No More Learning

The
new world is itself a banquet; and, till we have exhausted the freshness
of life, we have always about us sufficient gratifications: the sunshine
quickens us to play, and the shade invites us to sleep.

But we soon become unsatisfied with negative felicity, and are solicited
by our senses and appetites to more powerful delights, as the taste of
him who has satisfied his hunger must be excited by artificial
stimulations. The simplicity of natural amusement is now past, and art
and contrivance must improve our pleasures; but, in time, art, like
nature, is exhausted, and the senses can no longer supply the cravings
of the intellect.

The attention is then transferred from pleasure to interest, in which
pleasure is perhaps included, though diffused to a wider extent, and
protracted through new gradations. Nothing now dances before the eyes
but wealth and power, nor rings in the ear, but the voice of fame;
wealth, to which, however variously denominated, every man at some time
or other aspires; power, which all wish to obtain within their circle of
action; and fame, which no man, however high or mean, however wise or
ignorant, was yet able to despise. Now prudence and foresight exert
their influence: no hour is devoted wholly to any present enjoyment, no
act or purpose terminates in itself, but every motion is referred to
some distant end; the accomplishment of one design begins another, and
the ultimate wish is always pushed off to its former distance.

At length fame is observed to be uncertain, and power to be dangerous;
the man whose vigour and alacrity begin to forsake him, by degrees
contracts his designs, remits his former multiplicity of pursuits, and
extends no longer his regard to any other honour than the reputation of
wealth, or any other influence than his power. Avarice is generally the
last passion of those lives of which the first part has been squandered
in pleasure, and the second devoted to ambition. He that sinks under the
fatigue of getting wealth, lulls his age with the milder business of
saving it.

I have in this view of life considered man as actuated only by natural
desires, and yielding to their own inclinations, without regard to
superior principles, by which the force of external agents may be
counteracted, and the temporary prevalence of passions restrained.
Nature will indeed always operate, human desires will be always ranging;
but these motions, though very powerful, are not resistless; nature may
be regulated, and desires governed; and, to contend with the
predominance of successive passions, to be endangered first by one
affection, and then by another, is the condition upon which we are to
pass our time, the time of our preparation for that state which shall
put an end to experiment, to disappointment, and to change.



No. 152. SATURDAY, AUGUST 31, 1751.

--Tristia maestum
Vullum verba decent, iratum plena minarum. HOR. De Ar. Poet. 105.

Disastrous words can best disaster shew;
In angry phrase the angry passions glow. ELPHINSTON.

"It was the wisdom," says Seneca, "of ancient times, to consider what is
most useful as most illustrious. " If this rule be applied to works of
genius, scarcely any species of composition deserves more to be
cultivated than the epistolary style, since none is of more various or
frequent use through the whole subordination of human life.

It has yet happened that, among the numerous writers which our nation
has produced, equal, perhaps, always in force and genius, and of late in
elegance and accuracy, to those of any other country, very few have
endeavoured to distinguish themselves by the publication of letters,
except such as were written in the discharge of publick trusts, and
during the transaction of great affairs; which, though they afford
precedents to the minister, and memorials to the historian, are of no
use as examples of the familiar style, or models of private
correspondence.

If it be inquired by foreigners, how this deficiency has happened in the
literature of a country, where all indulge themselves with so little
danger in speaking and writing, may we not without either bigotry or
arrogance inform them, that it must be imputed to our contempt of
trifles, and our due sense of the dignity of the publick? We do not
think it reasonable to fill the world with volumes from which nothing
can be learned, nor expect that the employments of the busy, or the
amusements of the gay, should give way to narratives of our private
affairs, complaints of absence, expressions of fondness, or declarations
of fidelity.

A slight perusal of the innumerable letters by which the wits of France
have signalized their names, will prove that other nations need not be
discouraged from the like attempts by the consciousness of inability;
for surely it is not very difficult to aggravate trifling misfortunes,
to magnify familiar incidents, repeat adulatory professions, accumulate
servile hyperboles, and produce all that can be found in the despicable
remains of Voiture and Scarron.

Yet, as much of life must be passed in affairs considerable only by
their frequent occurrence, and much of the pleasure which our condition
allows, must be produced by giving elegance to trifles, it is necessary
to learn how to become little without becoming mean, to maintain the
necessary intercourse of civility, and fill up the vacuities of actions
by agreeable appearances. It had therefore been of advantage, if such of
our writers as have excelled in the art of decorating insignificance,
had supplied us with a few sallies of innocent gaiety, effusions of
honest tenderness, or exclamations of unimportant hurry.

Precept has generally been posterior to performance. The art of
composing works of genius has never been taught but by the example of
those who performed it by natural vigour of imagination, and rectitude
of judgment. As we have few letters, we have likewise few criticisms
upon the epistolary style. The observations with which Walsh has
introduced his pages of inanity, are such as give him little claim to
the rank assigned him by Dryden among the criticks. _Letters_, says he,
_are intended as resemblances of conversation, and the chief
excellencies of conversation are good humour and good breeding_. This
remark, equally valuable for its novelty and propriety, he dilates and
enforces with an appearance of complete acquiescence in his own
discovery.

No man was ever in doubt about the moral qualities of a letter. It has
been always known that he who endeavours to please must appear pleased,
and he who would not provoke rudeness must not practise it. But the
question among those who establish rules for an epistolary performance
is how gaiety or civility may be properly expressed; as among the
criticks in history it is not contested whether truth ought to be
preserved, but by what mode of diction it is best adorned.

As letters are written on all subjects, in all states of mind, they
cannot be properly reduced to settled rules, or described by any single
characteristick; and we may safely disentangle our minds from critical
embarrassments, by determining that a letter has no peculiarity but its
form, and that nothing is to be refused admission, which would be proper
in any other method of treating the same subject. The qualities of the
epistolary style most frequently required, are ease and simplicity, an
even flow of unlaboured diction, and an artless arrangement of obvious
sentiments. But these directions are no sooner applied to use, than
their scantiness and imperfection become evident. Letters are written to
the great and to the mean, to the learned and the ignorant, at rest and
in distress, in sport and in passion. Nothing can be more improper than
ease and laxity of expression, when the importance of the subject
impresses solicitude, or the dignity of the person exacts reverence.

