No More Learning

137. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 26, 1754.

[Greek: Ti d erexa]; PYTHAG.

What have I been doing?

As man is a being very sparingly furnished with the power of prescience,
he can provide for the future only by considering the past; and as
futurity is all in which he has any real interest, he ought very
diligently to use the only means by which he can be enabled to enjoy it,
and frequently to revolve the experiments which he has hitherto made
upon life, that he may gain wisdom from his mistakes, and caution from
his miscarriages.

Though I do not so exactly conform to the precepts of Pythagoras, as to
practise every night this solemn recollection, yet I am not so lost in
dissipation as wholly to omit it; nor can I forbear sometimes to inquire
of myself, in what employment my life has passed away. Much of my time
has sunk into nothing, and left no trace by which it can be
distinguished; and of this I now only know, that it was once in my
power, and might once have been improved.

Of other parts of life, memory can give some account; at some hours I
have been gay, and at others serious; I have sometimes mingled in
conversation, and sometimes meditated in solitude; one day has been
spent in consulting the ancient sages, and another in writing
_Adventurers_.

At the conclusion of any undertaking, it is usual to compute the loss
and profit. As I shall soon cease to write _Adventurers_, I could not
forbear lately to consider what has been the consequence of my labours;
and whether I am to reckon the hours laid out in these compositions, as
applied to a good and laudable purpose, or suffered to fume away in
useless evaporations.

That I have intended well, I have the attestation of my own heart: but
good intentions may be frustrated when they are executed without
suitable skill, or directed to an end unattainable in itself.

Some there are, who leave writers very little room for
self-congratulation; some who affirm, that books have no influence upon
the publick, that no age was ever made better by its authors, and that to
call upon mankind to correct their manners, is, like Xerxes, to scourge
the wind, or shackle the torrent.

This opinion they pretend to support by unfailing experience. The world
is full of fraud and corruption, rapine or malignity; interest is the
ruling motive of mankind, and every one is endeavouring to increase his
own stores of happiness by perpetual accumulation, without reflecting
upon the numbers whom his superfluity condemns to want: in this state of
things a book of morality is published, in which charity and benevolence
are strongly enforced; and it is proved beyond opposition, that men are
happy in proportion as they are virtuous, and rich as they are liberal.
The book is applauded, and the author is preferred; he imagines his
applause deserved, and receives less pleasure from the acquisition of
reward than the consciousness of merit. Let us look again upon mankind:
interest is still the ruling motive, and the world is yet full of fraud
and corruption, malevolence and rapine.

The difficulty of confuting this assertion, arises merely from its
generality and comprehension; to overthrow it by a detail of distinct
facts, requires a wider survey of the world than human eyes can take;
the progress of reformation is gradual and silent, as the extension of
evening shadows; we know that they were short at noon, and are long at
sunset, but our senses were not able to discern their increase: we know
of every civil nation, that it was once savage, and how was it reclaimed
but by precept and admonition?

Mankind are universally corrupt, but corrupt in different degrees; as
they are universally ignorant, yet with greater or less irradiations of
knowledge. How has knowledge or virtue been increased and preserved in
one place beyond another, but by diligent inculcation and rational
enforcement?

Books of morality are daily written, yet its influence is still little
in the world; so the ground is annually ploughed, and yet multitudes are
in want of bread. But, surely, neither the labours of the moralist nor
of the husbandman are vain: let them for a while neglect their tasks,
and their usefulness will be known; the wickedness that is now frequent
will become universal, the bread that is now scarce would wholly fail.

The power, indeed, of every individual is small, and the consequence of
his endeavours imperceptible, in a general prospect of the world.
Providence has given no man ability to do much, that something might be
left for every man to do. The business of life is carried on by a
general co-operation; in which the part of any single man can be no more
distinguished, than the effect of a particular drop when the meadows are
floated by a summer shower: yet every drop increases the inundation, and
every hand adds to the happiness or misery of mankind.

That a writer, however zealous or eloquent, seldom works a visible
effect upon cities or nations, will readily be granted. The book which
is read most, is read by few, compared with those that read it not; and
of those few, the greater part peruse it with dispositions that very
little favour their own improvement.

It is difficult to enumerate the several motives which procure to books
the honour of perusal: spite, vanity, and curiosity, hope and fear, love
and hatred, every passion which incites to any other action, serves at
one time or other to stimulate a reader.

Some are fond to take a celebrated volume into their hands, because they
hope to distinguish their penetration, by finding faults which have
escaped the publick; others eagerly buy it in the first bloom of
reputation, that they may join the chorus of praise, and not lag, as
Falstaff terms it, in "the rearward of the fashion. "

Some read for style, and some for argument: one has little care about
the sentiment, he observes only how it is expressed; another regards not
the conclusion, but is diligent to mark how it is inferred: they read
for other purposes than the attainment of practical knowledge; and are
no more likely to grow wise by an examination of a treatise of moral
prudence, than an architect to inflame his devotion by considering
attentively the proportions of a temple.

Some read that they may embellish their conversation, or shine in
dispute; some that they may not be detected in ignorance, or want the
reputation of literary accomplishments: but the most general and
prevalent reason of study is the impossibility of finding another
amusement equally cheap or constant, equally independent on the hour or
the weather. He that wants money to follow the chase of pleasure through
her yearly circuit, and is left at home when the gay world rolls to Bath
or Tunbridge; he whose gout compels him to hear from his chamber the
rattle of chariots transporting happier beings to plays and assemblies,
will be forced to seek in books a refuge from himself.

The author is not wholly useless, who provides innocent amusements for
minds like these. There are, in the present state of things, so many
more instigations to evil, than incitements to good, that he who keeps
men in a neutral state, may be justly considered as a benefactor to
life.

But, perhaps, it seldom happens, that study terminates in mere pastime.
Books have always a secret influence on the understanding; we cannot, at
pleasure, obliterate ideas: he that reads books of science, though
without any fixed desire of improvement, will grow more knowing; he that
entertains himself with moral or religious treatises, will imperceptibly
advance in goodness; the ideas which are often offered to the mind, will
at last find a lucky moment when it is disposed to receive them.

It is, therefore, urged without reason, as a discouragement to writers,
that there are already books sufficient in the world; that all the
topicks of persuasion have been discussed, and every important question
clearly stated and justly decided; and that, therefore, there is no room
to hope, that pigmies should conquer where heroes have been defeated, or
that the petty copiers of the present time should advance the great work
of reformation, which their predecessors were forced to leave
unfinished.

