every ornament, twist their hair into curls, and
shade their faces from the weather. We recommend the care of their nobler
part, and tell them how little addition is made by all their arts to
the graces of the mind. But when was it known that female goodness or
knowledge was able to attract that officiousness, or inspire that ardour,
which beauty produces whenever it appears? And with what hope can we
endeavour to persuade the ladies, that the time spent at the toilet is
lost in vanity, when they have every moment some new conviction, that
their interest is more effectually promoted by a riband well disposed,
than by the brightest act of heroick virtue?

In every instance of vanity it will be found that the blame ought to
be shared among more than it generally reaches; all who exalt trifles
by immoderate praise, or instigate needless emulation by invidious
incitements, are to be considered as perverters of reason, and corrupters
of the world: and since every man is obliged to promote happiness and
virtue, he should be careful not to mislead unwary minds, by appearing to
set too high a value upon things by which no real excellence is conferred.




No. 67. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 1750.


Αι δ' ελπιδες βοσκουσι φυγαδας, ὡς λογος
Καλοις βλεπουσι γ' ομμασιν, μελλουσι δε.
EURIP. Phœn. 407.

Exiles, the proverb says, subsist on hope,
Delusive hope still points to distant good,
To good that mocks approach.


There is no temper so generally indulged as hope: other passions operate
by starts on particular occasions, or in certain parts of life; but hope
begins with the first power of comparing our actual with our possible
state, and attends us through every stage and period, always urging us
forward to new acquisitions, and holding out some distant blessing to our
view, promising us either relief from pain, or increase of happiness.

Hope is necessary in every condition. The miseries of poverty, of
sickness, of captivity, would, without this comfort, be insupportable;
nor does it appear that the happiest lot of terrestrial existence can set
us above the want of this general blessing; or that life, when the gifts
of nature and of fortune are accumulated upon it, would not still be
wretched, were it not elevated and delighted by the expectation of some
new possession, of some enjoyment yet behind, by which the wish shall be
at last satisfied, and the heart filled up to its utmost extent.

Hope, is indeed, very fallacious, and promises what it seldom gives; but
its promises are more valuable than the gifts of fortune, and it seldom
frustrates us without assuring us of recompensing the delay by a greater
bounty.

I was musing on this strange inclination which every man feels to deceive
himself, and considering the advantages and dangers proceeding from this
gay prospect of futurity, when, falling asleep, on a sudden I found myself
placed in a garden, of which my sight could descry no limits. Every scene
about me was gay and gladsome, light with sunshine, and fragrant with
perfumes; the ground was painted with all the variety of spring, and all
the choir of nature was singing in the groves. When I had recovered from
the first raptures, with which the confusion of pleasure had for a time
entranced me, I began to take a particular and deliberate view of this
delightful region. I then perceived that I had yet higher gratifications
to expect, and that, at a small distance from me, there were brighter
flowers, clearer fountains, and more lofty groves, where the birds, which
I yet heard but faintly, were exerting all the power of melody. The trees
about me were beautiful with verdure, and fragrant with blossoms; but I
was tempted to leave them by the sight of ripe fruits, which seemed to
hang only to be plucked. I therefore walked hastily forwards, but found,
as I proceeded, that the colours of the field faded at my approach, the
fruit fell before I reached it, the birds flew still singing before me,
and though I pressed onward with great celerity, I was still in sight
of pleasures of which I could not yet gain the possession, and which
seemed to mock my diligence, and to retire as I advanced.

Though I was confounded with so many alternations of joy and grief, I yet
persisted to go forward, in hopes that these fugitive delights would in
time be overtaken. At length I saw an innumerable multitude of every age
and sex, who seemed all to partake of some general felicity; for every
cheek was flushed with confidence, and every eye sparkled with eagerness:
yet each appeared to have some particular and secret pleasure, and very
few were willing to communicate their intentions, or extend their concern
beyond themselves. Most of them seemed, by the rapidity of their motion,
too busy to gratify the curiosity of a stranger, and therefore I was
content for a while to gaze upon them, without interrupting them with
troublesome inquiries. At last I observed one man worn with time, and
unable to struggle in the crowd; and, therefore, supposing him more at
leisure, I began to accost him: but he turned from me with anger, and
told me he must not be disturbed, for the great hour of projection was
now come when Mercury should lose his wings, and slavery should no longer
dig the mine for gold.

