No More Learning

442
95. The history of Pertinax the sceptick. 449
96. Truth, Falsehood, and Fiction; an allegory. 453
97. Advice to unmarried ladies. 458
98. The necessity of cultivating politeness. 464
99. The pleasures of private friendship.
The necessity of similar dispositions. 468
100. Modish pleasures. 472
101. A proper audience necessary to a wit. 476
102. The voyage of life. 481
103. The prevalence of curiosity. The character of Nugaculus. 486
104. The original of flattery. The meanness of venal praise. 491
105. The universal register; a dream. 495




THE RAMBLER.




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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Go now, and meditate thy tuneful lays.
ELPHINSTON.

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

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




No. 3. TUESDAY, MARCH 27, 1750.


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




No. 4. SATURDAY, MARCH 31, 1750.


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

And join both profit and delight in one.
CREECH.


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

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

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

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

The task of our present writers is very different; it requires, together
with that learning which is to be gained from books, that experience which
can never be attained by solitary diligence, but must arise from general
converse and accurate observation of the living world. Their performances
have, as Horace expresses it, _plus oneris quantum veniæ minus_, little
indulgence, and therefore more difficulty. They are engaged in portraits
of which every one knows the original, and can detect any deviation
from exactness of resemblance. Other writings are safe, except from the
malice of learning, but these are in danger from every common reader;
as the slipper ill executed was censured by a shoemaker who happened to
stop in his way at the Venus of Apelles.

But the fear of not being approved as just copiers of human manners,
is not the most important concern that an author of this sort ought
to have before him. These books are written chiefly to the young, the
ignorant, and the idle, to whom they serve as lectures of conduct, and
introductions into life. They are the entertainment of minds unfurnished
with ideas, and therefore easily susceptible of impressions; not fixed
by principles, and therefore easily following the current of fancy; not
informed by experience, and consequently open to every false suggestion
and partial account.

That the highest degree of reverence should be paid to youth, and that
nothing indecent should be suffered to approach their eyes or ears,
are precepts extorted by sense and virtue from an ancient writer, by
no means eminent for chastity of thought. The same kind, though not
the same degree, of caution, is required in every thing which is laid
before them, to secure them from unjust prejudices, perverse opinions,
and incongruous combinations of images.

In the romances formerly written, every transaction and sentiment was so
remote from all that passes among men, that the reader was in very little
danger of making any applications to himself; the virtues and crimes
were equally beyond his sphere of activity; and he amused himself with
heroes and with traitors, deliverers and persecutors, as with beings of
another species, whose actions were regulated upon motives of their own,
and who had neither faults nor excellencies in common with himself.

But when an adventurer is levelled with the rest of the world, and acts
in such scenes of the universal drama, as may be the lot of any other man;
young spectators fix their eyes upon him with closer attention, and hope,
by observing his behaviour and success, to regulate their own practices,
when they shall be engaged in the like part.

For this reason these familiar histories may perhaps be made of greater
use than the solemnities of professed morality, and convey the knowledge
of vice and virtue with more efficacy than axioms and definitions.
But if
the power of example is so great as to take possession of the memory by a
kind of violence, and produce effects almost without the intervention of
the will, care ought to be taken, that, when the choice is unrestrained,
the best examples only should be exhibited; and that which is likely
to operate so strongly, should not be mischievous or uncertain in its
effects.

The chief advantage which these fictions have over real life is, that
their authors are at liberty, though not to invent, yet to select objects,
and to cull from the mass of mankind, those individuals upon which the
attention ought most to be employed; as a diamond, though it cannot be
made, may be polished by art, and placed in such a situation, as to
display that lustre which before was buried among common stones.

It is justly considered as the greatest excellency of art, to imitate
nature; but it is necessary to distinguish those parts of nature,
which are most proper for imitation: greater care is still required in
representing life, which is so often discoloured by passion, or deformed
by wickedness. If the world be promiscuously described, I cannot see
of what use it can be to read the account; or why it may not be as safe
to turn the eye immediately upon mankind as upon a mirrour which shews
all that presents itself without discrimination.

It is therefore not a sufficient vindication of a character, that it is
drawn as it appears; for many characters ought never to be drawn: nor
of a narrative, that the train of events is agreeable to observation and
experience; for that observation which is called knowledge of the world,
will be found much more frequently to make men cunning than good. The
purpose of these writings is surely not only to shew mankind, but to
provide that they may be seen hereafter with less hazard; to teach the
means of avoiding the snares which are laid by Treachery for Innocence,
without infusing any wish for that superiority with which the betrayer
flatters his vanity; to give the power of counteracting fraud, without
the temptation to practise it; to initiate youth by mock encounters in
the art of necessary defence, and to increase prudence without impairing
virtue.