Whatever be the present extent of human knowledge, it is not only
finite, and therefore in its own nature capable of increase, but so
narrow, that almost every understanding may, by a diligent application
of its powers, hope to enlarge it. It is, however, not necessary that a
man should forbear to write, till he has discovered some truth unknown
before; he may be sufficiently useful, by only diversifying the surface
of knowledge, and luring the mind by a new appearance to a second view
of those beauties which it had passed over inattentively before. Every
writer may find intellects correspondent to his own, to whom his
expressions are familiar, and his thoughts congenial; and, perhaps,
truth is often more successfully propagated by men of moderate
abilities, who, adopting the opinions of others, have no care but to
explain them clearly, than by subtle speculatists and curious searchers,
who exact from their readers powers equal to their own, and if their
fabricks of science be strong, take no care to render them accessible.

For my part, I do not regret the hours which I have laid out in these
little compositions. That the world has grown apparently better, since
the publication of the _Adventurer_, I have not observed; but am willing
to think, that many have been affected by single sentiments, of which it
is their business to renew the impression; that many have caught hints
of truth, which it is now their duty to pursue; and that those who have
received no improvement, have wanted not opportunity but intention to
improve.




No. 138. SATURDAY, MARCH 2, 1754.

_Quid pure tranquillet; honos, an dulce lucellum,
An secretum iter, et fallentis semita vitae. _ HOR. Lib, i. Ep.
xviii. 102.

Whether the tranquil mind and pure,
Honours or wealth our bliss ensure:
Or down through life unknown to stray,
Where lonely leads the silent way. FRANCIS.

Having considered the importance of authors to the welfare of the
publick, I am led by a natural train of thought, to reflect on their
condition with regard to themselves; and to inquire what degree of
happiness or vexation is annexed to the difficult and laborious
employment of providing instruction or entertainment for mankind.

In estimating the pain or pleasure of any particular state, every man,
indeed, draws his decisions from his own breast, and cannot with
certainty determine whether other minds are affected by the same causes
in the same manner. Yet by this criterion we must be content to judge,
because no other can be obtained; and, indeed, we have no reason to
think it very fallacious, for excepting here and there an anomalous
mind, which either does not feel like others, or dissembles its
sensibility, we find men unanimously concur in attributing happiness or
misery to particular conditions, as they agree in acknowledging the cold
of winter and the heat of autumn.

If we apply to authors themselves for an account of their state, it will
appear very little to deserve envy; for they have in all ages been
addicted to complaint. The neglect of learning, the ingratitude of the
present age, and the absurd preference by which ignorance and dulness
often obtain favour and rewards, have been from age to age topicks of
invective; and few have left their names to posterity, without some
appeal to future candour from the perverseness and malice of their own
times.

I have, nevertheless, been often inclined to doubt, whether authors,
however querulous, are in reality more miserable than their fellow
mortals. The present life is to all a state of infelicity; every man,
like an author, believes himself to merit more than he obtains, and
solaces the present with the prospect of the future; others, indeed,
suffer those disappointments in silence, of which the writer complains,
to show how well he has learnt the art of lamentation.

There is at least one gleam of felicity, of which few writers have
missed the enjoyment: he whose hopes have so far overpowered his fears,
as that he has resolved to stand forth a candidate for fame, seldom
fails to amuse himself, before his appearance, with pleasing scenes of
affluence or honour: while his fortune is yet under the regulation of
fancy, he easily models it to his wish, suffers no thoughts of criticks
or rivals to intrude upon his mind, but counts over the bounties of
patronage, or listens to the voice of praise.

Some there are, that talk very luxuriously of the second period of an
author's happiness, and tell of the tumultuous raptures of invention,
when the mind riots in imagery, and the choice stands suspended between
different sentiments.

These pleasures, I believe, may sometimes be indulged to those, who come
to a subject of disquisition with minds full of ideas, and with fancies
so vigorous, as easily to excite, select, and arrange them. To write is,
indeed, no unpleasing employment, when one sentiment readily produces
another, and both ideas and expressions present themselves at the first
summons; but such happiness, the greatest genius does not always obtain;
and common writers know it only to such a degree, as to credit its
possibility. Composition is, for the most part, an effort of slow
diligence and steady perseverance, to which the mind is dragged by
necessity or resolution, and from which the attention is every moment
starting to more delightful amusements.

It frequently happens, that a design which, when considered at a
distance, gave flattering hopes of facility, mocks us in the execution
with unexpected difficulties; the mind which, while it considered it in
the gross, imagined itself amply furnished with materials, finds
sometimes an unexpected barrenness and vacuity, and wonders whither all
those ideas are vanished, which a little before seemed struggling for
emission.

Sometimes many thoughts present themselves; but so confused and
unconnected, that they are not without difficulty reduced to method, or
concatenated in a regular and dependent series; the mind falls at once
into a labyrinth, of which neither the beginning nor end can be
discovered, and toils and struggles without progress or extrication.

It is asserted by Horace, that, "if matter be once got together, words
will be found with very little difficulty;" a position which, though
sufficiently plausible to be inserted in poetical precepts, is by no
means strictly and philosophically true. If words were naturally and
necessarily consequential to sentiments, it would always follow, that he
who has most knowledge must have most eloquence, and that every man
would clearly express what he fully understood: yet we find, that to
think, and discourse, are often the qualities of different persons: and
many books might surely be produced, where just and noble sentiments are
degraded and obscured by unsuitable diction.

Words, therefore, as well as things, claim the care of an author. Indeed
of many authors, and those not useless or contemptible, words are almost
the only care: many make it their study, not so much to strike out new
sentiments, as to recommend those which are already known to more
favourable notice by fairer decorations; but every man, whether he
copies or invents, whether he delivers his own thoughts or those of
another, has often found himself deficient in the power of expression,
big with ideas which he could not utter, obliged to ransack his memory
for terms adequate to his conceptions, and at last unable to impress
upon his reader the image existing in his own mind.

It is one of the common distresses of a writer, to be within a word of a
happy period, to want only a single epithet to give amplification its
full force, to require only a correspondent term in order to finish a
paragraph with elegance, and make one of its members answer to the
other; but these deficiencies cannot always be supplied: and after a
long study and vexation, the passage is turned anew, and the web unwoven
that was so nearly finished.

But when thoughts and words are collected and adjusted, and the whole
composition at last concluded, it seldom gratifies the author, when he
comes coolly and deliberately to review it, with the hopes which had
been excited in the fury of the performance: novelty always captivates
the mind; as our thoughts rise fresh upon us, we readily believe them
just and original, which, when the pleasure of production is over, we
find to be mean and common, or borrowed from the works of others, and
supplied by memory rather than invention.

But though it should happen that the writer finds no such faults in his
performance, he is still to remember, that he looks upon it with partial
eyes: and when he considers, how much men, who could judge of others
with great exactness, have often failed of judging of themselves, he
will be afraid of deciding too hastily in his own favour, or of allowing
himself to contemplate with too much complacence, treasure that has not
yet been brought to the test, nor passed the only trial that can stamp
its value.

