No More Learning

Of these ambulatory
students, one of the most busy is my friend Tom Restless.

Tom has long had a mind to be a man of knowledge, but he does not care
to spend much time among authors; for he is of opinion that few books
deserve the labour of perusal, that they give the mind an unfashionable
cast, and destroy that freedom of thought, and easiness of manners,
indispensably requisite to acceptance in the world. Tom has, therefore,
found another way to wisdom. When he rises he goes into a coffee-house,
where he creeps so near to men whom he takes to be reasoners, as to hear
their discourse, and endeavours to remember something which, when it has
been strained through Tom's head, is so near to nothing, that what it
once was cannot be discovered. This he carries round from friend to
friend through a circle of visits, till, hearing what each says upon the
question, he becomes able at dinner to say a little himself; and, as
every great genius relaxes himself among his inferiors, meets with some
who wonder how so young a man can talk so wisely.

At night he has a new feast prepared for his intellects; he always runs
to a disputing society, or a speaking club, where he half hears what, if
he had heard the whole, be would but half understand; goes home pleased
with the consciousness of a day well spent, lies down full of ideas, and
rises in the morning empty as before.




No. 49. SATURDAY, MARCH 24, 1759.

I supped three nights ago with my friend Will Marvel. His affairs
obliged him lately to take a journey into Devonshire, from which he has
just returned. He knows me to be a very patient hearer, and was glad of
my company, as it gave him an opportunity of disburdening himself, by a
minute relation of the casualties of his expedition.

Will is not one of those who go out and return with nothing to tell. He
has a story of his travels, which will strike a home-bred citizen with
horrour, and has in ten days suffered so often the extremes of terrour
and joy, that he is in doubt whether he shall ever again expose either
his body or mind to such danger and fatigue.

When he left London the morning was bright, and a fair day was promised.
But Will is born to struggle with difficulties. That happened to him,
which has sometimes, perhaps, happened to others. Before he had gone
more than ten miles, it began to rain. What course was to be taken? His
soul disdained to turn back. He did what the King of Prussia might have
done; he flapped his hat, buttoned up his cape, and went forwards,
fortifying his mind by the stoical consolation, that whatever is violent
will be short.

His constancy was not long tried; at the distance of about half a mile
he saw an inn, which he entered wet and weary, and found civil treatment
and proper refreshment. After a respite of about two hours, he looked
abroad, and seeing the sky clear, called for his horse, and passed the
first stage without any other memorable accident.

Will considered, that labour must be relieved by pleasure, and that the
strength which great undertakings require must be maintained by copious
nutriment; he, therefore, ordered himself an elegant supper, drank two
bottles of claret, and passed the beginning of the night in sound sleep;
but, waking before light, was forewarned of the troubles of the next
day, by a shower beating against his windows with such violence, as to
threaten the dissolution of nature. When he arose, he found what he
expected, that the country was under water. He joined himself, however,
to a company that was travelling the same way, and came safely to the
place of dinner, though every step of his horse dashed the mud into the
air.

In the afternoon, having parted from his company, he set forward alone,
and passed many collections of water, of which it was impossible to
guess the depth, and which he now cannot review without some censure of
his own rashness; but what a man undertakes he must perform, and Marvel
hates a coward at his heart.

Few that lie warm in their beds think what others undergo, who have,
perhaps, been as tenderly educated, and have as acute sensations as
themselves. My friend was now to lodge the second night almost fifty
miles from home, in a house which he never had seen before, among people
to whom he was totally a stranger, not knowing whether the next man he
should meet would prove good or bad; but seeing an inn of a good
appearance, he rode resolutely into the yard; and knowing that respect
is often paid in proportion as it is claimed, delivered his injunctions
to the ostler with spirit, and entering the house, called vigorously
about him.

On the third day up rose the sun and Mr. Marvel. His troubles and his
dangers were now such as he wishes no other man ever to encounter. The
ways were less frequented, and the country more thinly inhabited. He
rode many a lonely hour through mire and water, and met not a single
soul for two miles together, with whom he could exchange a word. He
cannot deny that, looking round upon the dreary region, and seeing
nothing but bleak fields and naked trees, hills obscured by fogs, and
flats covered with inundations, he did, for some time, suffer melancholy
to prevail upon him, and wished himself again safe at home. One comfort
he had, which was, to consider that none of his friends were in the same
distress, for whom, if they had been with him, he should have suffered
more than for himself; he could not forbear sometimes to consider how
happily the Idler is settled in an easier condition, who, surrounded
like him with terrours, could have done nothing but lie down and die.

Amidst these reflections he came to a town, and found a dinner which
disposed him to more cheerful sentiments: but the joys of life are
short, and its miseries are long; he mounted and travelled fifteen miles
more through dirt and desolation.

At last the sun set, and all the horrours of darkness came upon him. He
then repented the weak indulgence in which he had gratified himself at
noon with too long an interval of rest: yet he went forward along a path
which he could no longer see, sometimes rushing suddenly into water, and
sometimes incumbered with stiff clay, ignorant whither he was going, and
uncertain whether his next step might not be the last.

In this dismal gloom of nocturnal peregrination his horse unexpectedly
stood still. Marvel had heard many relations of the instinct of horses,
and was in doubt what danger might be at hand. Sometimes he fancied that
he was on the bank of a river still and deep, and sometimes that a dead
body lay across the track. He sat still awhile to recollect his
thoughts; and as he was about to alight and explore the darkness, out
stepped a man with a lantern, and opened the turnpike. He hired a guide
to the town, arrived in safety, and slept in quiet.

The rest of his journey was nothing but danger. He climbed and descended
precipices on which vulgar mortals tremble to look; he passed marshes
like the _Serbonian bog, where armies whole have sunk_; he forded rivers
where the current roared like the Egre or the Severn; or ventured
himself on bridges that trembled under him, from which he looked down on
foaming whirlpools, or dreadful abysses; he wandered over houseless
heaths, amidst all the rage of the elements, with the snow driving in
his face, and the tempest howling in his ears.

Such are the colours in which Marvel paints his adventures. He has
accustomed himself to sounding words and hyperbolical images, till he
has lost the power of true description. In a road, through which the
heaviest carriages pass without difficulty, and the post-boy every day
and night goes and returns, he meets with hardships like those which are
endured in Siberian deserts, and misses nothing of romantick danger but
a giant and a dragon. When his dreadful story is told in proper terms,
it is only that the way was dirty in winter, and that he experienced the
common vicissitudes of rain and sunshine.