That letters should be written with strict conformity to nature is true,
because nothing but conformity to nature can make any composition
beautiful or just. But it is natural to depart from familiarity of
language upon occasions not familiar. Whatever elevates the sentiments
will consequently raise the expression; whatever fills us with hope or
terrour, will produce some perturbation of images and some figurative
distortions of phrase. Wherever we are studious to please, we are afraid
of trusting our first thoughts, and endeavour to recommend our opinion
by studied ornaments, accuracy of method, and elegance of style.

If the personages of the comick scene be allowed by Horace to raise
their language in the transports of anger to the turgid vehemence of
tragedy, the epistolary writer may likewise without censure comply with
the varieties of his matter. If great events are to be related, he may
with all the solemnity of an historian deduce them from their causes,
connect them with their concomitants, and trace them to their
consequences. If a disputed position is to be established, or a remote
principle to be investigated, he may detail his reasonings with all the
nicety of syllogistick method. If a menace is to be averted, or a
benefit implored, he may, without any violation of the edicts of
criticism, call every power of rhetorick to his assistance, and try
every inlet at which love or pity enters the heart.

Letters that have no other end than the entertainment of the
correspondents are more properly regulated by critical precepts, because
the matter and style are equally arbitrary, and rules are more
necessary, as there is a larger power of choice. In letters of this
kind, some conceive art graceful, and others think negligence amiable;
some model them by the sonnet, and will allow them no means of
delighting but the soft lapse of calm mellifluence; others adjust them
by the epigram, and expect pointed sentences and forcible periods. The
one party considers exemption from faults as the height of excellence,
the other looks upon neglect of excellence as the most disgusting fault;
one avoids censure, the other aspires to praise; one is always in danger
of insipidity, the other continually on the brink of affectation.

When the subject has no intrinsick dignity, it must necessarily owe its
attractions to artificial embellishments, and may catch at all
advantages which the art of writing can supply. He that, like Pliny,
sends his friend a portion for his daughter, will, without Pliny's
eloquence or address, find means of exciting gratitude, and securing
acceptance; but he that has no present to make but a garland, a riband,
or some petty curiosity, must endeavour to recommend it by his manner of
giving it.

The purpose for which letters are written when no intelligence is
communicated, or business transacted, is to preserve in the minds of the
absent either love or esteem: to excite love we must impart pleasure,
and to raise esteem we must discover abilities. Pleasure will generally
be given, as abilities are displayed by scenes of imagery, points of
conceit, unexpected sallies, and artful compliments. Trifles always
require exuberance of ornament; the building which has no strength can
be valued only for the grace of its decorations. The pebble must be
polished with care, which hopes to be valued as a diamond; and words
ought surely to be laboured, when they are intended to stand for things.



No. 153. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 1751

_Turba Remi? Sequitur Fortunam, ut semper, et odit
Damnatos_. JUV. Sat. x. 73.

The fickle crowd with fortune comes and goes;
Wealth still finds followers, and misfortune foes.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

There are occasions on which all apology is rudeness. He that has an
unwelcome message to deliver, may give some proof of tenderness and
delicacy, by a ceremonial introduction and gradual discovery, because
the mind, upon which the weight of sorrow is to fall, gains time for the
collection of its powers; but nothing is more absurd than to delay the
communication of pleasure, to torment curiosity by impatience, and to
delude hope by anticipation.

I shall therefore forbear the arts by which correspondents generally
secure admission, for I have too long remarked the power of vanity, to
doubt that I shall be read by you with a disposition to approve, when I
declare that my narrative has no other tendency than to illustrate and
corroborate your own observations.

I was the second son of a gentleman, whose patrimony had been wasted by
a long succession of squanderers, till he was unable to support any of
his children, except his heir, in the hereditary dignity of idleness.
Being therefore obliged to employ that part of life in study which my
progenitors had devoted to the hawk and hound, I was in my eighteenth
year despatched to the university, without any rural honours. I had
never killed a single woodcock, nor partaken one triumph over a
conquered fox.

At the university I continued to enlarge my acquisitions with little
envy of the noisy happiness which my elder brother had the fortune to
enjoy; and, having obtained my degree, retired to consider at leisure to
what profession I should confine that application which had hitherto
been dissipated in general knowledge. To deliberate upon a choice which
custom and honour forbid to be retracted, is certainly reasonable; yet
to let loose the attention equally to the advantages and inconveniencies
of every employment is not without danger; new motives are every moment
operating on every side; and mechanicks have long ago discovered, that
contrariety of equal attractions is equivalent to rest.

While I was thus trifling in uncertainty, an old adventurer, who had
been once the intimate friend of my father, arrived from the Indies with
a large fortune; which he had so much harassed himself in obtaining,
that sickness and infirmity left him no other desire than to die in his
native country. His wealth easily procured him an invitation to pass his
life with us; and, being incapable of any amusement but conversation, he
necessarily became familiarized to me, whom he found studious and
domestick. Pleased with an opportunity of imparting my knowledge, and
eager of any intelligence that might increase it, I delighted his
curiosity with historical narratives and explications of nature, and
gratified his vanity by inquiries after the products of distant
countries, and the customs of their inhabitants.

My brother saw how much I advanced in the favour of our guest, who,
being without heirs, was naturally expected to enrich the family of his
friend, but never attempted to alienate me, nor to ingratiate himself.
He was, indeed, little qualified to solicit the affection of a
traveller, for the remissness of his education had left him without any
rule of action but his present humour. He often forsook the old
gentleman in the midst of an adventure, because the horn sounded in the
court-yard, and would have lost an opportunity, not only of knowing the
history, but sharing the wealth of the mogul, for the trial of a new
pointer, or the sight of a horse-race.

It was therefore not long before our new friend declared his intention
of bequeathing to me the profits of his commerce, as the only man in the
family by whom he could expect them to be rationally enjoyed. This
distinction drew upon me the envy not only of my brother but my father.

As no man is willing to believe that he suffers by his own fault, they
imputed the preference which I had obtained to adulatory compliances, or
malignant calumnies. To no purpose did I call upon my patron to attest
my innocence, for who will believe what he wishes to be false? In the
heat of disappointment they forced their inmate by repeated insults to
depart from the house, and I was soon, by the same treatment, obliged to
follow him.

He chose his residence in the confines of London, where rest,
tranquillity, and medicine, restored him to part of the health which he
had lost. I pleased myself with perceiving that I was not likely to
obtain the immediate possession of wealth which no labour of mine had
contributed to acquire; and that he, who had thus distinguished me,
might hope to end his life without a total frustration of those
blessings, which, whatever be their real value, he had sought with so
much diligence, and purchased with so many vicissitudes of danger and
fatigue.