From the publick, and only from the publick, is he to await a
confirmation of his claim, and a final justification of self-esteem; but
the publick is not easily persuaded to favour an author. If mankind were
left to judge for themselves, it is reasonable to imagine, that of such
writings, at least, as describe the movements of the human passions, and
of which every man carries the archetype within him, a just opinion
would be formed; but whoever has remarked the fate of books, must have
found it governed by other causes than general consent arising from
general conviction. If a new performance happens not to fall into the
hands of some who have courage to tell, and authority to propagate their
opinion, it often remains long in obscurity, and perishes unknown and
unexamined. A few, a very few, commonly constitute the taste of the
time; the judgment which they have once pronounced, some are too lazy to
discuss, and some too timorous to contradict; it may however be, I
think, observed, that their power is greater to depress than exalt, as
mankind are more credulous of censure than of praise.

This perversion of the publick judgment is not to be rashly numbered
amongst the miseries of an author; since it commonly serves, after
miscarriage, to reconcile him to himself. Because the world has
sometimes passed an unjust sentence, he readily concludes the sentence
unjust by which his performance is condemned; because some have been
exalted above their merits by partiality, he is sure to ascribe the
success of a rival, not to the merit of his work, but the zeal of his
patrons. Upon the whole, as the author seems to share all the common
miseries of life, he appears to partake likewise of its lenitives and
abatements[1].

[1] See a pamphlet entitled "The Case of Authors by Profession," 8vo.
1758. It is the production of Mr. James Ralph, who knew from painful
experience the bitter evils incident to an employment which yielded
a bare maintenance to Johnson himself. For anecdotes of Ralph, and
the work alluded to, see Dr. Drake's Essays on Rambler, &c. vol. i.
p. 96.





THE IDLER.





ADVERTISEMENT.


The IDLER having omitted to distinguish the essays of his correspondents
by any particular signature, thinks it necessary to inform his readers,
that from the ninth, the fifteenth, thirty-third, forty-second,
fifty-fourth, sixty-seventh, seventy-sixth, seventy-ninth,
eighty-second, ninety-third, ninety-sixth, and ninety-eighth papers, he
claims no other praise than that of having given them to the publick[1].

[1] The names of the Authors of these Papers, as far as known, will be
given in the course of the present edition.




THE IDLER.




No. 1. SATURDAY, APRIL 15, 1758.

_--Vacui sub umbra
Lusimus_. --Hor. Lib. i. Ode xxxii. 1.

Those who attempt periodical essays seem to be often stopped in the
beginning, by the difficulty of finding a proper title. Two writers,
since the time of the Spectator, have assumed his name[1] without any
pretensions to lawful inheritance; an effort was once made to revive the
Tatler[2], and the strange appellations, by which other papers have been
called, show that the authors were distressed, like the natives of
America, who come to the Europeans to beg a name.

It will be easily believed of the Idler, that if his title had required
any search, he never would have found it. Every mode of life has its
conveniencies. The Idler, who habituates himself to be satisfied with
what he can most easily obtain, not only escapes labours which are often
fruitless, but sometimes succeeds better than those who despise all that
is within their reach, and think every thing more valuable as it is
harder to be acquired.

If similitude of manners be a motive to kindness, the Idler may flatter
himself with universal patronage. There is no single character under
which such numbers are comprised. Every man is, or hopes to be, an
Idler. Even those who seem to differ most from us are hastening to
increase our fraternity; as peace is the end of war, so to be idle is
the ultimate purpose of the busy.

There is perhaps no appellation by which a writer can better denote his
kindred to the human species. It has been found hard to describe man by
an adequate definition. Some philosophers have called him a reasonable
animal; but others have considered reason as a quality of which many
creatures partake. He has been termed likewise a laughing animal; but it
is said that some men have never laughed. Perhaps man may be more
properly distinguished as an idle animal; for there is no man who is not
sometimes idle. It is at least a definition from which none that shall
find it in this paper can be excepted; for who can be more idle than the
reader of the Idler?

That the definition may be complete, idleness must be not only the
general, but the peculiar characteristick of man; and perhaps man is the
only being that can properly be called idle, that does by others what he
might do himself, or sacrifices duty or pleasure to the love of ease.

Scarcely any name can be imagined from which less envy or competition is
to be dreaded. The Idler has no rivals or enemies. The man of business
forgets him; the man of enterprise despises him; and though such as
tread the same track of life fall commonly into jealousy and discord,
Idlers are always found to associate in peace; and he who is most famed
for doing nothing, is glad to meet another as idle as himself.

What is to be expected from this paper, whether it will be uniform or
various, learned or familiar, serious or gay, political or moral,
continued or interrupted, it is hoped that no reader will inquire. That
the Idler has some scheme, cannot be doubted, for to form schemes is the
Idler's privilege. But though he has many projects in his head, he is
now grown sparing of communication, having observed, that his hearers
are apt to remember what he forgets himself; that his tardiness of
execution exposes him to the encroachments of those who catch a hint and
fall to work; and that very specious plans, after long contrivance and
pompous displays, have subsided in weariness without a trial, and
without miscarriage have been blasted by derision.

Something the Idler's character may be supposed to promise. Those that
are curious after diminutive history, who watch the revolutions of
families, and the rise and fall of characters either male or female,
will hope to be gratified by this paper; for the Idler is always
inquisitive and seldom retentive. He that delights in obloquy and
satire, and wishes to see clouds gathering over any reputation that
dazzles him with its brightness, will snatch up the Idler's essays with
a beating heart. The Idler is naturally censorious; those who attempt
nothing themselves, think every thing easily performed, and consider the
unsuccessful always as criminal.

I think it necessary to give notice, that I make no contract, nor incur
any obligation. If those who depend on the Idler for intelligence and
entertainment, should suffer the disappointment which commonly follows
ill-placed expectations, they are to lay the blame only on themselves.

Yet hope is not wholly to be cast away. The Idler, though sluggish, is
yet alive, and may sometimes be stimulated to vigour and activity. He
may descend into profoundness, or tower into sublimity; for the
diligence of an Idler is rapid and impetuous, as ponderous bodies forced
into velocity move with violence proportionate to their weight.

But these vehement exertions of intellect cannot be frequent, and he
will therefore gladly receive help from any correspondent, who shall
enable him to please without his own labour. He excludes no style, he
prohibits no subject; only let him that writes to the Idler remember,
that his letters must not be long; no words are to be squandered in
declarations of esteem, or confessions of inability; conscious dulness
has little right to be prolix, and praise is not so welcome to the Idler
as quiet.


[1] The Universal Spectator in 1728, by the celebrated antiquary William
Oldys.

The Female Spectator in 1744, by Eliza Haywood.

These were followed by the New Spectator in 1784; and lastly, by the
Country Spectator in 1792. This last is a production of very
considerable merit.

[2] This attempt was made in 1750, under the title of the Tatler
Revived. After a short trial it completely failed.