I left him, and attempted another, whose softness of mien, and easy
movement, gave me reason to hope for a more agreeable reception; but he
told me, with a low bow, that nothing would make him more happy than an
opportunity of serving me, which he could not now want, for a place which
he had been twenty years soliciting would be soon vacant. From him I had
recourse to the next, who was departing in haste to take possession of
the estate of an uncle, who by the course of nature could not live long.
He that followed was preparing to dive for treasure in a new-invented
bell; and another was on the point of discovering the longitude.

Being thus rejected wheresoever I applied myself for information, I
began to imagine it best to desist from inquiry, and try what my own
observation would discover: but seeing a young man, gay and thoughtless,
I resolved upon one more experiment, and was informed that I was in the
garden of Hope, and daughter of Desire, and that all those whom I saw
thus tumultuously bustling round me were incited by the promises of Hope,
and hastening to seize the gifts which she held in her hand.

I turned my sight upward, and saw a goddess in the bloom of youth sitting
on a throne: around her lay all the gifts of fortune, and all the
blessings of life were spread abroad to view; she had a perpetual gaiety
of aspect, and every one imagined that her smile, which was impartial and
general, was directed to himself, and triumphed in his own superiority to
others, who had conceived the same confidence from the same mistake.

I then mounted an eminence, from which I had a more extensive view of
the whole place, and could with less perplexity consider the different
conduct of the crowds that filled it. From this station I observed,
that the entrance into the garden of Hope was by two gates, one of
which was kept by Reason, and the other by Fancy. Reason was surly and
scrupulous, and seldom turned the key without many interrogatories,
and long hesitation; but Fancy was a kind and gentle portress, she held
her gate wide open, and welcomed all equally to the district under her
superintendency; so that the passage was crowded by all those who either
feared the examination of Reason, or had been rejected by her.

From the gate of Reason there was a way to the throne of Hope, by a
craggy, slippery and winding path, called the _Streight of Difficulty_,
which those who entered with the permission of the guard endeavoured
to climb. But though they surveyed the way very carefully before they
began to rise, and marked out the several stages of their progress, they
commonly found unexpected obstacles, and were obliged frequently to stop
on the sudden, where they imagined the way plain and even. A thousand
intricacies embarrassed them, a thousand slips threw them back, and a
thousand pitfalls impeded their advance. So formidable were the dangers,
and so frequent the miscarriages, that many returned from the first
attempt, and many fainted in the midst of the way, and only a very small
number were led up to the summit of Hope, by the hand of Fortitude. Of
these few the greater part, when they had obtained the gift which Hope
had promised them, regretted the labour which it cost, and felt in their
success the regret of disappointment; the rest retired with their prize,
and were led by Wisdom to the bowers of Content.

Turning then towards the gate of Fancy, I could find no way to the seat
of Hope; but though she sat full in view, and held out her gifts with an
air of invitation, which filled every heart with rapture, the mountain
was, on that side, inaccessibly steep, but so channelled and shaded,
that none perceived the impossibility of ascending it, but each imagined
himself to have discovered a way to which the rest were strangers. Many
expedients were indeed tried by this industrious tribe, of whom some were
making themselves wings, which others were contriving to actuate by the
perpetual motion. But with all their labour, and all their artifices,
they never rose above the ground, or quickly fell back, nor ever
approached the throne of Hope, but continued still to gaze at a distance,
and laughed at the slow progress of those whom they saw toiling in the
_Streight of Difficulty_.

Part of the favourites of Fancy, when they had entered the garden,
without making, like the rest, an attempt to climb the mountain, turned
immediately to the vale of Idleness, a calm and undisturbed retirement,
from whence they could always have Hope in prospect, and to which they
pleased themselves with believing that she intended speedily to descend.
These were indeed scorned by all the rest; but they seemed very little
affected by contempt, advice, or reproof, but were resolved to expect at
ease the favour of the goddess.

Among this gay race I was wandering, and found them ready to answer all
my questions, and willing to communicate their mirth; but turning round,
I saw two dreadful monsters entering the vale, one of whom I knew to be
Age, and the other Want. Sport and revelling were now at an end, and an
universal shriek of affright and distress burst out and awaked me.




No. 68. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1750.


_Vivendum recte est, cum propter plurima, tum his_
_Præcipæ causis, ut linguas mancipiorum_
_Contemnas.