He, indeed, left me no reason to repine at his recovery, for he was
willing to accustom me early to the use of money, and set apart for my
expenses such a revenue as I had scarcely dared to image. I can yet
congratulate myself that fortune has seen her golden cup once tasted
without inebriation. Neither my modesty nor prudence was overwhelmed by
affluence; my elevation was without insolence, and my expense without
profusion. Employing the influence which money always confers, to the
improvement of my understanding, I mingled in parties of gaiety, and in
conferences of learning, appeared in every place where instruction was
to be found, and imagined that, by ranging through all the diversities
of life, I had acquainted myself fully with human nature, and learned
all that was to be known of the ways of men.

It happened, however, that I soon discovered how much was wanted to the
completion of my knowledge, and found that, according to Seneca's
remark, I had hitherto seen the world but on one side. My patron's
confidence in his increase of strength tempted him to carelessness and
irregularity; he caught a fever by riding in the rain, of which he died
delirious on the third day. I buried him without any of the heir's
affected grief or secret exultation; then preparing to take a legal
possession of his fortune, I opened his closet, where I found a will,
made at his first arrival, by which my father was appointed the chief
inheritor, and nothing was left me but a legacy sufficient to support me
in the prosecution of my studies.

I had not yet found such charms in prosperity as to continue it by any
acts of forgery or injustice, and made haste to inform my father of the
riches which had been given him, not by the preference of kindness, but
by the delays of indolence and cowardice of age. The hungry family flew
like vultures on their prey, and soon made my disappointment publick, by
the tumult of their claims, and the splendour of their sorrow.

It was now my part to consider how I should repair the disappointment. I
could not but triumph in my long list of friends, which comprised almost
every name that power or knowledge entitled to eminence; and, in the
prospect of the innumerable roads to honour and preferment, which I had
laid open to myself by the wise use of temporary riches, I believed
nothing necessary but that I should continue that acquaintance to which
I had been so readily admitted, and which had hitherto been cultivated
on both sides with equal ardour.

Full of these expectations, I one morning ordered a chair, with an
intention to make my usual circle of morning visits. Where I first
stopped I saw two footmen lolling at the door, who told me without any
change of posture, or collection of countenance, that their master was
at home, and suffered me to open the inner door without assistance. I
found my friend standing, and, as I was tattling with my former freedom,
was formally entreated to sit down; but did not stay to be favoured with
any further condescensions.

My next experiment was made at the levee of a statesman, who received me
with an embrace of tenderness, that he might with more decency publish
my change of fortune to the sycophants about him. After he had enjoyed
the triumph of condolence, he turned to a wealthy stockjobber, and left
me exposed to the scorn of those who had lately courted my notice, and
solicited my interest.

I was then set down at the door of another, who, upon my entrance,
advised me, with great solemnity, to think of some settled provision for
life. I left him, and hurried away to an old friend, who professed
himself unsusceptible of any impressions from prosperity or misfortune,
and begged that he might see me when he was more at leisure.

Of sixty-seven doors, at which I knocked in the first week after my
appearance in a mourning dress, I was denied admission at forty-six; was
suffered at fourteen to wait in the outer room till business was
despatched; at four, was entertained with a few questions about the
weather; at one, heard the footman rated for bringing my name; and at
two was informed, in the flow of casual conversation, how much a man of
rank degrades himself by mean company.

My curiosity now led me to try what reception I should find among the
ladies; but I found that my patron had carried all my powers of pleasing
to the grave. I had formerly been celebrated as a wit, and not
perceiving any languor in my imagination, I essayed to revive that
gaiety which had hitherto broken out involuntarily before my sentences
were finished. My remarks were now heard with a steady countenance, and
if a girl happened to give way to habitual merriment, her forwardness
was repressed with a frown by her mother or her aunt.

Wherever I come I scatter infirmity and disease; every lady whom I meet
in the Mall is too weary to walk; all whom I entreat to sing are
troubled with colds: if I propose cards, they are afflicted with the
head-ach; [Transcriber's note: sic] if I invite them to the gardens,
they cannot bear a crowd.

All this might be endured; but there is a class of mortals who think my
understanding impaired with my fortune, exalt themselves to the dignity
of advice, and, whenever we happen to meet, presume to prescribe my
conduct, regulate my economy, and direct my pursuits. Another race,
equally impertinent and equally despicable, are every moment
recommending to me an attention to my interest, and think themselves
entitled, by their superior prudence, to reproach me if I speak or move
without regard to profit.

Such, Mr. Rambler, is the power of wealth, that it commands the ear of
greatness and the eye of beauty, gives spirit to the dull, and authority
to the timorous, and leaves him from whom it departs, without virtue and
without understanding, the sport of caprice, the scoff of insolence, the
slave of meanness, and the pupil of ignorance.

I am, &c.



No. 154. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 1751.

_--Tibi res antiquae laudis et artis
Ingredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes_. VIR. Geo. ii. 174.

For thee my tuneful accents will I raise,
And treat of arts disclos'd in ancient days;
Once more unlock for thee the sacred spring. DRYDEN.

The direction of Aristotle to those that study politicks, is first to
examine and understand what has been written by the ancients upon
government; then to cast their eyes round upon the world, and consider
by what causes the prosperity of communities is visibly influenced, and
why some are worse, and others better administered.

The same method must be pursued by him who hopes to become eminent in
any other part of knowledge. The first task is to search books, the next
to contemplate nature. He must first possess himself of the intellectual
treasures which the diligence of former ages has accumulated, and then
endeavour to increase them by his own collections.

The mental disease of the present generation, is impatience of study,
contempt of the great masters of ancient wisdom, and a disposition to
rely wholly upon unassisted genius and natural sagacity. The wits of
these happy days have discovered a way to fame, which the dull caution
of our laborious ancestors durst never attempt; they cut the knots of
sophistry which it was formerly the business of years to untie, solve
difficulties by sudden irradiations of intelligence, and comprehend long
processes of argument by immediate intuition.

Men who have flattered themselves into this opinion of their own
abilities, look down on all who waste their lives over books, as a race
of inferior beings, condemned by nature to perpetual pupilage, and
fruitlessly endeavouring to remedy their barrenness by incessant
cultivation, or succour their feebleness by subsidiary strength. They
presume that none would be more industrious than they, if they were not
more sensible of deficiencies; and readily conclude, that he who places
no confidence in his own powers, owes his modesty only to his weakness.