Many writers, for the sake of following nature, so mingle good and bad
qualities in their principal personages, that they are both equally
conspicuous; and as we accompany them through their adventures with
delight, and are led by degrees to interest ourselves in their favour,
we lose the abhorrence of their faults, because they do not hinder our
pleasure, or, perhaps, regard them with some kindness, for being united
with so much merit.

There have been men indeed splendidly wicked, whose endowments threw a
brightness on their crimes, and whom scarce any villany made perfectly
detestable, because they never could be wholly divested of their
excellencies; but such have been in all ages the great corrupters of
the world, and their resemblance ought no more to be preserved, than
the art of murdering without pain.

Some have advanced, without due attention to the consequences of
this notion, that certain virtues have their correspondent faults,
and therefore that to exhibit either apart is to deviate from
probability. Thus men are observed by Swift to be "grateful in the same
degree as they are resentful. " This principle, with others of the same
kind, supposes man to act from a brute impulse, and pursue a certain
degree of inclination, without any choice of the object; for, otherwise,
though it should be allowed that gratitude and resentment arise from
the same constitution of the passions, it follows not that they will be
equally indulged when reason is consulted; yet, unless that consequence
be admitted, this sagacious maxim becomes an empty sound, without any
relation to practice or to life.

Nor is it evident, that even the first motions to these effects are
always in the same proportion. For pride, which produces quickness of
resentment, will obstruct gratitude, by unwillingness to admit that
inferiority which obligation implies; and it is very unlikely that he
who cannot think he receives a favour, will acknowledge or repay it.
It is of the utmost importance to mankind, that positions of this tendency
should be laid open and confuted; for while men consider good and evil
as springing from the same root, they will spare the one for the sake of
the other, and in judging, if not of others at least of themselves, will
be apt to estimate their virtues by their vices. To this fatal errour all
those will contribute, who confound the colours of right and wrong, and,
instead of helping to settle their boundaries, mix them with so much art,
that no common mind is able to disunite them.

In narratives where historical veracity has no place, I cannot discover
why there should not be exhibited the most perfect idea of virtue; of
virtue not angelical, nor above probability, for what we cannot credit,
we shall never imitate, but the highest and purest that humanity can
reach, which, exercised in such trials as the various revolutions of
things shall bring upon it, may, by conquering some calamities, and
enduring others, teach us what we may hope, and what we can perform. Vice,
for vice is necessary to be shewn, should always disgust; nor should
the graces of gaiety, or the dignity of courage, be so united with it,
as to reconcile it to the mind. Wherever it appears, it should raise
hatred by the malignity of its practices, and contempt by the meanness
of its stratagems: for while it is supported by either parts or spirit,
it will be seldom heartily abhorred. The Roman tyrant was content to
be hated, if he was but feared; and there are thousands of the readers
of romances willing to be thought wicked, if they may be allowed to
be wits. It is therefore to be steadily inculcated, that virtue is the
highest proof of understanding, and the only solid basis of greatness;
and that vice is the natural consequence of narrow thoughts; that it
begins in mistake, and ends in ignominy[33].

[Footnote 33: This excellent paper was occasioned by the popularity of
Roderick Random, and Tom Jones, which appeared about this time, and have
been the models of that species of romance, now known by the more common
name of _Novel_. --C. ]




No. 5. TUESDAY, APRIL 3, 1750.


_Et nunc omnis ager, nunc omnis parturit arbos:_
_Nunc frondent silvæ: nunc formosissimus annus. _
VIRG. Ec. iii. v. 56.

Now ev'ry field, now ev'ry tree is green;
Now genial Nature's fairest face is seen.
ELPHINSTON.


Every man is sufficiently discontented with some circumstances of his
present state, to suffer his imagination to range more or less in quest
of future happiness, and to fix upon some point of time, in which, by
the removal of the inconvenience which now perplexes him, or acquisition
of the advantage which he at present wants, he shall find the condition
of his life very much improved.

When this time, which is too often expected with great impatience,
at last arrives, it generally comes without the blessing for which it
was desired; but we solace ourselves with some new prospect, and press
forward again with equal eagerness.

It is lucky for a man, in whom this temper prevails, when he turns his
hopes upon things wholly out of his own power; since he forbears then
to precipitate his affairs, for the sake of the great event that is to
complete his felicity, and waits for the blissful hour with less neglect
of the measures necessary to be taken in the mean time.

I have long known a person of this temper, who indulged his dream of
happiness with less hurt to himself than such chimerical wishes commonly
produce, and adjusted his scheme with such address, that his hopes were
in full bloom three parts of the year, and in the other part never
wholly blasted. Many, perhaps, would be desirous of learning by what
means he procured to himself such a cheap and lasting satisfaction. It
was gained by a constant practice of referring the removal of all his
uneasiness to the coming of the next spring; if his health was impaired,
the spring would restore it; if what he wanted was at a high price,
it would fall its value in the spring.