No. 50. SATURDAY, MARCH 31, 1759.

The character of Mr. Marvel has raised the merriment of some and the
contempt of others, who do not sufficiently consider how often they hear
and practise the same arts of exaggerated narration.

There is not, perhaps, among the multitudes of all conditions that swarm
upon the earth, a single man who does not believe that he has something
extraordinary to relate of himself; and who does not, at one time or
other, summon the attention of his friends to the casualties of his
adventures and the vicissitudes of his fortune; casualties and
vicissitudes that happen alike in lives uniform and diversified; to the
commander of armies and the writer at a desk; to the sailor who resigns
himself to the wind and water, and the farmer whose longest journey is
to the market.

In the present state of the world man may pass through Shakespeare's
seven stages of life, and meet nothing singular or wonderful. But such
is every man's attention to himself, that what is common and unheeded,
when it is only seen, becomes remarkable and peculiar when we happen to
feel it.

It is well enough known to be according to the usual process of nature,
that men should sicken and recover, that some designs should succeed and
others miscarry, that friends should be separated and meet again, that
some should be made angry by endeavours to please them, and some be
pleased when no care has been used to gain their approbation; that men
and women should at first come together by chance, like each other so
well as to commence acquaintance, improve acquaintance into fondness,
increase or extinguish fondness by marriage, and have children of
different degrees of intellects and virtue, some of whom die before
their parents, and others survive them.

Yet let any man tell his own story, and nothing of all this has ever
befallen him according to the common order of things; something has
always discriminated his case; some unusual concurrence of events has
appeared, which made him more happy or more miserable than other
mortals; for in pleasures or calamities, however common, every one has
comforts and afflictions of his own.

It is certain that without some artificial augmentations, many of the
pleasures of life, and almost all its embellishments, would fall to the
ground. If no man was to express more delight than he felt, those who
felt most would raise little envy. If travellers were to describe the
most laboured performances of art with the same coldness as they survey
them, all expectations of happiness from change of place would cease.
The pictures of Raphaël would hang without spectators, and the gardens
of Versailles might be inhabited by hermits. All the pleasure that is
received ends in an opportunity of splendid falsehood, in the power of
gaining notice by the display of beauties which the eye was weary of
beholding, and a history of happy moments, of which, in reality, the
most happy was the last.

The ambition of superior sensibility and superior eloquence disposes the
lovers of arts to receive rapture at one time, and communicate it at
another; and each labours first to impose upon himself, and then to
propagate the imposture.

Pain is less subject than pleasure to caprices of expression. The
torments of disease, and the grief for irremediable misfortunes,
sometimes are such as no words can declare, and can only be signified by
groans, or sobs, or inarticulate ejaculations. Man has from nature a
mode of utterance peculiar to pain, but he has none peculiar to
pleasure, because he never has pleasure but in such degrees as the
ordinary use of language may equal or surpass.

It is nevertheless certain, that many pains, as well as pleasures, are
heightened by rhetorical affectation, and that the picture is, for the
most part, bigger than the life.

When we describe our sensations of another's sorrows, either in friendly
or ceremonious condolence, the customs of the world scarcely admit of
rigid veracity. Perhaps, the fondest friendship would enrage oftener
than comfort, were the tongue on such occasions faithfully to represent
the sentiments of the heart; and I think the strictest moralists allow
forms of address to be used without much regard to their literal
acceptation, when either respect or tenderness requires them, because
they are universally known to denote not the degree but the species of
our sentiments.

But the same indulgence cannot be allowed to him who aggravates dangers
incurred, or sorrow endured, by himself, because he darkens the prospect
of futurity, and multiplies the pains of our condition by useless
terrour. Those who magnify their delights are less criminal deceivers,
yet they raise hopes which are sure to be disappointed. It would be
undoubtedly best, if we could see and hear every thing as it is, that
nothing might be too anxiously dreaded, or too ardently pursued.




No. 51. SATURDAY, APRIL 7, 1759.

It has been commonly remarked, that eminent men are least eminent at
home, that bright characters lose much of their splendour at a nearer
view, and many, who fill the world with their fame, excite very little
reverence among those that surround them in their domestick privacies.

To blame or suspect is easy and natural. When the fact is evident, and
the cause doubtful, some accusation is always engendered between
idleness and malignity. This disparity of general and familiar esteem
is, therefore, imputed to hidden vices, and to practices indulged in
secret, but carefully covered from the publick eye.

Vice will indeed always produce contempt. The dignity of Alexander,
though nations fell prostrate before him, was certainly held in little
veneration by the partakers of his midnight revels, who had seen him, in
the madness of wine, murder his friend, or set fire to the Persian
palace at the instigation of a harlot; and it is well remembered among
us, that the avarice of Marlborough kept him in subjection to his wife,
while he was dreaded by France as her conqueror, and honoured by the
emperour as his deliverer.

But though, where there is vice there must be want of reverence, it is
not reciprocally true, that where there is want of reverence there is
always vice. That awe which great actions or abilities impress will be
inevitably diminished by acquaintance, though nothing either mean or
criminal should be found.

Of men, as of every thing else, we must judge according to our
knowledge. When we see of a hero only his battles, or of a writer only
his books, we have nothing to allay our ideas of their greatness. We
consider the one only as the guardian of his country, and the other only
as the instructor of mankind. We have neither opportunity nor motive to
examine the minuter parts of their lives, or the less apparent
peculiarities of their characters; we name them with habitual respect,
and forget, what we still continue to know, that they are men like other
mortals.

But such is the constitution of the world, that much of life must be
spent in the same manner by the wise and the ignorant, the exalted and
the low. Men, however distinguished by external accidents or intrinsick
qualities, have all the same wants, the same pains, and, as far as the
senses are consulted, the same pleasures. The petty cares and petty
duties are the same in every station to every understanding, and every
hour brings some occasion on which we all sink to the common level. We
are all naked till we are dressed, and hungry till we are fed; and the
general's triumph, and sage's disputation, end, like the humble labours
of the smith or ploughman, in a dinner or in sleep.