It is however certain, that no estimate is more in danger of erroneous
calculations than those by which a man computes the force of his own
genius. It generally happens at our entrance into the world, that, by
the natural attraction of similitude, we associate with men like
ourselves, young, sprightly, and ignorant, and rate our accomplishments
by comparison with theirs; when we have once obtained an acknowledged
superiority over our acquaintances, imagination and desire easily extend
it over the rest of mankind, and if no accident forces us into new
emulations, we grow old, and die in admiration of ourselves.

Vanity, thus confirmed in her dominion, readily listens to the voice of
idleness, and sooths the slumber of life with continual dreams of
excellence and greatness. A man, elated by confidence in his natural
vigour of fancy and sagacity of conjecture, soon concludes that he
already possesses whatever toil and inquiry can confer. He then listens
with eagerness to the wild objections which folly has raised against the
common means of improvement; talks of the dark chaos of indigested
knowledge; describes the mischievous effects of heterogeneous sciences
fermenting in the mind; relates the blunders of lettered ignorance;
expatiates on the heroick merit of those who deviate from prescription,
or shake off authority; and gives vent to the inflations of his heart by
declaring that he owes nothing to pedants and universities.

All these pretensions, however confident, are very often vain. The
laurels which superficial acuteness gains in triumphs over ignorance
unsupported by vivacity, are observed by Locke to be lost, whenever real
learning and rational diligence appear against her; the sallies of
gaiety are soon repressed by calm confidence; and the artifices of
subtilty are readily detected by those, who, having carefully studied
the question, are not easily confounded or surprised.

But, though the contemner of books had neither been deceived by others
nor himself, and was really born with a genius surpassing the ordinary
abilities of mankind; yet surely such gifts of Providence may be more
properly urged as incitements to labour, than encouragements to
negligence. He that neglects the culture of ground naturally fertile, is
more shamefully culpable, than he whose field would scarcely recompense
his husbandry.

Cicero remarks, that not to know what has been transacted in former
times, is to continue always a child. If no use is made of the labours
of past ages, the world must remain always in the infancy of knowledge.
The discoveries of every man must terminate in his own advantage, and
the studies of every age be employed on questions which the past
generation had discussed and determined. We may with as little reproach
borrow science as manufactures from our ancestors; and it is as rational
to live in caves till our own hands have erected a palace, as to reject
all knowledge of architecture which our understandings will not supply.

To the strongest and quickest mind it is far easier to learn than to
invent. The principles of arithmetick and geometry may be comprehended
by a close attention in a few days; yet who can flatter himself that the
study of a long life would have enabled him to discover them, when he
sees them yet unknown to so many nations, whom he cannot suppose less
liberally endowed with natural reason, than the Grecians or Egyptians?

Every science was thus far advanced towards perfection, by the emulous
diligence of contemporary students, and the gradual discoveries of one
age improving on another. Sometimes unexpected flashes of instruction
were struck out by the fortuitous collision of happy incidents, or an
involuntary concurrence of ideas, in which the philosopher to whom they
happened had no other merit than that of knowing their value, and
transmitting, unclouded, to posterity, that light which had been kindled
by causes out of his power. The happiness of these casual illuminations
no man can promise to himself, because no endeavours can procure them;
and therefore whatever be our abilities or application, we must submit
to learn from others what perhaps would have lain hid for ever from
human penetration, had not some remote inquiry brought it to view; as
treasures are thrown up by the ploughman and the digger in the rude
exercise of their common occupations. The man whose genius qualifies him
for great undertakings, must at least be content to learn from books the
present state of human knowledge; that he may not ascribe to himself the
invention of arts generally known; weary his attention with experiments
of which the event has been long registered; and waste, in attempts
which have already succeeded or miscarried, that time which might have
been spent with usefulness and honour upon new undertakings.

But, though the study of books is necessary, it is not sufficient to
constitute literary eminence. He that wishes to be counted among the
benefactors of posterity, must add by his own toil to the acquisitions
of his ancestors, and secure his memory from neglect by some valuable
improvement. This can only be effected by looking out upon the wastes of
the intellectual world, and extending the power of learning over regions
yet undisciplined and barbarous; or by surveying more exactly our
ancient dominions, and driving ignorance from the fortresses and
retreats where she skulks undetected and undisturbed. Every science has
its difficulties, which yet call for solution before we attempt new
systems of knowledge; as every country has its forests and marshes,
which it would be wise to cultivate and drain, before distant colonies
are projected as a necessary discharge of the exuberance of inhabitants.

No man ever yet became great by imitation. Whatever hopes for the
veneration of mankind must have invention in the design or the
execution; either the effect must itself be new, or the means by which
it is produced. Either truths hitherto unknown must be discovered, or
those which are already known enforced by stronger evidence, facilitated
by clearer method, or elucidated by brighter illustrations.

Fame cannot spread wide or endure long that is not rooted in nature, and
matured by art. That which hopes to resist the blast of malignity, and
stand firm against the attacks of time, must contain in itself some
original principle of growth. The reputation which arises from the
detail or transposition of borrowed sentiments, may spread for awhile,
like ivy on the rind of antiquity, but will be torn away by accident or
contempt, and suffered to rot unheeded on the ground.



No. 155. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 1751.

_--Steriles transmisimus annos,
Haec aevi mihi prima dies, haec limina vitae_. STAT. i. 362.

--Our barren years are past;
Be this of life the first, of sloth the last. ELPHINSTON.

No weakness of the human mind has more frequently incurred
animadversion, than the negligence with which men overlook their own
faults, however flagrant, and the easiness with which they pardon them,
however frequently repeated.

It seems generally believed, that as the eye cannot see itself, the mind
has no faculties by which it can contemplate its own state, and that
therefore we have not means of becoming acquainted with our real
characters; an opinion which, like innumerable other postulates, an
inquirer finds himself inclined to admit upon very little evidence,
because it affords a ready solution of many difficulties. It will
explain why the greatest abilities frequently fail to promote the
happiness of those who possess them; why those who can distinguish with
the utmost nicety the boundaries of vice and virtue, suffer them to be
confounded in their own conduct; why the active and vigilant resign
their affairs implicitly to the management of others; and why the
cautious and fearful make hourly approaches towards ruin, without one
sigh of solicitude or struggle for escape.