The spring indeed did often come without any of these effects, but he
was always certain that the next would be more propitious; nor was ever
convinced, that the present spring would fail him before the middle of
summer; for he always talked of the spring as coming till it was past,
and when it was once past, every one agreed with him that it was coming.

By long converse with this man, I am, perhaps, brought to feel immoderate
pleasure in the contemplation of this delightful season; but I have
the satisfaction of finding many whom it can be no shame to resemble,
infected with the same enthusiasm; for there is, I believe, scarce any
poet of eminence, who has not left some testimony of his fondness for the
flowers, the zephyrs, and the warblers of the spring. Nor has the most
luxuriant imagination been able to describe the serenity and happiness
of the golden age, otherwise than by giving a perpetual spring, as the
highest reward of uncorrupted innocence.

There is, indeed, something inexpressibly pleasing in the annual
renovation of the world, and the new display of the treasures of
nature. The cold and darkness of winter, with the naked deformity of
every object on which we turn our eyes, make us rejoice at the succeeding
season, as well for what we have escaped as for what we may enjoy;
and every budding flower, which a warm situation brings early to our
view, is considered by us as a messenger to notify the approach of more
joyous days.

The spring affords to a mind, so free from the disturbance of cares or
passions as to be vacant to calm amusements, almost every thing that
our present state makes us capable of enjoying. The variegated verdure
of the fields and woods, the succession of grateful odours, the voice
of pleasure pouring out its notes on every side, with the gladness
apparently conceived by every animal, from the growth of his food, and
the clemency of the weather, throw over the whole earth an air of gaiety,
significantly expressed by the smile of nature.

Yet there are men to whom these scenes are able to give no delight,
and who hurry away from all the varieties of rural beauty, to lose their
hours and divert their thoughts by cards or assemblies, a tavern dinner,
or the prattle of the day.

It may be laid down as a position which will seldom deceive, that when
a man cannot bear his own company, there is something wrong. He must
fly from himself, either because he feels a tediousness in life from the
equipoise of an empty mind, which, having no tendency to one motion more
than another, but as it is impelled by some external power, must always
have recourse to foreign objects; or he must be afraid of the intrusion
of some unpleasing ideas, and perhaps is struggling to escape from the
remembrance of a loss, the fear of a calamity, or some other thought of
greater horrour.

Those whom sorrow incapacitates to enjoy the pleasures of contemplation,
may properly apply to such diversions, provided they are innocent, as
lay strong hold on the attention; and those, whom fear of any future
affliction chains down to misery, must endeavour to obviate the danger.

My considerations shall, on this occasion, be turned on such as
are burthensome to themselves merely because they want subjects for
reflection, and to whom the volume of nature is thrown open without
affording them pleasure or instruction, because they never learned to
read the characters.

A French author has advanced this seeming paradox, that _very few men
know how to take a walk_; and, indeed, it is true, that few know how to
take a walk with a prospect of any other pleasure, than the same company
would have afforded them at home.

There are animals that borrow their colour from the neighbouring body,
and consequently vary their hue as they happen to change their place.
In like manner it ought to be the endeavour of every man to derive his
reflections from the objects about him; for it is to no purpose that
he alters his position, if his attention continues fixed to the same
point. The mind should be kept open to the access of every new idea,
and so far disengaged from the predominance of particular thoughts,
as easily to accommodate itself to occasional entertainment.

A man that has formed this habit of turning every new object to his
entertainment, finds in the productions of nature an inexhaustible stock
of materials upon which he can employ himself, without any temptations to
envy or malevolence; faults, perhaps, seldom totally avoided by those,
whose judgment is much exercised upon the works of art. He has always
a certain prospect of discovering new reasons for adoring the sovereign
Author of the universe, and probable hopes of making some discovery of
benefit to others, or of profit to himself. There is no doubt but many
vegetables and animals have qualities that might be of great use, to the
knowledge of which there is not required much force of penetration, or
fatigue of study, but only frequent experiments, and close attention.
What is said by the chemists of their darling mercury, is, perhaps,
true of every body through the whole creation, that if a thousand lives
should be spent upon it, all its properties would not be found out.

Mankind must necessarily be diversified by various tastes, since life
affords and requires such multiplicity of employments, and a nation of
naturalists is neither to be hoped, nor desired; but it is surely not
improper to point out a fresh amusement to those who languish in health,
and repine in plenty, for want of some source of diversion that may
be less easily exhausted, and to inform the multitudes of both sexes,
who are burdened with every new day, that there are many shows which
they have not seen.

He that enlarges his curiosity after the works of nature, demonstrably
multiplies the inlets to happiness; and, therefore, the younger part
of my readers, to whom I dedicate this vernal speculation, must excuse
me for calling upon them, to make use at once of the spring of the year,
and the spring of life; to acquire, while their minds may be yet impressed
with new images, a love of innocent pleasures, and an ardour for useful
knowledge; and to remember, that a blighted spring makes a barren year,
and that the vernal flowers, however beautiful and gay, are only intended
by nature as preparatives to autumnal fruits.