Those notions which are to be collected by reason, in opposition to the
senses, will seldom stand forward in the mind, but lie treasured in the
remoter repositories of memory, to be found only when they are sought.
Whatever any man may have written or done, his precepts or his valour
will scarcely overbalance the unimportant uniformity which runs through
his time. We do not easily consider him as great, whom our own eyes show
us to be little; nor labour to keep present to our thoughts the latent
excellencies of him, who shares with us all our weaknesses and many of
our follies; who, like us, is delighted with slight amusements, busied
with trifling employments, and disturbed by little vexations.

Great powers cannot be exerted, but when great exigencies make them
necessary. Great exigencies can happen but seldom, and, therefore, those
qualities which have a claim to the veneration of mankind, lie hid, for
the most part, like subterranean treasures, over which the foot passes
as on common ground, till necessity breaks open the golden cavern.

In the ancient celebration of victory, a slave was placed on the
triumphal car, by the side of the general, who reminded him by a short
sentence, that he was a man[1]. Whatever danger there might be lest a
leader, in his passage to the capitol, should forget the frailties of
his nature, there was surely no need of such an admonition; the
intoxication could not have continued long; he would have been at home
but a few hours, before some of his dependants would have forgot his
greatness, and shown him, that, notwithstanding his laurels, he was yet
a man.

There are some who try to escape this domestick degradation, by
labouring to appear always wise or always great; but he that strives
against nature, will for ever strive in vain. To be grave of mien and
slow of utterrance; to look with solicitude and speak with hesitation,
is attainable at will; but the show of wisdom is ridiculous when there
is nothing to cause doubt, as that of valour where there is nothing to
be feared.

A man who has duly considered the condition of his being, will
contentedly yield to the course of things; he will not pant for
distinction where distinction would imply no merit; but though on great
occasions he may wish to be greater than others, he will be satisfied in
common occurrences not to be less.

[1]
--Sibi Consul
Ne placeat, curru servus portatur eodem. JUV. Sat. x. 41.



No 52. SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 1759.

_Responsare cupidinibus_. --HOR. Lib. ii. Sat. vii. 85.

The practice of self-denial, or the forbearance of lawful pleasure, has
been considered by almost every nation, from the remotest ages, as the
highest exaltation of human virtue; and all have agreed to pay respect
and veneration to those who abstained from the delights of life, even
when they did not censure those who enjoy them.

The general voice of mankind, civil and barbarous, confesses that the
mind and body are at variance, and that neither can be made happy by its
proper gratifications, but at the expense of the other; that a pampered
body will darken the mind, and an enlightened mind will macerate the
body. And none have failed to confer their esteem on those who prefer
intellect to sense, who control their lower by their higher faculties,
and forget the wants and desires of animal life for rational
disquisitions or pious contemplations.

The earth has scarcely a country, so far advanced towards political
regularity as to divide the inhabitants into classes, where some orders
of men or women are not distinguished by voluntary severities, and where
the reputation of their sanctity is not increased in proportion to the
rigour of their rules, and the exactness of their performance.

When an opinion to which there is no temptation of interest spreads
wide, and continues long, it may be reasonably presumed to have been
infused by nature or dictated by reason. It has been often observed that
the fictions of impostures and illusions of fancy, soon give way to time
and experience; and that nothing keeps its ground but truth, which gains
every day new influence by new confirmation.

But truth, when it is reduced to practice, easily becomes subject to
caprice and imagination; and many particular acts will be wrong, though
their general principle be right. It cannot be denied that a just
conviction of the restraint necessary to be laid upon the appetites has
produced extravagant and unnatural modes of mortification, and
institutions, which, however favourably considered, will be found to
violate nature without promoting piety[1].

But the doctrine of self-denial is not weakened in itself by the errours
of those who misinterpret or misapply it; the encroachment of the
appetites upon the understanding is hourly perceived; and the state of
those, whom sensuality has enslaved, is known to be in the highest
degree despicable and wretched.

The dread of such shameful captivity may justly raise alarms, and wisdom
will endeavour to keep danger at a distance. By timely caution and
suspicious vigilance those desires may be repressed, to which indulgence
would soon give absolute dominion; those enemies may be overcome, which,
when they have been a while accustomed to victory, can no longer be
resisted.

Nothing is more fatal to happiness or virtue, than that confidence which
flatters us with an opinion of our own strength, and, by assuring us of
the power of retreat, precipitates us into hazard. Some may safely
venture farther than others into the regions of delight, lay themselves
more open to the golden shafts of pleasure, and advance nearer to the
residence of the Syrens; but he that is best armed with constancy and
reason is yet vulnerable in one part or other, and to every man there is
a point fixed, beyond which, if he passes, he will not easily return. It
is certainly most wise, as it is most safe, to stop before he touches
the utmost limit, since every step of advance will more and more entice
him to go forward, till he shall at last enter into the recesses of
voluptuousness, and sloth and despondency close the passage behind him.

To deny early and inflexibly, is the only art of checking the
importunity of desire, and of preserving quiet and innocence. Innocent
gratifications must be sometimes withheld; he that complies with all
lawful desires will certainly lose his empire over himself, and, in
time, either submit his reason to his wishes, and think all his desires
lawful, or dismiss his reason as troublesome and intrusive, and resolve
to snatch what he may happen to wish, without inquiring about right and
wrong.

No man, whose appetites are his masters, can perform the duties of his
nature with strictness and regularity; he that would be superior to
external influences must first become superior to his own passions.

When the Roman general, sitting at supper with a plate of turnips before
him, was solicited by large presents to betray his trust, he asked the
messengers whether he that could sup on turnips was a man likely to sell
his own country. Upon him who has reduced his senses to obedience,
temptation has lost its power; he is able to attend impartially to
virtue, and execute her commands without hesitation.

To set the mind above the appetites is the end of abstinence, which one
of the Fathers observes to be not a virtue, but the ground-work of
virtue. By forbearing to do what may innocently be done, we may add
hourly new vigour to resolution, and secure the power of resistance when
pleasure or interest shall lend their charms to guilt.

[1] See Rambler 110 and Note. Read also the splendid passage on monastic
seclusion in Adventurer 127. The recluses of the Certosa and
Chartreuse forsook the world for abodes lordly as those of princes.




No. 53. SATURDAY, APRIL 21, 1759.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

I have a wife that keeps good company. You know that the word _good_
varies its meaning according to the value set upon different qualities
in different places. To be a good man in a college, is to be learned; in
a camp, to be brave; and in the city, to be rich. By good company in the
place which I have the misfortune to inhabit, we understand not only
those from whom any good can be learned, whether wisdom or virtue; or by
whom any good can be conferred, whether profit or reputation:--good
company is the company of those whose birth is high, and whose riches
are great; or of those whom the rich and noble admit to familiarity.