When a position teems thus with commodious consequences, who can without
regret confess it to be false? Yet it is certain that declaimers have
indulged a disposition to describe the dominion of the passions as
extended beyond the limits that nature assigned. Self-love is often
rather arrogant than blind; it does not hide our faults from ourselves,
but persuades us that they escape the notice of others, and disposes us
to resent censures lest we should confess them to be just. We are
secretly conscious of defects and vices, which we hope to conceal from
the publick eye, and please ourselves with innumerable impostures, by
which, in reality, nobody is deceived.

In proof of the dimness of our internal sight, or the general inability
of man to determine rightly concerning his own character, it is common
to urge the success of the most absurd and incredible flattery, and the
resentment always raised by advice, however soft, benevolent, and
reasonable. But flattery, if its operation be nearly examined, will be
found to owe its acceptance, not to our ignorance, but knowledge of our
failures, and to delight us rather as it consoles our wants than
displays our possessions. He that shall solicit the favour of his patron
by praising him for qualities which he can find in himself, will be
defeated by the more daring panegyrist who enriches him with
adscititious excellence. Just praise is only a debt, but flattery is a
present. The acknowledgment of those virtues on which conscience
congratulates us, is a tribute that we can at any time exact with
confidence; but the celebration of those which we only feign, or desire
without any vigorous endeavours to attain them, is received as a
confession of sovereignty over regions never conquered, as a favourable
decision of disputable claims, and is more welcome as it is more
gratuitous.

Advice is offensive, not because it lays us open to unexpected regret,
or convicts us of any fault which had escaped our notice, but because it
shews us that we are known to others as well as to ourselves; and the
officious monitor is persecuted with hatred, not because his accusation
is false, but because he assumes that superiority which we are not
willing to grant him, and has dared to detect what we desired to
conceal.

For this reason advice is commonly ineffectual. If those who follow the
call of their desires, without inquiry whither they are going, had
deviated ignorantly from the paths of wisdom, and were rushing upon
dangers unforeseen, they would readily listen to information that recals
them from their errours, and catch the first alarm by which destruction
or infamy is denounced. Few that wander in the wrong way mistake it for
the right, they only find it more smooth and flowery, and indulge their
own choice rather than approve it: therefore few are persuaded to quit
it by admonition or reproof, since it impresses no new conviction, nor
confers any powers of action or resistance. He that is gravely informed
how soon profusion will annihilate his fortune, hears with little
advantage what he knew before, and catches at the next occasion of
expense, because advice has no force to suppress his vanity. He that is
told how certainly intemperance will hurry him to the grave, runs with
his usual speed to a new course of luxury, because his reason is not
invigorated, nor his appetite weakened.

The mischief of flattery is, not that it persuades any man that he is
what he is not, but that it suppresses the influence of honest ambition,
by raising an opinion that honour may be gained without the toil of
merit; and the benefit of advice arises commonly not from any new light
imparted to the mind, but from the discovery which it affords of the
publick suffrages. He that could withstand conscience is frighted at
infamy, and shame prevails when reason is defeated.

As we all know our own faults, and know them commonly with many
aggravations which human perspicacity cannot discover, there is,
perhaps, no man, however hardened by impudence or dissipated by levity,
sheltered by hypocrisy or blasted by disgrace, who does not intend some
time to review his conduct, and to regulate the remainder of his life by
the laws of virtue. New temptations indeed attack him, new invitations
are offered by pleasure and interest, and the hour of reformation is
always delayed; every delay gives vice another opportunity of fortifying
itself by habit; and the change of manners, though sincerely intended
and rationally planned, is referred to the time when some craving
passion shall be fully gratified, or some powerful allurement cease its
importunity.

Thus procrastination is accumulated on procrastination, and one
impediment succeeds another, till age shatters our resolution, or death
intercepts the project of amendment. Such is often the end of salutary
purposes, after they have long delighted the imagination, and appeased
that disquiet which every mind feels from known misconduct, when the
attention is not diverted by business or by pleasure.

Nothing surely can be more unworthy of a reasonable nature, than to
continue in a state so opposite to real happiness, as that all the peace
of solitude, and felicity of meditation, must arise from resolutions of
forsaking it.
Yet the world will often afford examples of men, who pass
months and years in a continual war with their own convictions, and are
daily dragged by habit, or betrayed by passion, into practices which
they closed and opened their eyes with purposes to avoid; purposes
which, though settled on conviction, the first impulse of momentary
desire totally overthrows.

The influence of custom is indeed such, that to conquer it will require
the utmost efforts of fortitude and virtue; nor can I think any man more
worthy of veneration and renown, than those who have burst the shackles
of habitual vice. This victory, however, has different degrees of glory
as of difficulty; it is more, heroick as the objects of guilty
gratification are more familiar, and the recurrence of solicitation more
frequent. He that, from experience of the folly of ambition, resigns his
offices, may set himself free at once from temptation to squander his
life in courts, because he cannot regain his former station. He who is
enslaved by an amorous passion, may quit his tyrant in disgust, and
absence will, without the help of reason, overcome by degrees the desire
of returning. But those appetites to which every place affords their
proper object, and which require no preparatory measures or gradual
advances, are more tenaciously adhesive; the wish is so near the
enjoyment, that compliance often precedes consideration, and, before the
powers of reason can be summoned, the time for employing them is past.

Indolence is therefore one of the vices from which those whom it once
infects are seldom reformed. Every other species of luxury operates upon
some appetite that is quickly satiated, and requires some concurrence of
art or accident which every place will not supply; but the desire of
ease acts equally at all hours, and the longer it is indulged is the
more increased. To do nothing is in every man's power; we can never want
an opportunity of omitting duties. The lapse to indolence is soft and
imperceptible, because it is only a mere cessation of activity; but the
return to diligence is difficult, because it implies a change from rest
to motion, from privation to reality:

--_Facilis descensus Averni:
Noctes atque dies patet atri junua ditis;
Sed revocare gradum, saperasque evadere ad auras,
Hoc opus, hic labor est_. --VIR. Aen. Lib. vi. 126.

The gates of Hell are open night and day;
Smooth the descent, and easy is the way;
But to return, and view the cheerful skies,
In this the task and mighty labour lies. DRYDEN.

Of this vice, as of all others, every man who indulges it is conscious:
we all know our own state, if we could be induced to consider it, and it
might perhaps be useful to the conquest of all these ensnarers of the
mind, if, at certain stated days, life was reviewed. Many things
necessary are omitted, because we vainly imagine that they may be always
performed; and what cannot be done without pain will for ever be
delayed, if the time of doing it be left unsettled. No corruption is
great but by long negligence, which can scarcely prevail in a mind
regularly and frequently awakened by periodical remorse. He that thus
breaks his life into parts, will find in himself a desire to distinguish
every stage of his existence by some improvement, and delight himself
with the approach of the day of recollection, as of the time which is to
begin a new series of virtue and felicity.