No. 6. SATURDAY, APRIL 7, 1750.


_Strenua nos exercet inertia, navibus atque_
_Quadrigis petimus bene vicere: quod petis, hic est;_
_Est Ulubris, animus si te non deficit æquus. _
HOR. Ep. xi. lib. i.

Active in indolence, abroad we roam
In quest of happiness which dwells at home:
With vain pursuits fatigu'd, at length you'll find,
No place excludes it from an equal mind.
ELPHINSTON.


That man should never suffer his happiness to depend upon external
circumstances, is one of the chief precepts of the Stoical philosophy; a
precept, indeed, which that lofty sect has extended beyond the condition
of human life, and in which some of them seem to have comprised an
utter exclusion of all corporal pain and pleasure from the regard or
attention of a wise man.

Such _sapientia insaniens_, as Horace calls the doctrine of another sect,
such extravagance of philosophy, can want neither authority nor argument
for its confutation; it is overthrown by the experience of every hour,
and the powers of nature rise up against it. But we may very properly
inquire, how near to this exalted state it is in our power to approach,
how far we can exempt ourselves from outward influences, and secure to
our minds a state of tranquillity: for, though the boast of absolute
independence is ridiculous and vain, yet a mean flexibility to every
impulse, and a patient submission to the tyranny of casual troubles,
is below the dignity of that mind, which, however depraved or weakened,
boasts its derivation from a celestial original, and hopes for an union
with infinite goodness, and unvariable felicity.

_Ni vitiis pejora fovens_
_Proprium deserat ortum. _

Unless the soul, to vice a thrall,
Desert her own original.

The necessity of erecting ourselves to some degree of intellectual
dignity, and of preserving resources of pleasure, which may not be
wholly at the mercy of accident, is never more apparent than when we turn
our eyes upon those whom fortune has let loose to their own conduct;
who, not being chained down by their condition to a regular and stated
allotment of their hours, are obliged to find themselves business or
diversion, and having nothing within that can entertain or employ them,
are compelled to try all the arts of destroying time.

The numberless expedients practised by this class of mortals to alleviate
the burthen of life, are not less shameful, nor, perhaps, much less
pitiable, than those to which a trader on the edge of bankruptcy
is reduced. I have seen melancholy overspread a whole family at the
disappointment of a party for cards; and when, after the proposal of a
thousand schemes, and the dispatch of the footman upon a hundred messages,
they have submitted, with gloomy resignation, to the misfortune of passing
one evening in conversation with each other; on a sudden, such are the
revolutions of the world, an unexpected visitor has brought them relief,
acceptable as provision to a starving city, and enabled them to hold
out till the next day.

The general remedy of those, who are uneasy without knowing the cause,
is change of place; they are willing to imagine that their pain is
the consequence of some local inconvenience, and endeavour to fly
from it, as children from their shadows; always hoping for some more
satisfactory delight from every new scene, and always returning home
with disappointment and complaints.

Who can look upon this kind of infatuation, without reflecting on those
that suffer under the dreadful symptom of canine madness, termed by
physicians the _dread of water_? These miserable wretches, unable to
drink, though burning with thirst, are sometimes known to try various
contortions, or inclinations of the body, flattering themselves that
they can swallow in one posture that liquor which they find in another
to repel their lips.

Yet such folly is not peculiar to the thoughtless or ignorant, but
sometimes seizes those minds which seem most exempted from it, by the
variety of attainments, quickness of penetration, or severity of judgment;
and, indeed, the pride of wit and knowledge is often mortified by
finding that they confer no security against the common errours, which
mislead the weakest and meanest of mankind.

These reflections arose in my mind upon the remembrance of a passage
in Cowley's preface to his poems, where, however exalted by genius,
and enlarged by study, he informs us of a scheme of happiness to which
the imagination of a girl upon the loss of her first lover could have
scarcely given way; but which he seems to have indulged, till he had
totally forgotten its absurdity, and would probably have put in execution,
had he been hindered only by his reason.

"My desire," says he, "has been for some years past, though the execution
has been accidentally diverted, and does still vehemently continue, to
retire myself to some of our American plantations, not to seek for gold,
or enrich myself with the traffick of those parts, which is the end of
most men that travel thither; but to forsake this world for ever, with all
the vanities and vexations of it, and to bury myself there in some obscure
retreat, but not without the consolation of letters and philosophy. "

Such was the chimerical provision which Cowley had made in his own mind,
for the quiet of his remaining life, and which he seems to recommend
to posterity, since there is no other reason for disclosing it. Surely
no stronger instance can be given of a persuasion that content was
the inhabitant of particular regions, and that a man might set sail
with a fair wind, and leave behind him all his cares, incumbrances,
and calamities.