I am a gentleman of a fortune by no means exuberant, but more than equal
to the wants of my family, and for some years equal to our desires. My
wife, who had never been accustomed to splendour, joined her endeavours
to mine in the superintendence of our economy; we lived in decent
plenty, and were not excluded from moderate pleasures.

But slight causes produce great effects. All my happiness has been
destroyed by change of place: virtue is too often merely local; in some
situations the air diseases the body, and in others poisons the mind.
Being obliged to remove my habitation, I was led by my evil genius to a
convenient house in a street where many of the nobility reside. We had
scarcely ranged our furniture, and aired our rooms, when my wife began
to grow discontented, and to wonder what the neighbours would think,
when they saw so few chairs and chariots at her door.

Her acquaintance, who came to see her from the quarter that we had left,
mortified her without design, by continual inquiries about the ladies
whose houses they viewed from our windows. She was ashamed to confess
that she had no intercourse with them, and sheltered her distress under
general answers, which always tended to raise suspicion that she knew
more than she would tell; but she was often reduced to difficulties,
when the course of talk introduced questions about the furniture or
ornaments of their houses, which, when she could get no intelligence,
she was forced to pass slightly over, as things which she saw so often
that she never minded them.

To all these vexations she was resolved to put an end, and redoubled her
visits to those few of her friends who visited those who kept good
company; and, if ever she met a lady of quality, forced herself into
notice by respect and assiduity. Her advances were generally rejected;
and she heard them, as they went down stairs, talk how some creatures
put themselves forward.

She was not discouraged, but crept forward from one to another; and, as
perseverance will do great things, sapped her way unperceived, till,
unexpectedly, she appeared at the card-table of lady Biddy Porpoise, a
lethargick virgin of seventy-six, whom all the families in the next
square visited very punctually when she was not at home.

This was the first step of that elevation to which my wife has since
ascended. For five months she had no name in her mouth but that of lady
Biddy, who, let the world say what it would, had a fine understanding,
and such a command of her temper, that, whether she won or lost, she
slept over her cards.

At lady Biddy's she met with lady Tawdry, whose favour she gained by
estimating her ear-rings, which were counterfeit, at twice the value of
real diamonds. When she had once entered two houses of distinction, she
was easily admitted into more, and in ten weeks had all her time
anticipated by parties and engagements. Every morning she is bespoke, in
the summer, for the gardens, in the winter, for a sale; every afternoon
she has visits to pay, and every night brings an inviolable appointment,
or an assembly in which the best company in the town are to appear.

You will easily imagine that much of my domestick comfort is withdrawn.
I never see my wife but in the hurry of preparation, or the languor of
weariness. To dress and to undress is almost her whole business in
private, and the servants take advantage of her negligence to increase
expense. But I can supply her omissions by my own diligence, and should
not much regret this new course of life, if it did nothing more than
transfer to me the care of our accounts. The changes which it has made
are more vexatious. My wife has no longer the use of her understanding.
She has no rule of action but the fashion. She has no opinion but that
of the people of quality. She has no language but the dialect of her own
set of company. She hates and admires in humble imitation; and echoes
the words _charming_ and _detestable_ without consulting her own
perceptions.

If for a few minutes we sit down together, she entertains me with the
repartees of lady Cackle, or the conversation of lord Whiffler and Miss
Quick, and wonders to find me receiving with indifference sayings which
put all the company into laughter.

By her old friends she is no longer very willing to be seen, but she
must not rid herself of them all at once; and is sometimes surprised by
her best visitants in company which she would not show, and cannot hide;
but from the moment that a countess enters, she takes care neither to
hear nor see them: they soon find themselves neglected, and retire; and
she tells her ladyship that they are somehow related at a great
distance, and that, as they are a good sort of people, she cannot be
rude to them.

As by this ambitious union with those that are above her, she is always
forced upon disadvantageous comparisons of her condition with theirs,
she has a constant source of misery within; and never returns from
glittering assemblies and magnificent apartments but she growls out her
discontent, and wonders why she was doomed to so indigent a state. When
she attends the duchess to a sale, she always sees something that she
cannot buy; and, that she may not seem wholly insignificant, she will
sometimes venture to bid, and often make acquisitions which she did not
want at prices which she cannot afford.

What adds to all this uneasiness is, that this expense is without use,
and this vanity without honour; she forsakes houses where she might be
courted, for those where she is only suffered; her equals are daily made
her enemies, and her superiors will never be her friends.

I am, Sir, yours, &c.




No. 54. SATURDAY, APRIL 28, 1759.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

You have lately entertained your admirers with the case of an
unfortunate husband, and, thereby, given a demonstrative proof you are
not averse even to hear appeals and terminate differences between man
and wife; I, therefore, take the liberty to present you with the case of
an injured lady, which, as it chiefly relates to what I think the
lawyers call a point of law, I shall do in as juridical a manner as I am
capable, and submit it to the consideration of the learned gentlemen of
that profession.

_Imprimis_. In the style of my marriage articles, a marriage was _had
and solemnized_ about six months ago, between me and Mr. Savecharges, a
gentleman possessed of a plentiful fortune of his own, and one who, I
was persuaded, would improve, and not spend, mine.

Before our marriage, Mr. Savecharges had all along preferred the
salutary exercise of walking on foot to the distempered ease, as he
terms it, of lolling in a chariot; but, notwithstanding his fine
panegyricks on walking, the great advantages the infantry were in the
sole possession of, and the many dreadful dangers they escaped, he found
I had very different notions of an equipage, and was not easily to be
converted, or gained over to his party.

An equipage I was determined to have, whenever I married. I too well
knew the disposition of my intended consort to leave the providing one
entirely to his honour, and flatter myself Mr. Savecharges has, in the
articles made previous to our marriage, _agreed to keep me a coach_; but
lest I should be mistaken, or the attorneys should not have done me
justice in methodizing or legalizing these half dozen words, I will set
about and transcribe that part of the agreement, which will explain the
matter to you much better than can be done by one who is so deeply
interested in the event; and show on what foundation I build my hopes of
being soon under the transporting, delightful denomination of a
fashionable lady, who enjoys the exalted and much-envied felicity of
bowling about in her own coach.