No. 156. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 1751.

_Nunquam aliud Natura, aliud Sapientia dicit_. Juv. Sat. xiv. 321.

For Wisdom ever echoes Nature's voice.

Every government, say the politicians, is perpetually degenerating
towards corruption, from which it must be rescued at certain periods by
the resuscitation of its first principles, and the re-establishment of
its original constitution. Every animal body, according to the methodick
physicians, is, by the predominance of some exuberant quality,
continually declining towards disease and death, which must be obviated
by a seasonable reduction of the peccant humour to the just equipoise
which health requires.

In the same manner the studies of mankind, all at least which, not being
subject to rigorous demonstration, admit the influence of fancy and
caprice, are perpetually tending to errour and confusion. Of the great
principles of truth which the first speculatists discovered, the
simplicity is embarrassed by ambitious additions, or the evidence
obscured by inaccurate argumentation; and as they descend from one
succession of writers to another, like light transmitted from room to
room, they lose their strength and splendour, and fade at last in total
evanescence.

The systems of learning therefore must be sometimes reviewed,
complications analyzed into principles, and knowledge disentangled from
opinion. It is not always possible, without a close inspection, to
separate the genuine shoots of consequential reasoning, which grow out
of some radical postulate, from the branches which art has ingrafted on
it. The accidental prescriptions of authority, when time has procured
them veneration, are often confounded with the laws of nature, and those
rules are supposed coëval with reason, of which the first rise cannot be
discovered.

Criticism has sometimes permitted fancy to dictate the laws by which
fancy ought to be restrained, and fallacy to perplex the principles by
which fallacy is to be detected; her superintendence of others has
betrayed her to negligence of herself; and, like the ancient Scythians,
by extending her conquests over distant regions, she has left her throne
vacant to her slaves.

Among the laws of which the desire of extending authority, or ardour of
promoting knowledge, has prompted the prescription, all which writers
have received, had not the same original right to our regard. Some are
to be considered as fundamental and indispensable, others only as useful
and convenient; some as dictated by reason and necessity, others as
enacted by despotick antiquity; some as invincibly supported by their
conformity to the order of nature and operations of the intellect;
others as formed by accident, or instituted by example, and therefore
always liable to dispute and alteration.

That many rules have been advanced without consulting nature or reason,
we cannot but suspect, when we find it peremptorily decreed by the
ancient masters, that only three speaking personages should appear at
once upon the stage; a law, which, as the variety and intricacy of
modern plays has made it impossible to be observed, we now violate
without scruple, and, as experience proves, without inconvenience.

The original of this precept was merely accidental. Tragedy was a
monody, or solitary song in honour of Bacchus, improved afterwards into
a dialogue by the addition of another speaker; but the ancients,
remembering that the tragedy was at first pronounced only by one, durst
not for some time venture beyond two; at last, when custom and impunity
had made them daring, they extended their liberty to the admission of
three, but restrained themselves by a critical edict from further
exorbitance.

By what accident the number of acts was limited to five, I know not that
any author has informed us; but certainly it is not determined by any
necessity arising either from the nature of action, or propriety of
exhibition. An act is only the representation of such a part of the
business of the play as proceeds in an unbroken tenour, or without any
intermediate pause. Nothing is more evident than that of every real, and
by consequence of every dramatick action, the intervals may be more or
fewer than five; and indeed the rule is upon the English stage every day
broken in effect, without any other mischief than that which arises from
an absurd endeavour to observe it in appearance. Whenever the scene is
shifted the act ceases, since some time is necessarily supposed to
elapse while the personages of the drama change their place.

With no greater right to our obedience have the criticks confined the
dramatick action to a certain number of hours. Probability requires that
the time of action should approach somewhat nearly to that of
exhibition, and those plays will always be thought most happily
conducted which crowd the greatest, variety into the least space. But
since it will frequently happen that some delusion must be admitted, I
know not where the limits of imagination can be fixed. It is rarely
observed that minds, not prepossessed by mechanical criticism, feel any
offence from the extension of the intervals between the acts; nor can I
conceive it absurd or impossible, that he who can multiply three hours
into twelve or twenty-four, might imagine with equal ease a greater
number.

I know not whether he that professes to regard no other laws than those
of nature, will not be inclined to receive tragi-comedy to his
protection, whom, however generally condemned, her own laurels have
hitherto shaded from the fulminations of criticism. For what is there in
the mingled drama which impartial reason can condemn? The connexion of
important with trivial incidents, since it is not only common but
perpetual in the world, may surely be allowed upon the stage, which
pretends only to be the mirror of life. The impropriety of suppressing
passions before we have raised them to the intended agitation, and of
diverting the expectation from an event which we keep suspended only to
raise it, may be speciously urged. But will not experience shew this
objection to be rather subtle than just? Is it not certain that the
tragick and comick affections have been moved alternately with equal
force, and that no plays have oftener filled the eye with tears, and the
breast with palpitation, than those which are variegated with interludes
of mirth?

I do not however think it safe to judge of works of genius merely by the
event. The resistless vicissitudes of the heart, this alternate
prevalence of merriment and solemnity, may sometimes be more properly
ascribed to the vigour of the writer than the justness of the design:
and, instead of vindicating tragi-comedy by the success of Shakspeare,
we ought, perhaps, to pay new honours to that transcendent and unbounded
genius that could preside over the passions in sport; who, to actuate
the affections, needed not the slow gradation of common means, but could
fill the heart with instantaneous jollity or sorrow, and vary our
disposition as he changed his scenes. Perhaps the effects even of
Shakspeare's poetry might have been yet greater, had he not counteracted
himself; and we might have been more interested in the distresses of his
heroes, had we not been so frequently diverted by the jokes of his
buffoons.

There are other rules more fixed and obligatory. It is necessary that of
every play the chief action should be single; for since a play
represents some transaction, through its regular maturation to its final
event, two actions equally important must evidently constitute two
plays.