If he travelled so far with no other purpose than to _bury himself
in some obscure retreat_, he might have found, in his own country,
innumerable coverts sufficiently dark to have concealed the genius of
Cowley; for whatever might be his opinion of the importunity with which
he might be summoned back into publick life, a short experience would
have convinced him, that privation is easier than acquisition, and that
it would require little continuance to free himself from the intrusion
of the world. There is pride enough in the human heart to prevent much
desire of acquaintance with a man, by whom we are sure to be neglected,
however his reputation for science or virtue may excite our curiosity
or esteem; so that the lover of retirement needs not be afraid lest the
respect of strangers should overwhelm him with visits. Even those to whom
he has formerly been known, will very patiently support his absence when
they have tried a little to live without him, and found new diversions
for those moments which his company contributed to exhilarate.

It was, perhaps, ordained by Providence, to hinder us from tyrannizing
over one another, that no individual should be of such importance, as to
cause, by his retirement or death, any chasm in the world. And Cowley had
conversed to little purpose with mankind, if he had never remarked, how
soon the useful friend, the gay companion, and the favoured lover, when
once they are removed from before the sight, give way to the succession
of new objects.

The privacy, therefore, of his hermitage might have been safe enough
from violation, though he had chosen it within the limits of his native
island; he might have found here preservatives against the _vanities_
and _vexations_ of the world, not less efficacious than those which
the woods or fields of America could afford him: but having once his
mind imbittered with disgust, he conceived it impossible to be far
enough from the cause of his uneasiness; and was posting away with the
expedition of a coward, who, for want of venturing to look behind him,
thinks the enemy perpetually at his heels.

When he was interrupted by company, or fatigued with business, he
so strongly imaged to himself the happiness of leisure and retreat,
that he determined to enjoy them for the future without interruption,
and to exclude for ever all that could deprive him of his darling
satisfactions. He forgot, in the vehemence of desire, that solitude and
quiet owe their pleasures to those miseries, which he was so studious
to obviate: for such are the vicissitudes of the world, through all
its parts, that day and night, labour and rest, hurry and retirement,
endear each other; such are the changes that keep the mind in action;
we desire, we pursue, we obtain, we are satiated; we desire something
else, and begin a new pursuit.

If he had proceeded in his project, and fixed his habitation in the most
delightful part of the new world, it may be doubted, whether his distance
from the _vanities_ of life, would have enabled him to keep away the
_vexations_. It is common for a man, who feels pain, to fancy that he
could bear it better in any other part. Cowley having known the troubles
and perplexities of a particular condition, readily persuaded himself
that nothing worse was to be found, and that every alteration would bring
some improvement: he never suspected that the cause of his unhappiness
was within, that his own passions were not sufficiently regulated, and
that he was harassed by his own impatience, which could never be without
something to awaken it, would accompany him over the sea, and find its
way to his American elysium. He would, upon the trial, have been soon
convinced, that the fountain of content must spring up in the mind: and
that he who has so little knowledge of human nature, as to seek happiness
by changing any thing but his own dispositions, will waste his life in
fruitless efforts, and multiply the griefs which he purposes to remove[34].

[Footnote 34: See Dr. Johnson's Life of Cowley. ]




No. 7. TUESDAY, APRIL 10, 1750.


_O qui perpetuâ mundum ratione gubernas,_
_Terrarum cœlique sator! ----_
_Disjice terrenæ nebulas et pondera molis,_
_Atque tuo splendore mica! Tu namque serenum,_
_Tu requies tranquilla piis. Te cernere, finis,_
_Principium, vector, dux, semila, terminus idem. _
BOETHIUS, lib. iii. Metr. 9.

O Thou, whose pow'r o'er moving worlds presides,
Whose voice created, and whose wisdom guides,
On darkling man in pure effulgence shine,
And cheer the clouded mind with light divine.
'Tis thine alone to calm the pious breast
With silent confidence and holy rest:
From thee, great God, we spring, to thee we tend,
Path, motive, guide, original, and end.
JOHNSON.


The love of Retirement has, in all ages, adhered closely to those minds,
which have been most enlarged by knowledge, or elevated by genius. Those
who have enjoyed every thing generally supposed to confer happiness,
have been forced to seek it in the shades of privacy. Though they
possessed both power and riches, and were, therefore, surrounded by men
who considered it as their chief interest to remove from them every thing
that might offend their ease, or interrupt their pleasure, they have soon
felt the languors of satiety, and found themselves unable to pursue the
race of life without frequent respirations of intermediate solitude.

To produce this disposition, nothing appears requisite but a quick
sensibility, and active imagination; for, though not devoted to virtue,
or science, the man, whose faculties enable him to make ready comparisons
of the present with the past, will find such a constant recurrence of the
same pleasures and troubles, the same expectations and disappointments,
that he will gladly snatch an hour of retreat, to let his thoughts
expatiate at large, and seek for that variety in his own ideas, which
the objects of sense cannot afford him.