No. 2. SATURDAY, APRIL 22, 1758.

--_Toto non quater anno
Membranam_. --HOR. Lib. ii. Sat. iii. 1.

Many positions are often on the tongue, and seldom in the mind; there
are many truths which every human being acknowledges and forgets. It is
generally known, that he who expects much will be often disappointed;
yet disappointment seldom cures us of expectation, or has any other
effect than that of producing a moral sentence, or peevish exclamation.
He that embarks in the voyage of life, will always wish to advance
rather by the impulse of the wind, than the strokes of the oar; and many
founder in the passage, while they lie waiting for the gale that is to
waft them to their wish.

It will naturally be suspected that the Idler has lately suffered some
disappointment, and that he does not talk thus gravely for nothing. No
man is required to betray his own secrets. I will however, confess, that
I have now been a writer almost a week, and have not yet heard a single
word of praise, nor received one hint from any correspondent.

Whence this negligence proceeds I am not able to discover. Many of my
predecessors have thought themselves obliged to return their
acknowledgments in the second paper, for the kind reception of the
first; and in a short time, apologies have become necessary to those
ingenious gentlemen and ladies, whose performances, though in the
highest degree elegant and learned, have been unavoidably delayed.

What then will be thought of me, who, having experienced no kindness,
have no thanks to return; whom no gentleman or lady has yet enabled to
give any cause of discontent, and who have therefore no opportunity of
showing how skilfully I can pacify resentment, extenuate negligence, or
palliate rejection.

I have long known that splendour of reputation is not to be counted
among the necessaries of life, and therefore shall not much repine if
praise be withheld till it is better deserved. But surely I may be
allowed to complain, that, in a nation of authors, not one has thought
me worthy of notice after so fair an invitation.

At the time when the rage of writing has seized the old and young, when
the cook warbles her lyricks in the kitchen, and the thrasher
vociferates his heroicks in the barn; when our traders deal out
knowledge in bulky volumes, and our girls forsake their samplers to
teach kingdoms wisdom; it may seem very unnecessary to draw any more
from their proper occupations, by affording new opportunities of
literary fame[1].

I should be indeed unwilling to find that, for the sake of corresponding
with the Idler, the smith's iron had cooled on the anvil, or the
spinster's distaff stood unemployed. I solicit only the contributions of
those who have already devoted themselves to literature, or, without any
determinate intention, wander at large through the expanse of life, and
wear out the day in hearing at one place what they utter at another.

Of these, a great part are already writers. One has a friend in the
country upon whom he exercises his powers; whose passions he raises and
depresses; whose understanding he perplexes with paradoxes, or
strengthens by argument; whose admiration he courts, whose praises he
enjoys; and who serves him instead of a senate or a theatre; as the
young soldiers in the Roman camp learned the use of their weapons by
fencing against a post in the place of an enemy.

Another has his pockets filled with essays and epigrams, which he reads
from house to house, to select parties; and which his acquaintances are
daily entreating him to withhold no longer from the impatience of the
publick.

If among these any one is persuaded, that, by such preludes of
composition, he has qualified himself to appear in the open world, and
is yet afraid of those censures which they who have already written, and
they who cannot write, are equally ready to fulminate against publick
pretenders to fame, he may, by transmitting his performances to the
Idler, make a cheap experiment of his abilities, and enjoy the pleasure
of success, without the hazard of miscarriage.

Many advantages not generally known arise from this method of stealing
on the publick. The standing author of the paper is always the object of
critical malignity. Whatever is mean will be imputed to him, and
whatever is excellent be ascribed to his assistants. It does not much
alter the event, that the author and his correspondents are equally
unknown; for the author, whoever he be, is an individual, of whom every
reader has some fixed idea, and whom he is therefore unwilling to
gratify with applause; but the praises given to his correspondents are
scattered in the air, none can tell on whom they will light, and
therefore none are unwilling to bestow them.

He that is known to contribute to a periodical work, needs no other
caution than not to tell what particular pieces are his own; such
secrecy is indeed very difficult; but if it can be maintained, it is
scarcely to be imagined at how small an expense he may grow
considerable.

A person of quality, by a single paper, may engross the honour of a
volume. Fame is indeed dealt with a hand less and less bounteous through
the subordinate ranks, till it descends to the professed author, who
will find it very difficult to get more than he deserves; but every man
who does not want it, or who needs not value it, may have liberal
allowances; and, for five letters in the year sent to the Idler, of
which perhaps only two are printed, will be promoted to the first rank
of writers by those who are weary of the present race of wits, and wish
to sink them into obscurity before the lustre of a name not yet known
enough to be detested.

[1] See Knox's Essays, Number 50.




No. 3. SATURDAY, APRIL 29, 1758.

--_Otia vitae
Solamur cantu_. STAT.

It has long been the complaint of those who frequent the theatres, that
all the dramatick art has been long exhausted, and that the vicissitudes
of fortune, and accidents of life, have been shown in every possible
combination, till the first scene informs us of the last, and the play
no sooner opens, than every auditor knows how it will conclude. When a
conspiracy is formed in a tragedy, we guess by whom it will be detected;
when a letter is dropt in a comedy, we can tell by whom it will be
found. Nothing is now left for the poet but character and sentiment,
which are to make their way as they can, without the soft anxiety of
suspense, or the enlivening agitation of surprise.

A new paper lies under the same disadvantages as a new play. There is
danger lest it be new without novelty. My earlier predecessors had their
choice of vices and follies, and selected such as were most likely to
raise merriment or attract attention; they had the whole field of life
before them, untrodden and unsurveyed; characters of every kind shot up
in their way, and those of the most luxuriant growth, or most
conspicuous colours, were naturally cropt by the first sickle. They that
follow are forced to peep into neglected corners, to note the casual
varieties of the same species, and to recommend themselves by minute
industry and distinctions too subtle for common eyes.

Sometimes it may happen, that the haste or negligence of the first
inquirers has left enough behind to reward another search; sometimes new
objects start up under the eye, and he that is looking for one kind of
matter, is amply gratified by the discovery of another. But still it
must be allowed, that, as more is taken, less can remain; and every
truth brought newly to light impoverishes the mine, from which
succeeding intellects are to dig their treasures.

Many philosophers imagine, that the elements themselves may be in time
exhausted; that the sun, by shining long, will effuse all its light; and
that, by the continual waste of aqueous particles, the whole earth will
at last become a sandy desert.

I would not advise my readers to disturb themselves by contriving how
they shall live without light and water. For the days of universal
thirst and perpetual darkness are at a great distance. The ocean and the
sun will last our time, and we may leave posterity to shift for
themselves.