As the design of tragedy is to instruct by moving the passions, it must
always have a hero, a personage apparently and incontestably superior to
the rest, upon whom the attention may be fixed, and the anxiety
suspended. For though, of two persons opposing each other with equal
abilities and equal virtue, the auditor will inevitably, in time, choose
his favourite, yet as that choice must be without any cogency of
conviction, the hopes or fears which it raises will be faint and
languid. Of two heroes acting in confederacy against a common enemy, the
virtues or dangers will give little emotion, because each claims our
concern with the same right, and the heart lies at rest between equal
motives.

It ought to be the first endeavour of a writer to distinguish nature
from custom; or that which is established because it is right, from that
which is right only because it is established; that he may neither
violate essential principles by a desire of novelty, nor debar himself
from the attainment of beauties within his view, by a needless fear of
breaking rules which no literary dictator had authority to enact.



No. 157. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 1751.

[Greek:--Oi aidos
Ginetai ae t' andras mega sinetai aed' oninaesi. ]
HOM. Il. [Greek: O. ] 44.

Shame greatly hurts or greatly helps mankind. ELPHINSTON.

TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

Though one of your correspondents has presumed to mention with some
contempt that presence of attention and easiness of address, which the
polite have long agreed to celebrate and esteem, yet I cannot be
persuaded to think them unworthy of regard or cultivation; but am
inclined to believe that, as we seldom value rightly what we have never
known the misery of wanting, his judgment has been vitiated by his
happiness; and that a natural exuberance of assurance has hindered him
from discovering its excellence and use.

This felicity, whether bestowed by constitution, or obtained by early
habitudes, I can scarcely contemplate without envy. I was bred under a
man of learning in the country, who inculcated nothing but the dignity
of knowledge, and the happiness of virtue. By frequency of admonition,
and confidence of assertion, he prevailed upon me to believe, that the
splendour of literature would always attract reverence, if not darkened
by corruption. I therefore pursued my studies with incessant industry,
and avoided every thing which I had been taught to consider either as
vicious or tending to vice, because I regarded guilt and reproach as
inseparably united, and thought a tainted reputation the greatest
calamity.

At the university, I found no reason for changing my opinion; for though
many among my fellow-students took the opportunity of a more remiss
discipline to gratify their passions; yet virtue preserved her natural
superiority, and those who ventured to neglect, were not suffered to
insult her. The ambition of petty accomplishments found its way into the
receptacles of learning, but was observed to seize commonly on those who
either neglected the sciences or could not attain them; and I was
therefore confirmed in the doctrines of my old master, and thought
nothing worthy of my care but the means of gaining or imparting
knowledge.

This purity of manners, and intenseness of application, soon extended my
renown, and I was applauded by those, whose opinion I then thought
unlikely to deceive me, as a young man that gave uncommon hopes of
future eminence. My performances in time reached my native province, and
my relations congratulated themselves upon the new honours that were
added to their family.

I returned home covered with academical laurels, and fraught with
criticism and philosophy. The wit and the scholar excited curiosity, and
my acquaintance was solicited by innumerable invitations. To please will
always be the wish of benevolence, to be admired must be the constant
aim of ambition; and I therefore considered myself as about to receive
the reward of my honest labours, and to find the efficacy of learning
and of virtue.

The third day after my arrival I dined at the house of a gentleman who
had summoned a multitude of his friends to the annual celebration of his
wedding-day. I set forward with great exultation, and thought myself
happy that I had an opportunity of displaying my knowledge to so
numerous an assembly. I felt no sense of my own insufficiency, till,
going up stairs to the dining-room, I heard the mingled roar of
obstreperous merriment. I was, however, disgusted rather than terrified,
and went forward without dejection. The whole company rose at my
entrance; but when I saw so many eyes fixed at once upon me, I was
blasted with a sudden imbecility, I was quelled by some nameless power
which I found impossible to be resisted. My sight was dazzled, my cheeks
glowed, my perceptions were confounded; I was harassed by the multitude
of eager salutations, and returned the common civilities with hesitation
and impropriety; the sense of my own blunders increased my confusion,
and, before the exchange of ceremonies allowed me to sit down, I was
ready to sink under the oppression of surprise; my voice grew weak, and
my knees trembled.

The assembly then resumed their places, and I sat with my eyes fixed
upon the ground. To the questions of curiosity, or the appeals of
complaisance, I could seldom answer but with negative monosyllables, or
professions of ignorance; for the subjects on which they conversed, were
such as are seldom discussed in books, and were therefore out of my
range of knowledge. At length an old clergyman, who rightly conjectured
the reason of my conciseness, relieved me by some questions about the
present state of natural knowledge, and engaged me, by an appearance of
doubt and opposition, in the explication and defence of the Newtonian
philosophy.

The consciousness of my own abilities roused me from depression, and
long familiarity with my subject enabled me to discourse with ease and
volubility; but, however I might please myself, I found very little
added by my demonstrations to the satisfaction of the company; and my
antagonist, who knew the laws of conversation too well to detain their
attention long upon an unpleasing topick, after he had commended my
acuteness and comprehension, dismissed the controversy, and resigned me
to my former insignificance and perplexity.

After dinner, I received from the ladies, who had heard that I was a
wit, an invitation to the tea-table. I congratulated myself upon an
opportunity to escape from the company, whose gaiety began to be
tumultuous, and among whom several hints had been dropped of the
uselessness of universities, the folly of book-learning, and the
awkwardness of scholars. To the ladies, therefore, I flew, as to a
refuge from clamour, insult, and rusticity; but found my heart sink as I
approached their apartment, and was again disconcerted by the ceremonies
of entrance, and confounded by the necessity of encountering so many
eyes at once.

When I sat down I considered that, something pretty was always said to
ladies, and resolved to recover my credit by some elegant observation or
graceful compliment. I applied myself to the recollection of all that I
had read or heard in praise of beauty, and endeavoured to accommodate
some classical compliment to the present occasion. I sunk into profound
meditation, revolved the characters of the heroines of old, considered
whatever the poets have sung in their praise, and, after having borrowed
and invented, chosen and rejected a thousand sentiments, which, if I had
uttered them, would not have been understood, I was awakened from my
dream of learned gallantry, by the servant who distributed the tea.

There are not many situations more incessantly uneasy than that in which
the man is placed who is watching an opportunity to speak, without
courage to take it when it is offered, and who, though he resolves to
give a specimen of his abilities, always finds some reason or other for
delaying it to the next minute. I was ashamed of silence, yet could find
nothing to say of elegance or importance equal to my wishes. The ladies,
afraid of my learning, thought themselves not qualified to propose any
subject of prattle to a man so famous for dispute, and there was nothing
on either side but impatience and vexation.