Nor will greatness, or abundance, exempt him from the importunities of
this desire, since, if he is born to think, he cannot restrain himself
from a thousand inquiries and speculations, which he must pursue by his
own reason, and which the splendour of his condition can only hinder:
for those who are most exalted above dependance or controul, are yet
condemned to pay so large a tribute of their time to custom, ceremony,
and popularity, that, according to the Greek proverb, no man in the
house is more a slave than the master.

When a king asked Euclid, the mathematician, whether he could not
explain his art to him in a more compendious manner? he was answered,
that there was no royal way to geometry. Other things may be seized by
might, or purchased with money, but knowledge is to be gained only by
study, and study to be prosecuted only in retirement.

These are some of the motives which have had power to sequester kings and
heroes from the crowds that soothed them with flatteries, or inspirited
them with acclamations; but their efficacy seems confined to the higher
mind, and to operate little upon the common classes of mankind, to whose
conceptions the present assemblage of things is adequate, and who seldom
range beyond those entertainments and vexations, which solicit their
attention by pressing on their senses.

But there is an universal reason for some stated intervals of solitude,
which the institutions of the church call upon me now especially to
mention; a reason which extends as wide as moral duty, or the hopes of
divine favour in a future state; and which ought to influence all ranks
of life, and all degrees of intellect; since none can imagine themselves
not comprehended in its obligation, but such as determine to set their
Maker at defiance by obstinate wickedness, or whose enthusiastick security
of his approbation places them above external ordinances, and all human
means of improvement.

The great task of him who conducts his life by the precepts of religion,
is to make the future predominate over the present, to impress upon his
mind so strong a sense of the importance of obedience to the divine will,
of the value of the reward promised to virtue, and the terrours of the
punishment denounced against crimes, as may overbear all the temptations
which temporal hope or fear can bring in his way, and enable him to
bid equal defiance to joy and sorrow, to turn away at one time from
the allurements of ambition, and push forward at another against the
threats of calamity.

It is not without reason that the apostle represents our passage through
this stage of our existence by images drawn from the alarms and solicitude
of a military life; for we are placed in such a state, that almost every
thing about us conspires against our chief interest. We are in danger
from whatever can get possession of our thoughts; all that can excite
in us either pain or pleasure, has a tendency to obstruct the way that
leads to happiness, and either to turn us aside, or retard our progress.

Our senses, our appetites, and our passions, are our lawful and faithful
guides, in most things that relate solely to this life; and, therefore,
by the hourly necessity of consulting them, we gradually sink into an
implicit submission, and habitual confidence. Every act of compliance
with their motions facilitates a second compliance, every new step
towards depravity is made with less reluctance than the former, and thus
the descent to life merely sensual is perpetually accelerated.

The senses have not only that advantage over conscience, which things
necessary must always have over things chosen, but they have likewise a
kind of prescription in their favour. We feared pain much earlier than
we apprehended guilt, and were delighted with the sensations of pleasure,
before we had capacities to be charmed with the beauty of rectitude. To
this power, thus early established, and incessantly increasing, it
must be remembered that almost every man has, in some part of his life,
added new strength by a voluntary or negligent subjection of himself;
for who is there that has not instigated his appetites by indulgence,
or suffered them, by an unresisting neutrality, to enlarge their
dominion, and multiply their demands?

From the necessity of dispossessing the sensitive faculties of the
influence which they must naturally gain by this pre-occupation of
the soul, arises that conflict between opposite desires in the first
endeavours after a religious life; which, however enthusiastically it may
have been described, or however contemptuously ridiculed, will naturally
be felt in some degree, though varied without end, by different tempers
of mind, and innumerable circumstances of health or condition, greater
or less fervour, more or fewer temptations to relapse.

From the perpetual necessity of consulting the animal faculties, in our
provision for the present life, arises the difficulty of withstanding
their impulses, even in cases where they ought to be of no weight; for
the motions of sense are instantaneous, its objects strike unsought,
we are accustomed to follow its directions, and therefore often submit
to the sentence without examining the authority of the judge.

Thus it appears, upon a philosophical estimate, that, supposing the mind,
at any certain time, in an equipois between the pleasures of this life,
and the hopes of futurity, present objects falling more frequently
into the scale, would in time preponderate, and that our regard for an
invisible state would grow every moment weaker, till at last it would
lose all its activity, and become absolutely without effect.

To prevent this dreadful event, the balance is put into our own hands,
and we have power to transfer the weight to either side. The motives to
a life of holiness are infinite, not less than the favour or anger of
Omnipotence, not less than eternity of happiness or misery. But these can
only influence our conduct as they gain our attention, which the business
or diversions of the world are always calling off by contrary attractions.

The great art therefore of piety, and the end for which all the rites
of religion seem to be instituted, is the perpetual renovation of
the motives to virtue, by a voluntary employment of our mind in the
contemplation of its excellence, its importance, and its necessity, which,
in proportion as they are more frequently and more willingly revolved,
gain a more forcible and permanent influence, till in time they become
the reigning ideas, the standing principles of action, and the test by
which every thing proposed to the judgment is rejected or approved.