But if the stores of nature are limited, much more narrow bounds must be
set to the modes of life; and mankind may want a moral or amusing paper,
many years before they shall be deprived of drink or day-light. This
want, which to the busy and the inventive may seem easily remediable by
some substitute or other, the whole race of Idlers will feel with all
the sensibility that such torpid animals can suffer.

When I consider the innumerable multitudes that, having no motive of
desire, or determination of will, lie freezing in perpetual inactivity,
till some external impulse puts them in motion; who awake in the
morning, vacant of thought, with minds gaping for the intellectual food,
which some kind essayist has been accustomed to supply; I am moved by
the commiseration with which all human beings ought to behold the
distresses of each other, to try some expedients for their relief, and
to inquire by what methods the listless may be actuated, and the empty
be replenished.
There are said to be pleasures in madness known only to madmen. There
are certainly miseries in idleness, which the Idler only can conceive.
These miseries I have often felt and often bewailed. I know by
experience, how welcome is every avocation that summons the thoughts to
a new image; and how much languor and lassitude are relieved by that
officiousness which offers a momentary amusement to him who is unable to
find it for himself.

It is naturally indifferent to this race of men what entertainment they
receive, so they are but entertained. They catch, with equal eagerness,
at a moral lecture, or the memoirs of a robber; a prediction of the
appearance of a comet, or the calculation of the chances of a lottery.

They might therefore easily be pleased, if they consulted only their own
minds; but those who will not take the trouble to think for themselves,
have always somebody to think for them; and the difficulty in writing is
to please those from whom others learn to be pleased.

Much mischief is done in the world with very little interest or design.
He that assumes the character of a critick, and justifies his claim by
perpetual censure, imagines that he is hurting none but the author, and
him he considers as a pestilent animal, whom every other being has a
right to persecute; little does he think how many harmless men he
involves in his own guilt, by teaching them to be noxious without
malignity, and to repeat objections which they do not understand; or how
many honest minds he debars from pleasure, by exciting an artificial
fastidiousness, and making them too wise to concur with their own
sensations. He who is taught by a critick to dislike that which pleased
him in his natural state, has the same reason to complain of his
instructer, as the madman to rail at his doctor, who, when he thought
himself master of Peru, physicked him to poverty.

If men will struggle against their own advantage, they are not to expect
that the Idler will take much pains upon them; he has himself to please
as well as them, and has long learned, or endeavoured to learn, not to
make the pleasure of others too necessary to his own.




No. 4. SATURDAY, MAY 6, 1758.

[Greek: Pantas gar phileeske. ] HOM.

Charity, or tenderness for the poor, which is now justly considered, by
a great part of mankind, as inseparable from piety, and in which almost
all the goodness of the present age consists, is, I think, known only to
those who enjoy, either immediately or by transmission, the light of
revelation.

Those ancient nations who have given us the wisest models of government,
and the brightest examples of patriotism, whose institutions have been
transcribed by all succeeding legislatures, and whose history is studied
by every candidate for political or military reputation, have yet left
behind them no mention of alms-houses or hospitals, or places where age
might repose, or sickness be relieved.

The Roman emperours, indeed, gave large donatives to the citizens and
soldiers, but these distributions were always reckoned rather popular
than virtuous: nothing more was intended than an ostentation of
liberality, nor was any recompense expected, but suffrages and
acclamations.

Their beneficence was merely occasional; he that ceased to need the
favour of the people, ceased likewise to court it; and, therefore, no
man thought it either necessary or wise to make any standing provision
for the needy, to look forwards to the wants of posterity, or to secure
successions of charity, for successions of distress.

Compassion is by some reasoners, on whom the name of philosophers has
been too easily conferred, resolved into an affection merely selfish, an
involuntary perception of pain at the involuntary sight of a being like
ourselves languishing in misery. But this sensation, if ever it be felt
at all from the brute instinct of uninstructed nature, will only produce
effects desultory and transient; it will never settle into a principle
of action, or extend relief to calamities unseen, in generations not yet
in being.

The devotion of life or fortune to the succour of the poor, is a height
of virtue, to which humanity has never risen by its own power. The
charity of the Mahometans is a precept which their teacher evidently
transplanted from the doctrines of Christianity; and the care with which
some of the Oriental sects attend, as is said, to the necessities of the
diseased and indigent, may be added to the other arguments, which prove
Zoroaster to have borrowed his institutions from the law of Moses.

The present age, though not likely to shine hereafter among the most
splendid periods of history, has yet given examples of charity, which
may be very properly recommended to imitation. The equal distribution of
wealth, which long commerce has produced, does not enable any single
hand to raise edifices of piety like fortified cities, to appropriate
manors to religious uses, or deal out such large and lasting beneficence
as was scattered over the land in ancient times, by those who possessed
counties or provinces. But no sooner is a new species of misery brought
to view, and a design of relieving it professed, than every hand is open
to contribute something, every tongue is busied in solicitation, and
every art of pleasure is employed for a time in the interest of virtue.

The most apparent and pressing miseries incident to man, have now their
peculiar houses of reception and relief; and there are few among us,
raised however little above the danger of poverty, who may not justly
claim, what is implored by the Mahometans in their most ardent
benedictions, the prayers of the poor.

Among those actions which the mind can most securely review with
unabated pleasure, is that of having contributed to an hospital for the
sick. Of some kinds of charity the consequences are dubious: some evils
which beneficence has been busy to remedy, are not certainly known to be
very grievous to the sufferer, or detrimental to the community; but no
man can question whether wounds and sickness are not really painful;
whether it be not worthy of a good man's care to restore those to ease
and usefulness, from whose labour infants and women expect their bread,
and who, by a casual hurt, or lingering disease, lie pining in want and
anguish, burthensome to others, and weary of themselves.

Yet as the hospitals of the present time subsist only by gifts bestowed
at pleasure, without any solid fund of support, there is danger lest the
blaze of charity, which now burns with so much heat and splendour,
should die away for want of lasting fuel; lest fashion should suddenly
withdraw her smile, and inconstancy transfer the publick attention to
something which may appear more eligible, because it will be new.

Whatever is left in the hands of chance must be subject to vicissitude;
and when any establishment is found to be useful, it ought to be the
next care to make it permanent.

But man is a transitory being, and his designs must partake of the
imperfections of their author. To confer duration is not always in our
power. We must snatch the present moment, and employ it well, without
too much solicitude for the future, and content ourselves with
reflecting that our part is performed. He that waits for an opportunity
to do much at once, may breathe out his life in idle wishes, and regret,
in the last hour, his useless intentions, and barren zeal.

The most active promoters of the present schemes of charity cannot be
cleared from some instances of misconduct, which may awaken contempt or
censure, and hasten that neglect which is likely to come too soon of
itself. The open competitions between different hospitals, and the
animosity with which their patrons oppose one another, may prejudice
weak minds against them all. For it will not be easily believed, that
any man can, for good reasons, wish to exclude another from doing good.
The spirit of charity can only be continued by a reconciliation of these
ridiculous feuds; and therefore, instead of contentions who shall be the
only benefactors to the needy, let there be no other struggle than who
shall be the first.