"And further the said Solomon Savecharges, for divers good causes and
considerations him hereunto moving, hath agreed, and doth hereby agree,
that the said Solomon Savecharges shall and will, so soon as
conveniently may be after the solemnization of the said intended
marriage, at his own proper cost and charges, find and provide a
_certain vehicle, or four-wheel-carriage, commonly called or known by
the name of a coach_; which said vehicle, or wheel-carriage, so called
or known by the name of a coach, shall be _used and enjoyed_ by the said
Sukey Modish, his intended wife," [pray mind that, Mr. Idler,] "at such
times and in such manner as she, the said Sukey Modish, shall think fit
and convenient. "

Such, Mr. Idler, is the agreement my passionate admirer entered into;
and what the dear, frugal husband calls a performance of it, remains to
be described. Soon after the ceremony of signing and sealing was over,
our wedding-clothes being sent home, and, in short, every thing in
readiness except the coach, my own shadow was scarcely more constant
than my passionate lover in his attendance on me: wearied by his
perpetual importunities for what he called a completion of his bliss, I
consented to make him happy; in a few days I gave him my hand, and,
attended by Hymen in his saffron robes, retired to a country-seat of my
husband's, where the honey-moon flew over our heads ere we had time to
recollect ourselves, or think of our engagements in town.
Well, to town
we came, and you may be sure, Sir, I expected to step into my coach on
my arrival here; but, what was my surprise and disappointment, when,
instead of this, he began to sound in my ears? "that the interest of
money was low, very low; and what a terrible thing it was to be
encumbered with a little regiment of servants in these hard times! " I
could easily perceive what all this tended to, but would not seem to
understand him; which made it highly necessary for Mr. Savecharges to
explain himself more intelligibly; to harp upon and protest he dreaded
the expense of keeping a coach. And truly, for his part, he could not
conceive how the pleasure resulting from such a convenience could be any
way adequate to the heavy expense attending it. I now thought it high
time to speak with equal plainness, and told him, as the fortune I
brought fairly entitled me to ride in my own coach, and as I was
sensible his circumstances would very well afford it, he must pardon me
if I insisted on a performance of his agreement.

I appeal to you, Mr. Idler, whether any thing could be more civil, more
complaisant, than this? And, would you believe it, the creature in
return, a few days after, accosted me, in an offended tone, with,
"Madam, I can now tell you, your coach is ready; and since you are so
passionately fond of one, I intend you the honour of keeping a pair of
horses. --You insisted upon having an article of pin-money, and horses
are no part of my agreement. " Base, designing wretch! --I beg your
pardon, Mr. Idler, the very recital of such mean, ungentleman-like
behaviour fires my blood, and lights up a flame within me. But hence,
thou worst of monsters, ill-timed Rage! and let me not spoil my cause
for want of temper.

Now, though I am convinced I might make a worse use of part of the
pin-money, than by extending my bounty towards the support of so useful a
part of the brute creation; yet, like a true-born Englishwoman, I am so
tenacious of my rights and privileges, and moreover so good a friend to
the gentlemen of the law, that I protest, Mr. Idler, sooner than tamely
give up the point, and be quibbled out of my right, I will receive my
pin-money, as it were, with one hand, and pay it to them with the other;
provided they will give me, or, which is the same thing, my trustees,
encouragement to commence a suit against this dear, frugal husband of
mine.

And of this I can't have the least shadow of doubt, inasmuch as I have
been told by very good authority, it is somewhere or other laid down as
a rule "_That whenever_ the law doth give any thing to one, it giveth
impliedly whatever is necessary for taking and enjoying the same[1]. "
Now, I would gladly know what enjoyment I, or any lady in the kingdom,
can have of a coach without horses? The answer is obvious--None at all!
For, as Serjeant Catlyne very wisely observes, "though a coach has
wheels, to the end it may thereby and by virtue thereof be enabled to
move; yet in point of utility it may as well have none, if they are not
put in motion by means of its vital parts, that is, the horses. "

And, therefore, Sir, I humbly hope you and the learned in the law will
be of opinion, that two certain animals, or quadruped creatures,
commonly called or known by the name of horses, ought to be annexed to,
and go along with, the coach. SUKEY SAVECHARGES[2]

[1] Quando lex aliquid alicui concedit, concedere videtur et id, sine
quo res ipsa esse non potest. Coke on Littleton, 56. a. --ED.

[2] An unknown correspondent.




No. 55. SATURDAY, MAY 5, 1759.

TO THE IDLER.

Mr. Idler,

I have taken the liberty of laying before you my complaint, and of
desiring advice or consolation with the greater confidence, because I
believe many other writers have suffered the same indignities with
myself, and hope my quarrel will be regarded by you and your readers as
the common cause of literature.

Having been long a student, I thought myself qualified in time to become
an author. My inquiries have been much diversified and far extended, and
not finding my genius directing me by irresistible impulse to any
particular subject, I deliberated three years which part of knowledge to
illustrate by my labours. Choice is more often determined by accident
than by reason: I walked abroad one morning with a curious lady, and, by
her inquiries and observations, was incited to write the natural history
of the country in which I reside.

Natural history is no work for one that loves his chair or his bed.
Speculation may be pursued on a soft couch, but nature must be observed
in the open air. I have collected materials with indefatigable
pertinacity. I have gathered glow-worms in the evening, and snails in
the morning; I have seen the daisy close and open, I have heard the owl
shriek at midnight, and hunted insects in the heat of noon.

Seven years I was employed in collecting animals and vegetables, and
then found that my design was yet imperfect. The subterranean treasures
of the place had been passed unobserved, and another year was to be
spent in mines and coal-pits. What I had already done supplied a
sufficient motive to do more. I acquainted myself with the black
inhabitants of metallick caverns, and, in defiance of damps and floods,
wandered through the gloomy labyrinths, and gathered fossils from every
fissure,

At last I began to write, and as I finished any section of my book, read
it to such of my friends, as were most skilful in the matter which it
treated. None of them were satisfied; one disliked the disposition of
the parts, another the colours of the style; one advised me to enlarge,
another to abridge. I resolved to read no more, but to take my own way
and write on, for by consultation I only perplexed my thoughts and
retarded my work.