To facilitate this change of our affections, it is necessary that we
weaken the temptations of the world, by retiring at certain seasons from
it; for its influence, arising only from its presence, is much lessened
when it becomes the object of solitary meditation. A constant residence
amidst noise and pleasure, inevitably obliterates the impressions of
piety, and a frequent abstraction of ourselves into a state, where this
life, like the next, operates only upon the reason, will reinstate
religion in its just authority, even without those irradiations from
above, the hope of which I have no intention to withdraw from the sincere
and the diligent.

This is that conquest of the world and of ourselves, which has been
always considered as the perfection of human nature; and this is only
to be obtained by fervent prayer, steady resolutions, and frequent
retirement from folly and vanity, from the cares of avarice, and the
joys of intemperance, from the lulling sounds of deceitful flattery,
and the tempting sight of prosperous wickedness.




No. 8. SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 1750.


_----Patitur pœnas peccandi sola voluntas;_
_Nam scelus intra se tacitum qui cogitat ullum,_
_Facti crimen habet. _
JUV. Sat. xiii. 208.

For he that but conceives a crime in thought,
Contracts the danger of an actual fault.
CREECH.


If the most active and industrious of mankind was able, at the close of
life, to recollect distinctly his past moments, and distribute them in a
regular account, according to the manner in which they have been spent,
it is scarcely to be imagined how few would be marked out to the mind,
by any permanent or visible effects, how small a proportion his real
action would bear to his seeming possibilities of action, how many chasms
he would find of wide and continued vacuity, and how many interstitial
spaces unfilled, even in the most tumultuous hurries of business, and
the most eager vehemence of pursuit.

It is said by modern philosophers, that not only the great globes
of matter are thinly scattered through the universe, but the hardest
bodies are so porous, that, if all matter were compressed to perfect
solidity, it might be contained in a cube of a few feet. In like manner,
if all the employments of life were crowded into the time which it really
occupied, perhaps a few weeks, days, or hours, would be sufficient for its
accomplishment, so far as the mind was engaged in the performance. For
such is the inequality of our corporeal to our intellectual faculties,
that we contrive in minutes what we execute in years, and the soul often
stands an idle spectator of the labour of the hands, and expedition of
the feet.

For this reason the ancient generals often found themselves at leisure to
pursue the study of philosophy in the camp; and Lucan, with historical
veracity, makes Cæsar relate of himself, that he noted the revolutions
of the stars in the midst of preparations for battle.

_----Media inter prœlia semper_
_Stellarum, cœlique plagis, superisque vacavi. _
LUCAN, l. x. 186.

Amid the storms of war, with curious eyes
I trace the planets and survey the skies.

That the soul always exerts her peculiar powers, with greater or less
force, is very probable, though the common occasions of our present
condition require but a small part of that incessant cogitation; and by
the natural frame of our bodies, and general combination of the world,
we are so frequently condemned to inactivity, that as though all our
time we are thinking, so for a great part of our time we can only think.

Lest a power so restless should be either unprofitably or hurtfully
employed, and the superfluities of intellect run to waste, it is no vain
speculation to consider how we may govern our thoughts, restrain them
from irregular motions, or confine them from boundless dissipation.

How the understanding is best conducted to the knowledge of science,
by what steps it is to be led forwards in its pursuit, how it is to be
cured of its defects, and habituated to new studies, has been the inquiry
of many acute and learned men, whose observations I shall not either
adopt or censure: my purpose being to consider the moral discipline of
the mind, and to promote the increase of virtue rather than of learning.

This inquiry seems to have been neglected for want of remembering, that
all action has its origin in the mind, and that therefore to suffer
the thoughts to be vitiated, is to poison the fountains of morality;
irregular desires will produce licentious practices; what men allow
themselves to wish they will soon believe, and will be at last incited
to execute what they please themselves with contriving.

For this reason the casuists of the Roman church, who gain, by confession,
great opportunities of knowing human nature, have generally determined
that what it is a crime to do, it is a crime to think[35]. Since by
revolving with pleasure the facility, safety, or advantage of a wicked
deed, a man soon begins to find his constancy relax, and his detestation
soften; the happiness of success glittering before him, withdraws his
attention from the atrociousness of the guilt, and acts are at last
confidently perpetrated, of which the first conception only crept into
the mind, disguised in pleasing complications, and permitted rather
than invited.

No man has ever been drawn to crimes by love or jealousy, envy or
hatred, but he can tell how easily he might at first have repelled the
temptation, how readily his mind would have obeyed a call to any other
object, and how weak his passion has been after some casual avocation,
till he has recalled it again to his heart, and revived the viper by
too warm a fondness.