No. 5. SATURDAY, MAY 13, 1758.

--[Greek: Kallos
Ant egcheon hapanton
Ant aspidon hapason]. ANAC.

Our military operations are at last begun; our troops are marching in
all the pomp of war, and a camp is marked out on the Isle of Wight; the
heart of every Englishman now swells with confidence, though somewhat
softened by generous compassion for the consternation and distresses of
our enemies.

This formidable armament and splendid march produce different effects
upon different minds, according to the boundless diversities of temper,
occupation, and habits of thought.

Many a tender maiden considers her lover as already lost, because he
cannot reach the camp but by crossing the sea; men of a more political
understanding are persuaded that we shall now see, in a few days, the
ambassadours of France supplicating for pity. Some are hoping for a
bloody battle, because a bloody battle makes a vendible narrative; some
are composing songs of victory; some planning arches of triumph; and
some are mixing fireworks for the celebration of a peace.

Of all extensive and complicated objects, different parts are selected
by different eyes; and minds are variously affected, as they vary their
attention. The care of the publick is now fixed upon our soldiers, who
are leaving their native country to wander, none can tell how long, in
the pathless deserts of the Isle of Wight. The tender sigh for their
sufferings, and the gay drink to their success. I, who look, or believe
myself to look, with more philosophick eyes on human affairs, must
confess, that I saw the troops march with little emotion; my thoughts
were fixed upon other scenes, and the tear stole into my eyes, not for
those who were going away, but for those who were left behind.

We have no reason to doubt but our troops will proceed with proper
caution; there are men among them who can take care of themselves. But
how shall the ladies endure without them? By what arts can they, who
have long had no joy but from the civilities of a soldier, now amuse
their hours, and solace their separation?

Of fifty thousand men, now destined to different stations, if we allow
each to have been occasionally necessary only to four women, a short
computation will inform us, that two hundred thousand ladies are left to
languish in distress; two hundred thousand ladies, who must run to sales
and auctions without an attendant; sit at the play, without a critick to
direct their opinion; buy their fans by their own judgment; dispose
shells by their own invention; walk in the Mall without a gallant; go to
the gardens without a protector; and shuffle cards with vain impatience,
for want of a fourth to complete the party.

Of these ladies, some, I hope, have lap-dogs, and some monkeys; but they
are unsatisfactory companions. Many useful offices are performed by men
of scarlet, to which neither dog nor monkey has adequate abilities. A
parrot, indeed, is as fine as a colonel, and, if he has been much used
to good company, is not wholly without conversation; but a parrot, after
all, is a poor little creature, and has neither sword nor shoulder-knot,
can neither dance nor play at cards.

Since the soldiers must obey the call of their duty, and go to that side
of the kingdom which faces France, I know not why the ladies, who cannot
live without them, should not follow them. The prejudices and pride of
man have long presumed the sword and spindle made for different hands,
and denied the other sex to partake the grandeur of military glory. This
notion may be consistently enough received in France, where the salick
law excludes females from the throne; but we, who allow them to be
sovereigns, may surely suppose them capable to be soldiers.

It were to be wished that some man, whose experience and authority might
enforce regard, would propose that our encampments for the present year
should comprise an equal number of men and women, who should march and
fight in mingled bodies. If proper colonels were once appointed, and the
drums ordered to beat for female volunteers, our regiments would soon be
filled without the reproach or cruelty of an impress.

Of these heroines, some might serve on foot under the denomination of
the _Female Buffs_, and some on horseback, with the title of _Lady
Hussars_.

What objections can be made to this scheme I have endeavoured maturely
to consider; and cannot find that a modern soldier has any duties,
except that of obedience, which a lady cannot perform. If the hair has
lost its powder, a lady has a puff; if a coat be spotted, a lady has a
brush. Strength is of less importance since fire-arms have been used;
blows of the hand are now seldom exchanged; and what is there to be done
in the charge or the retreat beyond the powers of a sprightly maiden?

Our masculine squadrons will not suppose themselves disgraced by their
auxiliaries, till they have done something which women could not have
done. The troops of Braddock never saw their enemies, and perhaps were
defeated by women. If our American general had headed an army of girls,
he might still have built a fort and taken it. Had Minorca been defended
by a female garrison, it might have been surrendered, as it was, without
a breach; and I cannot but think, that seven thousand women might have
ventured to look at Rochfort, sack a village, rob a vineyard, and return
in safety.




No. 6. SATURDAY, MAY 20, 1758.

[Greek: Tameion aretaes gennaia gynae]. GR. PRO.

The lady who had undertaken to ride on one horse a thousand miles in a
thousand hours, has completed her journey in little more than two-thirds
of the time stipulated, and was conducted through the last mile with
triumphal honours. Acclamation shouted before her, and all the flowers
of the spring were scattered in her way.

Every heart ought to rejoice when true merit is distinguished with
publick notice. I am far from wishing either to the amazon or her horse
any diminution of happiness or fame, and cannot but lament that they
were not more amply and suitably rewarded.

There was once a time when wreaths of bays or oak were considered as
recompenses equal to the most wearisome labours and terrifick dangers,
and when the miseries of long marches and stormy seas were at once
driven from the remembrance by the fragrance of a garland.

If this heroine had been born in ancient times, she might perhaps have
been delighted with the simplicity of ancient gratitude; or if any thing
was wanting to full satisfaction, she might have supplied the deficiency
with the hope of deification, and anticipated the altars that would be
raised, and the vows that would be made, by future candidates for
equestrian glory, to the patroness of the race and the goddess of the
stable.

But fate reserved her for a more enlightened age, which has discovered
leaves and flowers to be transitory things; which considers profit as
the end of honour; and rates the event of every undertaking only by the
money that is gained or lost. In these days, to strew the road with
daisies and lilies, is to mock merit, and delude hope. The toyman will
not give his jewels, nor the mercer measure out his silks, for vegetable
coin. A primrose, though picked up under the feet of the most renowned
courser, will neither be received as a stake at cards, nor procure a
seat at an opera, nor buy candles for a rout, nor lace for a livery. And
though there are many virtuosos, whose sole ambition is to possess
something which can be found in no other hand, yet some are more
accustomed to store their cabinets by theft than purchase, and none of
them would either steal or buy one of the flowers of gratulation till he
knows that all the rest are totally destroyed.

Little therefore did it avail this wonderful lady to be received,
however joyfully, with such obsolete and barren ceremonies of praise.
Had the way been covered with guineas, though but for the tenth part of
the last mile, she would have considered her skill and diligence as not
wholly lost; and might have rejoiced in the speed and perseverance which
had left her such superfluity of time, that she could at leisure gather
her reward without the danger of Atalanta's miscarriage.