The book was at last finished, and I did not doubt but my labour would
be repaid by profit, and my ambition satisfied with honours. I
considered that natural history is neither temporary nor local, and that
though I limited my inquiries to my own country, yet every part of the
earth has productions common to all the rest. Civil history may be
partially studied, the revolutions of one nation may be neglected by
another; but after that in which all have an interest, all must be
inquisitive. No man can have sunk so far into stupidity as not to
consider the properties of the ground on which he walks, of the plants
on which he feeds, or the animals that delight his ear, or amuse his
eye; and, therefore, I computed that universal curiosity would call for
many editions of my book, and that in five years I should gain fifteen
thousand pounds by the sale of thirty thousand copies.

When I began to write, I insured the house; and suffered the utmost
solicitude when I entrusted my book to the carrier, though I had secured
it against mischances by lodging two transcripts in different places. At
my arrival, I expected that the patrons of learning would contend for
the honour of a dedication, and resolved to maintain the dignity of
letters, by a haughty contempt of pecuniary solicitations.

I took my lodgings near the house of the Royal Society, and expected
every morning a visit from the president. I walked in the Park, and
wondered that I overheard no mention of the great naturalist. At last I
visited a noble earl, and told him of my work: he answered, that he was
under an engagement never to subscribe. I was angry to have that refused
which I did not mean to ask, and concealed my design of making him
immortal. I went next day to another, and, in resentment of my late
affront, offered to prefix his name to my new book. He said, coldly,
that _he did not understand those things_; another thought, _there were
too many books_; and another would _talk with me when the races were
over_.

Being amazed to find a man of learning so indecently slighted, I
resolved to indulge the philosophical pride of retirement and
independence. I then sent to some of the principal booksellers the plan
of my book, and bespoke a large room in the next tavern, that I might
more commodiously see them together, and enjoy the contest, while they
were outbidding one another. I drank my coffee, and yet nobody was come;
at last I received a note from one, to tell me that he was going out of
town; and from another, that natural history was out of his way. At last
there came a grave man, who desired to see the work, and, without
opening it, told me, that a book of that size _would never do_.

I then condescended to step into shops, and mentioned my work to the
masters. Some never dealt with authors; others had their hands full;
some never had known such a dead time; others had lost by all that they
had published for the last twelvemonth. One offered to print my work, if
I could procure subscriptions for five hundred, and would allow me two
hundred copies for my property. I lost my patience, and gave him a kick;
for which he has indicted me.

I can easily perceive, that there is a combination among them to defeat
my expectations; and I find it so general, that I am sure it must have
been long concerted. I suppose some of my friends, to whom I read the
first part, gave notice of my design, and, perhaps, sold the treacherous
intelligence at a higher price than the fraudulence of trade will now
allow me for my book.

Inform me, Mr. Idler, what I must do; where must knowledge and industry
find their recompense, thus neglected by the high, and cheated by the
low? I sometimes resolve to print my book at my own expense, and, like
the Sibyl, double the price; and sometimes am tempted, in emulation of
Raleigh, to throw it into the fire, and leave this sordid generation to
the curses of posterity. Tell me, dear Idler, what I shall do.

I am, Sir, &c.




No. 56. SATURDAY, MAY 12, 1759.

There is such difference between the pursuits of men, that one part of
the inhabitants of a great city lives to little other purpose than to
wonder at the rest. Some have hopes and fears, wishes and aversions,
which never enter into the thoughts of others, and inquiry is
laboriously exerted to gain that which those who possess it are ready to
throw away.

To those who are accustomed to value every thing by its use, and have no
such superfluity of time or money, as may prompt them to unnatural wants
or capricious emulations, nothing appears more improbable or extravagant
than the love of curiosities, or that desire of accumulating trifles,
which distinguishes many by whom no other distinction could have ever
been obtained.

He that has lived without knowing to what height desire may be raised by
vanity, with what rapture baubles are snatched out of the hands of rival
collectors, how the eagerness of one raises eagerness in another, and
one worthless purchase makes a second necessary, may, by passing a few
hours at an auction, learn more than can be shown by many volumes of
maxims or essays.

The advertisement of a sale is a signal which, at once, puts a thousand
hearts in motion, and brings contenders from every part to the scene of
distribution. He that had resolved to buy no more, feels his constancy
subdued; there is now something in the catalogue which completes his
cabinet, and which he was never before able to find. He whose sober
reflections inform him, that of adding collection to collection there is
no end, and that it is wise to leave early that which must be left
imperfect at last, yet cannot withhold himself from coming to see what
it is that brings so many together, and when he comes is soon
overpowered by his habitual passion; he is attracted by rarity, seduced
by example, and inflamed by competition.

While the stores of pride and happiness are surveyed, one looks with
longing eyes and gloomy countenance on that which he despairs to gain
from a richer bidder; another keeps his eye with care from settling too
long on that which he most earnestly desires; and another, with more art
than virtue, depreciates that which he values most, in hope to have it
at an easy rate.

The novice is often surprised to see what minute and unimportant
discriminations increase or diminish value. An irregular contortion of a
turbinated shell, which common eyes pass unregarded, will ten times
treble its price in the imagination of philosophers. Beauty is far from
operating upon collectors as upon low and vulgar minds, even where
beauty might be thought the only quality that could deserve notice.
Among the shells that please by their variety of colours, if one can be
found accidentally deformed by a cloudy spot, it is boasted as the pride
of the collection. China is sometimes purchased for little less than its
weight in gold, only because it is old, though neither less brittle, nor
better painted, than the modern; and brown china is caught up with
ecstasy, though no reason can be imagined for which it should be
preferred to common vessels of common clay.

The fate of prints and coins is equally inexplicable. Some prints are
treasured up as inestimably valuable, because the impression was made
before the plate was finished. Of coins the price rises not from the
purity of the metal, the excellence of the workmanship, the elegance of
the legend, or the chronological use. A piece, of which neither the
inscription can be read, nor the face distinguished, if there remain of
it but enough to show that it is rare, will be sought by contending
nations, and dignify the treasury in which it shall be shown.

Whether this curiosity, so barren of immediate advantage, and so liable
to depravation, does more harm or good, is not easily decided. Its harm
is apparent at first view. It fills the mind with trifling ambition;
fixes the attention upon things which have seldom any tendency towards
virtue or wisdom; employs in idle inquiries the time that is given for
better purposes; and often ends in mean and dishonest practices, when
desire increases by indulgence beyond the power of honest gratification.