Such, therefore, is the importance of keeping reason a constant guard
over imagination, that we have otherwise no security for our own virtue,
but may corrupt our hearts in the most recluse solitude, with more
pernicious and tyrannical appetites and wishes than the commerce of the
world will generally produce; for we are easily shocked by crimes which
appear at once in their full magnitude; but the gradual growth of our
own wickedness, endeared by interest, and palliated by all the artifices
of self-deceit, gives us time to form distinctions in our own favour,
and reason by degrees submits to absurdity, as the eye is in time
accommodated to darkness.

In this disease of the soul, it is of the utmost importance to apply
remedies at the beginning; and therefore I shall endeavour to shew what
thoughts are to be rejected or improved, as they regard the past, present,
or future; in hopes that some may be awakened to caution and vigilance,
who, perhaps, indulge themselves in dangerous dreams, so much the more
dangerous, because, being yet only dreams, they are concluded innocent.

The recollection of the past is only useful by way of provision for the
future; and, therefore, in reviewing all occurrences that fall under a
religious consideration, it is proper that a man stop at the first
thoughts, to remark how he was led thither, and why he continues the
reflection. If he is dwelling with delight upon a stratagem of successful
fraud, a night of licentious riot, or an intrigue of guilty pleasure,
let him summon off his imagination as from an unlawful pursuit, expel
those passages from his remembrance, of which, though he cannot seriously
approve them, the pleasure overpowers the guilt, and refer them to
a future hour, when they may be considered with greater safety. Such
an hour will certainly come; for the impressions of past pleasure are
always lessening, but the sense of guilt, which respects futurity,
continues the same.

The serious and impartial retrospect of our conduct, is indisputably
necessary to the confirmation or recovery of virtue, and is, therefore,
recommended under the name of self-examination, by divines, as the first
act previous to repentance. It is, indeed, of so great use, that without
it we should always be to begin life, be seduced for ever by the same
allurements, and misled by the same fallacies. But in order that we
may not lose the advantage of our experience, we must endeavour to see
every thing in its proper form, and excite in ourselves those sentiments,
which the great Author of nature has decreed the concomitants or followers
of good and bad actions.

Μηδ' ὑπνον μαλακοισιν επ' ομμασι προσδεξασθαι,
Πριν των ἡμερινων εργων τρις ἑκαστον επελθειν·
Πηι παρεβην; τι δ' ερεξα; τι μοι δεον ουκ ετελεσθη;
Αρξαμενος δ' απο πρωτου επεξιθι; και μετεπειτα,
Δειλα μεν εκπρηξας, επιπλησσεο, χρηστα δε, τερπου.

Let not sleep (says Pythagoras) fall upon thy eyes till thou
hast thrice reviewed the transactions of the past day. Where have
I turned aside from rectitude? What have I been doing? What have
I left undone, which I ought to have done? Begin thus from the
first act, and proceed; and in conclusion, at the ill which thou
hast done be troubled, and rejoice for the good.

Our thoughts on present things being determined by the objects before us,
fall not under those indulgences or excursions, which I am now considering.
But I cannot forbear, under this head, to caution pious and tender minds,
that are disturbed by the irruptions of wicked imaginations, against too
great dejection, and too anxious alarms; for thoughts are only criminal,
when they are first chosen, and then voluntarily continued.

Evil into the mind of God or man
May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave
No spot or stain behind.
MILTON.

In futurity chiefly are the snares lodged, by which the imagination
is entangled. Futurity is the proper abode of hope and fear, with all
their train and progeny of subordinate apprehensions and desires. In
futurity, events and chances are yet floating at large, without apparent
connexion with their causes, and we therefore easily indulge the liberty
of gratifying ourselves with a pleasing choice. To pick and cull among
possible advantages is, as the civil law terms it, _in vacuum venire_,
to take what belongs to nobody; but it has this hazard in it, that we
shall be unwilling to quit what we have seized, though an owner should be
found. It is easy to think on that which may be gained, till at last we
resolve to gain it, and to image the happiness of particular conditions,
till we can be easy in no other. We ought, at least, to let our desires
fix upon nothing in another's power for the sake of our quiet, or in
another's possession for the sake of our innocence. When a man finds
himself led, though by a train of honest sentiments, to wish for that to
which he has no right, he should start back as from a pitfall covered
with flowers. He that fancies he should benefit the publick more in a
great station than the man that fills it, will in time imagine it an
act of virtue to supplant him; and as opposition readily kindles into
hatred, his eagerness to do that good, to which he is not called, will
betray him to crimes, which in his original scheme were never proposed.

He therefore that would govern his actions by the laws of virtue, must
regulate his thoughts by those of reason; he must keep guilt from the
recesses of his heart, and remember that the pleasures of fancy, and
the emotions of desire, are more dangerous as they are more hidden,
since they escape the awe of observation, and operate equally in every
situation, without the concurrence of external opportunities.

[Footnote 35: This was determined before their time. See Matt. ch.