So much ground could not indeed have been paved with gold but at a large
expense, and we are at present engaged in a war, which demands and
enforces frugality. But common rules are made only for common life, and
some deviation from general policy may be allowed in favour of a lady
that rode a thousand miles in a thousand hours.

Since the spirit of antiquity so much prevails amongst us, that even on
this great occasion we have given flowers instead of money, let us at
least complete our imitation of the ancients, and endeavour to transmit
to posterity the memory of that virtue, which we consider as superior to
pecuniary recompense. Let an equestrian statue of this heroine be
erected, near the starting-post on the heath of Newmarket, to fill
kindred souls with emulation, and tell the grand-daughters of our
grand-daughters what an English maiden has once performed.

As events, however illustrious, are soon obscured if they are intrusted
to tradition, I think it necessary, that the pedestal should be
inscribed with a concise account of this great performance. The
composition of this narrative ought not to be committed rashly to
improper hands. If the rhetoricians of Newmarket, who may be supposed
likely to conceive in its full strength the dignity of the subject,
should undertake to express it, there is danger lest they admit some
phrases which, though well understood at present, may be ambiguous in
another century. If posterity should read on a publick monument, that
_the lady carried her horse a thousand miles in a thousand hours_, they
may think that the statue and inscription are at variance, because one
will represent the horse as carrying his lady, and the other tell that
the lady carried her horse.

Some doubts likewise may be raised by speculatists, and some
controversies be agitated among historians, concerning the motive as
well as the manner of the action. As it will be known, that this wonder
was performed in a time of war, some will suppose that the lady was
frighted by invaders, and fled to preserve her life or her chastity:
others will conjecture, that she was thus honoured for some intelligence
carried of the enemy's designs: some will think that she brought news of
a victory; others, that she was commissioned to tell of a conspiracy;
and some will congratulate themselves on their acuter penetration, and
find, that all these notions of patriotism and publick spirit are
improbable and chimerical; they will confidently tell, that she only ran
away from her guardians, and that the true causes of her speed were fear
and love.

Let it therefore be carefully mentioned, that by this performance _she
won her wager_; and, lest this should, by any change of manners, seem an
inadequate or incredible incitement, let it be added, that at this time
the original motives of human actions had lost their influence; that the
love of praise was extinct; the fear of infamy was become ridiculous;
and the only wish of an Englishman was, _to win his wager_[1].

[1] The incident, so pleasingly ridiculed in this paper, happened in
1758; and the newspapers of the time gave it due importance.




No. 7. SATURDAY, MAY 27, 1758.

One of the principal amusements of the _Idler_ is to read the works of
those minute historians the writers of news, who, though contemptuously
overlooked by the composers of bulky volumes, are yet necessary in a
nation where much wealth produces much leisure, and one part of the
people has nothing to do but to observe the lives and fortunes of the
other.

To us, who are regaled every morning and evening with intelligence, and
are supplied from day to day with materials for conversation, it is
difficult to conceive how man can subsist without a newspaper, or to
what entertainment companies can assemble, in those wide regions of the
earth that have neither _Chronicles_ nor _Magazines_, neither _Gazettes_
nor _Advertisers_, neither _Journals_ nor _Evening Posts_.

There are never great numbers in any nation, whose reason or invention
can find employment for their tongues, who can raise a pleasing
discourse from their own stock of sentiments and images; and those few
who have qualified themselves by speculation for general disquisitions
are soon left without an audience. The common talk of men must relate to
facts in which the talkers have, or think they have, an interest; and
where such facts cannot be known, the pleasures of society will be
merely sensual. Thus the natives of the Mahometan empires, who approach
most nearly to European civility, have no higher pleasure at their
convivial assemblies than to hear a piper, or gaze upon a tumbler; and
no company can keep together longer than they are diverted by sounds or
shows.

All foreigners remark, that the knowledge of the common people of
England is greater than that of any other vulgar. This superiority we
undoubtedly owe to the rivulets of intelligence, which are continually
trickling among us, which every one may catch, and of which every one
partakes[1].

This universal diffusion of instruction is, perhaps, not wholly without
its inconveniencies; it certainly fills the nation with superficial
disputants; enables those to talk who were born to work; and affords
information sufficient to elate vanity, and stiffen obstinacy, but too
little to enlarge the mind into complete skill for full comprehension.

Whatever is found to gratify the publick, will be multiplied by the
emulation of venders beyond necessity or use. This plenty indeed
produces cheapness, but cheapness always ends in negligence and
depravation.

The compilation of newspapers is often committed to narrow and mercenary
minds, not qualified for the task of delighting or instructing; who are
content to fill their paper, with whatever matter, without industry to
gather, or discernment to select.

Thus journals are daily multiplied without increase of knowledge. The
tale of the morning paper is told again in the evening, and the
narratives of the evening are bought again in the morning. These
repetitions, indeed, waste time, but they do not shorten it. The most
eager peruser of news is tired before he has completed his labour; and
many a man, who enters the coffee-house in his nightgown and slippers,
is called away to his shop, or his dinner, before he has well considered
the state of Europe.

It is discovered by Reaumur, that spiders might make silk, if they could
be persuaded to live in peace together. The writers of news, if they
could be confederated, might give more pleasure to the publick. The
morning and evening authors might divide an event between them; a single
action, and that not of much importance, might be gradually discovered,
so as to vary a whole week with joy, anxiety, and conjecture.

We know that a French ship of war was lately taken by a ship of England;
but this event was suffered to burst upon us all at once, and then what
we knew already was echoed from day to day, and from week to week.

Let us suppose these spiders of literature to spin together, and inquire
to what an extensive web such another event might be regularly drawn,
and how six morning and six evening writers might agree to retail their
articles.

On _Monday Morning_ the Captain of a ship might arrive, who left the
_Friseur_ of _France_, and the _Bull-dog_, Captain _Grim_, in sight of
one another, so that an engagement seemed unavoidable.

_Monday Evening. _ A sound of cannon was heard off Cape Finisterre,
supposed to be those of the Bull-dog and Friseur.

_Tuesday Morning. _ It was this morning reported that the Bull-dog
engaged the Friseur, yard-arm and yard-arm, three glasses and a half,
but was obliged to sheer off for want of powder. It is hoped that
inquiry will be made into this affair in a proper place.

_Tuesday Evening. _ The account of the engagement between the Bull-dog
and Friseur was premature.

_Wednesday Morning. _ Another express is arrived, which brings news, that
the Friseur had lost all her masts, and three hundred of her men, in the
late engagement; and that Captain Grim is come into harbour much
shattered.

_Wednesday Evening. _ We hear that the brave Captain Grim, having
expended his powder, proposed to enter the Friseur sword in hand; but
that his lieutenant, the nephew of a certain nobleman, remonstrated
against it.