These are the effects of curiosity in excess; but what passion in excess
will not become vicious? All indifferent qualities and practices are
bad, if they are compared with those which are good, and good, if they
are opposed to those that are bad. The pride or the pleasure of making
collections, if it be restrained by prudence and morality, produces a
pleasing remission after more laborious studies; furnishes an amusement
not wholly unprofitable for that part of life, the greater part of many
lives, which would otherwise be lost in idleness or vice; it produces an
useful traffick between the industry of indigence and the curiosity of
wealth; it brings many things to notice that would be neglected, and, by
fixing the thoughts upon intellectual pleasures, resists the natural
encroachments of sensuality, and maintains the mind in her lawful
superiority.




No. 57. SATURDAY, MAY 19, 1759.

Prudence is of more frequent use than any other intellectual quality; it
is exerted on slight occasions, and called into act by the cursory
business of common life.

Whatever is universally necessary, has been granted to mankind on easy
terms. Prudence, as it is always wanted, is without great difficulty
obtained. It requires neither extensive view nor profound search, but
forces itself, by spontaneous impulse, upon a mind neither great nor
busy, neither engrossed by vast designs, nor distracted by multiplicity
of attention.

Prudence operates on life in the same manner as rules on composition: it
produces vigilance rather than elevation, rather prevents loss than
procures advantage; and often escapes miscarriages, but seldom reaches
either power or honour. It quenches that ardour of enterprise, by which
every thing is done that can claim praise or admiration; and represses
that generous temerity which often fails, and often succeeds. Rules may
obviate faults, but can never confer beauties; and prudence keeps life
safe, but does not often make it happy. The world is not amazed with
prodigies of excellence, but when wit tramples upon rules, and
magnanimity breaks the chains of prudence.

One of the most prudent of all that have fallen within my observation,
is my old companion Sophron, who has passed through the world in quiet,
by perpetual adherence to a few plain maxims, and wonders how contention
and distress can so often happen.

The first principle of Sophron is, _to run no hazards_. Though he loves
money, he is of opinion that frugality is a more certain source of
riches than industry. It is to no purpose that any prospect of large
profit is set before him; he believes little about futurity, and does
not love to trust his money out of his sight, for _nobody knows what may
happen_. He has a small estate, which he lets at the old rent, because
_it is better to have a little than nothing_; but he rigorously demands
payment on the stated day, for _he that cannot pay one quarter cannot
pay two_. If he is told of any improvements in agriculture, he likes the
old way, has observed that changes very seldom answer expectation, is of
opinion that our forefathers knew how to till the ground as well as we;
and concludes with an argument that nothing can overpower, that the
expense of planting and fencing is immediate, and the advantage distant,
and that _he is no wise man who will quit a certainty for an
uncertainty_.

Another of Sophron's rules is, _to mind no business but his own_. In the
state, he is of no party; but hears and speaks of publick affairs with
the same coldness as of the administration of some ancient republick. If
any flagrant act of fraud or oppression is mentioned, he hopes that _all
is not true that is told_: if misconduct or corruption puts the nation
in a flame, he hopes _every man means well_. At elections he leaves his
dependants to their own choice, and declines to vote himself, for every
candidate is a good man, whom he is unwilling to oppose or offend.

If disputes happen among his neighbours, he observes an invariable and
cold neutrality. His punctuality has gained him the reputation of
honesty, and his caution that of wisdom; and few would refuse to refer
their claims to his award. He might have prevented many expensive
law-suits, and quenched many a feud in its first smoke; but always refuses
the office of arbitration, because he must decide against one or the
other.

With the affairs of other families he is always unacquainted. He sees
estates bought and sold, squandered and increased, without praising the
economist, or censuring the spendthrift. He never courts the rising,
lest they should fall; nor insults the fallen, lest they should rise
again. His caution has the appearance of virtue, and all who do not want
his help praise his benevolence; but, if any man solicits his
assistance, he has just sent away all his money; and, when the
petitioner is gone, declares to his family that he is sorry for his
misfortunes, has always looked upon him with particular kindness, and,
therefore, could not lend him money, lest he should destroy their
friendship by the necessity of enforcing payment.

Of domestick misfortunes he has never heard. When he is told the
hundredth time of a gentleman's daughter who has married the coachman,
he lifts up his hands with astonishment, for he always thought her a
sober girl.

When nuptial quarrels, after having filled the country with talk and
laughter, at last end in separation, he never can conceive how it
happened, for he looked upon them as a happy couple.

If his advice is asked, he never gives any particular direction, because
events are uncertain, and he will bring no blame upon himself; but he
takes the consulter tenderly by the hand, tells him he makes his case
his own, and advises him not to act rashly, but to weigh the reasons on
both sides; observes, that a man may be as easily too hasty as too slow;
and that as many fail by doing too much as too little; that _a wise man
has two ears and one tongue_; and that _little said is soon mended_;
that he could tell him this and that, but that after all every man is
the best judge of his own affairs.

With this some are satisfied, and go home with great reverence of
Sophron's wisdom; and none are offended, because every one is left in
full possession of his own opinion.

Sophron gives no characters. It is equally vain to tell him of vice and
virtue; for he has remarked, that no man likes to be censured, and that
very few are delighted with the praises of another. He has a few terms
which he uses to all alike. With respect to fortune, he believes every
one to be in good circumstances; he never exalts any understanding by
lavish praise, yet he meets with none but very sensible people. Every
man is honest and hearty; and every woman is a good creature.

Thus Sophron creeps along, neither loved nor hated, neither favoured nor
opposed: he has never attempted to grow rich, for fear of growing poor;
and has raised no friends, for fear of making enemies.




No. 58. SATURDAY, MAY 26, 1759.

Pleasure is very seldom found where it is sought. Our brightest blazes
of gladness are commonly kindled by unexpected sparks. The flowers which
scatter their odours, from time to time, in the paths of life, grow up
without culture from seeds scattered by chance.

Nothing is more hopeless than a scheme of merriment. Wits and humourists
are brought together from distant quarters by preconcerted invitations;
they come, attended by their admirers, prepared to laugh and to applaud;
they gaze awhile on each other, ashamed to be silent, and afraid to
speak; every man is discontented with himself, grows angry with those
that give him pain, and resolves that he will contribute nothing to the
merriment of such worthless company. Wine inflames the general
malignity, and changes sullenness to petulance, till at last none can
bear any longer the presence of the rest. They retire to vent their
indignation in safer places, where they are heard with attention; their
importance is restored, they recover their good humour, and gladden the
night with wit and jocularity.

Merriment is always the effect of a sudden impression. The jest which is
expected is already destroyed. The most active imagination will be
sometimes torpid, under the frigid influence of melancholy, and
sometimes occasions will be wanting to tempt the mind, however volatile,
to sallies and excursions. Nothing was ever said with uncommon felicity,
but by the co-operation of chance; and, therefore, wit, as well as
valour, must be content to share its honours with fortune.

All other pleasures are equally uncertain; the general remedy of
uneasiness is change of place; almost every one has some journey of
pleasure in his mind, with which he flatters his expectation. He that
travels in theory has no inconvenience; he has shade and sunshine at his
disposal, and wherever he alights finds tables of plenty and looks of
gaiety. These ideas are indulged till the day of departure arrives, the
chaise is called, and the progress of happiness begins.

A few miles teach him the fallacies of imagination. The road is dusty,
the air is sultry, the horses are sluggish, and the postillion brutal.
He longs for the time of dinner, that he may eat and rest. The inn is
crowded, his orders are neglected, and nothing remains but that he
devour in haste what the cook has spoiled, and drive on in quest of
better entertainment. He finds at night a more commodious house, but the
best is always worse than he expected.

He at last enters his native province, and resolves to feast his mind
with the conversation of his old friends, and the recollection of
juvenile frolicks. He stops at the house of his friend, whom he designs
to overpower with pleasure by the unexpected interview. He is not known
till he tells his name, and revives the memory of himself by a gradual
explanation. He is then coldly received, and ceremoniously feasted. He
hastes away to another, whom his affairs have called to a distant place,
and, having seen the empty house, goes away disgusted by a
disappointment which could not be intended, because it could not be
foreseen. At the next house he finds every face clouded with misfortune,
and is regarded with malevolence as an unreasonable intruder, who comes
not to visit but to insult them. It is seldom that we find either men
or places such as we expect them. He that has pictured a prospect upon
his fancy, will receive little pleasure from his eyes; he that has
anticipated the conversation of a wit, will wonder to what prejudice he
owes his reputation. Yet it is necessary to hope, though hope should
always be deluded; for hope itself is happiness, and its frustrations,
however frequent, are less dreadful than its extinction.




No. 59. SATURDAY, JUNE 2, 1759.

In the common enjoyments of life, we cannot very liberally indulge the
present hour, but by anticipating part of the pleasure which might have
relieved the tediousness of another day; and any uncommon exertion of
strength, or perseverance in labour, is succeeded by a long interval of
languor and weariness. Whatever advantage we snatch beyond the certain
portion allotted us by nature, is like money spent before it is due,
which, at the time of regular payment, will be missed and regretted.

Fame, like all other things which are supposed to give or to increase
happiness, is dispensed with the same equality of distribution. He that
is loudly praised will be clamorously censured; he that rises hastily
into fame will be in danger of sinking suddenly into oblivion.

Of many writers who filled their age with wonder, and whose names we
find celebrated in the books of their contemporaries, the works are now
no longer to be seen, or are seen only amidst the lumber of libraries
which are seldom visited, where they lie only to show the deceitfulness
of hope, and the uncertainty of honour.

Of the decline of reputation many causes may be assigned. It is commonly
lost because it never was deserved; and was conferred at first, not by
the suffrage of criticism, but by the fondness of friendship, or
servility of flattery. The great and popular are very freely applauded;
but all soon grow weary of echoing to each other a name which has no
other claim to notice, but that many mouths are pronouncing it at once.

But many have lost the final reward of their labours, because they were
too hasty to enjoy it. They have laid hold on recent occurrences, and
eminent names, and delighted their readers with allusions and remarks,
in which all were interested, and to which all, therefore, were
attentive. But the effect ceased with its cause; the time quickly came
when new events drove the former from memory, when the vicissitudes of
the world brought new hopes and fears, transferred the love and hatred
of the publick to other agents; and the writer, whose works were no
longer assisted by gratitude or resentment, was left to the cold regard
of idle curiosity.

He that writes upon general principles, or delivers universal truths,
may hope to be often read, because his work will be equally useful at
all times and in every country; but he cannot expect it to be received
with eagerness, or to spread with rapidity, because desire can have no
particular stimulation: that which is to be loved long, must be loved
with reason rather than with passion. He that lays his labours out upon
temporary subjects, easily finds readers, and quickly loses them; for
what should make the book valued when the subject is no more?

These observations will show the reason why the poem of Hudibras is
almost forgotten, however embellished with sentiments and diversified
with allusions, however bright with wit, and however solid with truth.
The hypocrisy which it detected, and the folly which it ridiculed, have
long vanished from publick notice. Those who had felt the mischief of
discord, and the tyranny of usurpation, read it with rapture; for every
line brought back to memory something known, and gratified resentment by
the just censure of something hated. But the book, which was once quoted
by princes, and which supplied conversation to all the assemblies of the
gay and witty, is now seldom mentioned, and even by those that affect to
mention it, is seldom read. So vainly is wit lavished upon fugitive
topicks; so little can architecture secure duration when the ground is
false.




No. 60. SATURDAY, JUNE 9, 1759.

Criticism is a study by which men grow important and formidable at a
very small expense. The power of invention has been conferred by nature
upon few, and the labour of learning those sciences, which may by mere
labour be obtained, is too great to be willingly endured; but every man
can exert such judgment as he has upon the works of others; and he whom
nature has made weak, and idleness keeps ignorant, may yet support his
vanity by the name of a Critick.

I hope it will give comfort to great numbers who are passing through the
world in obscurity, when I inform them how easily distinction may be
obtained. All the other powers of literature are coy and haughty, they
must be long courted, and at last are not always gained; but Criticism
is a goddess easy of access and forward of advance, who will meet the
slow, and encourage the timorous; the want of meaning she supplies with
words, and the want of spirit she recompenses with malignity.

This profession has one recommendation peculiar to itself, that it gives
vent to malignity without real mischief. No genius was ever blasted by
the breath of criticks. The poison which, if confined, would have burst
the heart, fumes away in empty hisses, and malice is set at ease with
very little danger to merit. The critick is the only man whose triumph
is without another's pain, and whose greatness does not rise upon
another's ruin.