_Thursday Morning_. We wait impatiently for a full account of the late
engagement between the Bull-dog and Friseur.

_Thursday Evening_. It is said the order of the Bath will be sent to
Captain Grim.

_Friday Morning_. A certain Lord of the Admiralty has been heard to say
of a certain Captain, that if he had done his duty, a certain French
ship might have been taken. It was not thus that merit was rewarded in
the days of Cromwell.

_Friday Evening_. There is certain information at the Admiralty, that
the Friseur is taken, after a resistance of two hours.

_Saturday Morning_. A letter from one of the gunners of the Bull-dog
mentions the taking of the Friseur, and attributes their success wholly
to the bravery and resolution of Captain Grim, who never owed any of his
advancement to borough-jobbers, or any other corrupters of the people.

_Saturday Evening_. Captain Grim arrived at the Admiralty, with an
account that he engaged the Friseur, a ship of equal force with his own,
off Cape Finisterre, and took her after an obstinate resistance, having
killed one hundred and fifty of the French, with the loss of ninety-five
of his own men.



[1] For some pleasing remarks on this subject see De Lolme on the
constitution of England, chap. 12. We cannot retrain from quoting
here the speech of Sir James Mackintosh in the well known Peltier
cause. "A sort of prophetic instinct, if I may so speak, seems to
have revealed to her (Queen Elizabeth) the importance of that great
instrument, for rousing and guiding the minds of men, of the effects
of which she had no experience; which, since her time, has changed
the condition of the world; but which few modern statesmen have
thoroughly understood, or wisely employed; which is no doubt
connected with many ridiculous and degrading details; which has
produced, and may again produce, terrible mischiefs; but of which
the influence must after all be considered as the most certain
effect of the most efficacious cause of civilization; and which,
whether it be a blessing or a curse, is the most powerful engine
that a politician can move--I mean the Press. It is a curious fact,
that in the year of the Armada, Queen Elizabeth caused to be printed
the first Gazettes that ever appeared in England. "




No. 8. SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1758.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

In the time of publick danger, it is every man's duty to withdraw his
thoughts in some measure from his private interest, and employ part of
his time for the general welfare. National conduct ought to be the
result of national wisdom, a plan formed by mature consideration and
diligent selection out of all the schemes which may be offered, and all
the information which can be procured.

In a battle, every man should fight as if he was the single champion; in
preparations for war, every man should think, as if the last event
depended on his counsel. None can tell what discoveries are within his
reach, or how much he may contribute to the publick safety.

Full of these considerations, I have carefully reviewed the process of
the war, and find, what every other man has found, that we have hitherto
added nothing to our military reputation: that at one time we have been
beaten by enemies whom we did not see; and, at another, have avoided the
sight of enemies lest we should be beaten.

Whether our troops are defective in discipline or in courage, is not
very useful to inquire; they evidently want something necessary to
success; and he that shall supply that want will deserve well of his
country.

_To learn of an enemy_ has always been accounted politick and
honourable; and therefore I hope it will raise no prejudices against my
project, to confess that I borrowed it from a Frenchman.

When the Isle of Rhodes was, many centuries ago, in the hands of that
military order now called the Knights of Malta, it was ravaged by a
dragon, who inhabited a den under a rock, from which he issued forth
when he was hungry or wanton, and without fear or mercy devoured men and
beasts as they came in his way. Many councils were held, and many
devices offered, for his destruction; but as his back was armed with
impenetrable scales, none would venture to attack him. At last Dudon, a
French knight, undertook the deliverance of the island. From some place
of security, he took a view of the dragon, or, as a modern soldier would
say, _reconnoitred_ him, and observed that his belly was naked and
vulnerable. He then returned home to make his _arrangements_; and, by a
very exact imitation of nature, made a dragon of pasteboard, in the
belly of which he put beef and mutton, and accustomed two sturdy
mastiffs to feed themselves by tearing their way to the concealed flesh.
When his dogs were well practised in this method of plunder, he marched
out with them at his heels, and showed them the dragon; they rushed upon
him in quest of their dinner; Dudon battered his scull, while they
lacerated his belly; and neither his sting nor claws were able to defend
him.

Something like this might be practised in our present state. Let a
fortification be raised on Salisbury Plain, resembling Brest, or Toulon,
or Paris itself, with all the usual preparation for defence; let the
inclosure be filled with beef and ale: let the soldiers, from some
proper eminence, see shirts waving upon lines, and here and there a
plump landlady hurrying about with pots in her hands. When they are
sufficiently animated to advance, lead them in exact order, with fife
and drum, to that side whence the wind blows, till they come within the
scent of roast meat and tobacco. Contrive that they may approach the
place fasting about an hour after dinner-time, assure them that there is
no danger, and command an attack.

If nobody within either moves or speaks, it is not unlikely that they
may carry the place by storm; but if a panick should seize them, it will
be proper to defer the enterprise to a more hungry hour. When they have
entered, let them fill their bellies and return to the camp.

On the next day let the same place be shown them again, but with some
additions of strength or terrour. I cannot pretend to inform our
generals through what gradations of danger they should train their men
to fortitude. They best know what the soldiers and what themselves can
bear. It will be proper that the war should every day vary its
appearance. Sometimes, as they mount the rampart, a cook may throw fat
upon the fire, to accustom them to a sudden blaze; and sometimes, by the
clatter of empty pots, they may be inured to formidable noises. But let
it never be forgotten, that victory must repose with a full belly.

In time it will be proper to bring our French prisoners from the coast,
and place them upon the walls in martial order. At their first
appearance their hands must be tied, but they may be allowed to grin. In
a month they may guard the place with their hands loosed, provided that
on pain of death they be forbidden to strike.

By this method our army will soon be brought to look an enemy in the
face. But it has been lately observed, that fear is received by the ear
as well as the eyes; and the Indian war-cry is represented as too
dreadful to be endured; as a sound that will force the bravest veteran
to drop his weapon, and desert his rank; that will deafen his ear, and
chill his breast; that will neither suffer him to hear orders or to feel
shame, or retain any sensibility but the dread of death.

That the savage clamours of naked barbarians should thus terrify troops
disciplined to war, and ranged in array with arms in their hands, is
surely strange. But this is no time to reason. I am of opinion, that by
a proper mixture of asses, bulls, turkeys, geese, and tragedians, a
noise might be procured equally horrid with the war-cry. When our men
have been encouraged by frequent victories, nothing will remain but to
qualify them for extreme danger, by a sudden concert of terrifick
vociferation. When they have endured this last trial, let them be led to
action, as men who are no longer to be frightened; as men who can bear
at once the grimaces of the Gauls, and the howl of the Americans.




No. 9. SATURDAY, JUNE 10, 1758.

TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

I have read you; that is a favour few authors can boast of having
received from me besides yourself.