In this conflict of shame, as I was re-assembling my scattered
sentiments, and, resolving to force my imagination to some sprightly
sally, had just found a very happy compliment, by too much attention to
my own meditations, I suffered the saucer to drop from my hand. The cup
was broken, the lap-dog was scalded, a brocaded petticoat was stained,
and the whole assembly was thrown into disorder. I now considered all
hopes of reputation at an end, and while they were consoling and
assisting one another, stole away in silence.

The misadventures of this unhappy day are not yet at an end; I am afraid
of meeting the meanest of them that triumphed over me in this state of
stupidity and contempt, and feel the same terrours encroaching upon my
heart at the sight of those who have once impressed them. Shame, above
any other passion, propagates itself. Before those who have seen me
confused, I can never appear without new confusion, and the remembrance
of the weakness which I formerly discovered, hinders me from acting or
speaking with my natural force.

But is this misery, Mr. Rambler, never to cease; have I spent my life in
study only to become the sport of the ignorant, and debarred myself from
all the common enjoyments of youth to collect ideas which must sleep in
silence, and form opinions which I must not divulge? Inform me, dear
Sir, by what means I may rescue my faculties from these shackles of
cowardice, how I may rise to a level with my fellow-beings, recall
myself from this langour of involuntary subjection to the free exertion
of my intellects, and add to the power of reasoning the liberty of
speech.

I am, Sir, &c.

VERECUNDULUS.



No. 158. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1751.

Grammatici certunt, et adhuc sub judice lis est. HOR. Ar. Poet. 78.

--Criticks yet contend,
And of their vain disputings find no end. FRANCIS.

Criticism, though dignified from the earliest ages by the labours of men
eminent for knowledge and sagacity, and, since the revival of polite
literature, the favourite study of European scholars, has not yet
attained the certainty and stability of science. The rules hitherto
received are seldom drawn from any settled principle or self-evident
postulate, or adapted to the natural and invariable constitution of
things; but will be found, upon examination, the arbitrary edicts of
legislators, authorised only by themselves, who, out of various means by
which the same end may be attained, selected such as happened to occur
to their own reflection, and then, by a law which idleness and timidity
were too willing to obey, prohibited new experiments of wit, restrained
fancy from the indulgence of her innate inclination to hazard and
adventure, and condemned all future flights of genius to pursue the path
of the Meonian eagle.

This authority may be more justly opposed, as it is apparently derived
from them whom they endeavour to control; for we owe few of the rules of
writing to the acuteness of criticks, who have generally no other merit
than that, having read the works of great authors with attention, they
have observed the arrangement of their matter, or the graces of their
expression, and then expected honour and reverence for precepts which
they never could have invented; so that practice has introduced rules,
rather than rules have directed practice.

For this reason the laws of every species of writing have been settled
by the ideas of him who first raised it to reputation, without inquiry
whether his performances were not yet susceptible of improvement. The
excellencies and faults of celebrated writers have been equally
recommended to posterity; and, so far has blind reverence prevailed,
that even the number of their books has been thought worthy of
imitation.

The imagination of the first authors of lyrick poetry was vehement and
rapid, and their knowledge various and extensive. Living in an age when
science had been little cultivated, and when the minds of their
auditors, not being accustomed to accurate inspection, were easily
dazzled by glaring ideas, they applied themselves to instruct, rather by
short sentences and striking thoughts, than by regular argumentation;
and, finding attention more successfully excited by sudden sallies and
unexpected exclamations, than by the more artful and placid beauties of
methodical deduction, they loosed their genius to its own course, passed
from one sentiment to another without expressing the intermediate ideas,
and roved at large over the ideal world with such lightness and agility,
that their footsteps are scarcely to be traced.

From this accidental peculiarity of the ancient writers the criticks
deduce the rules of lyrick poetry, which they have set free from all the
laws by which other compositions are confined, and allow to neglect the
niceties of transition, to start into remote digressions, and to wander
without restraint from one scene of imagery to another.

A writer of later times has, by the vivacity of his essays, reconciled
mankind to the same licentiousness in short dissertations; and he
therefore who wants skill to form a plan, or diligence to pursue it,
needs only entitle his performance an essay, to acquire the right of
heaping together the collections of half his life without order,
coherence, or propriety.

In writing, as in life, faults are endured without disgust when they are
associated with transcendent merit, and may be sometimes recommended to
weak judgments by the lustre which they obtain from their union with
excellence; but it is the business of those who presume to superintend
the taste or morals of mankind, to separate delusive combinations and
distinguish that which may be praised from that which can only be
excused. As vices never promote happiness, though, when overpowered by
more active and more numerous virtues, they cannot totally destroy it;
so confusion and irregularity produce no beauty, though they cannot
always obstruct the brightness of genius and learning. To proceed from
one truth to another, and connect distant propositions by regular
consequences, is the great prerogative of man. Independent and
unconnected sentiments flashing upon the mind in quick succession, may,
for a time, delight by their novelty, but they differ from systematical
reasoning, as single notes from harmony, as glances of lightning from
the radiance of the sun.

When rules are thus drawn, rather from precedents than reason, there is
danger not only from the faults of an author, but from the errours of
those who criticise his works; since they may often mislead their pupils
by false representations, as the Ciceronians of the sixteenth century
were betrayed into barbarisms by corrupt copies of their darling writer.

It is established at present, that the proemial lines of a poem, in
which the general subject is proposed, must be void of glitter and
embellishment. "The first lines of Paradise Lost," says Addison, "are
perhaps as plain, simple, and unadorned, as any of the whole poem, in
which particular the author has conformed himself to the example of
Homer, and the precept of Horace. "

This observation seems to have been made by an implicit adoption of the
common opinion, without consideration either of the precept or example.
Had Horace been consulted, he would have been found to direct only what
should be comprised in the proposition, not how it should be expressed;
and to have commended Homer in opposition to a meaner poet, not for the
gradual elevation of his diction, but the judicious expansion of his
plan; for displaying unpromised events, not for producing unexpected
elegancies.

--Specivsa dehinc miracula prouiat;
Antiphaten, Scyllamque, et cum Cyclope Charybdim. Hon. Ar. Poet. 146.

But from a cloud of smoke he breaks to light,
And pours his specious miracles to sight;
Antiphates his hideous feast devours,
Charybdis barks, and Polyphemus roars. FRANCIS.

If the exordial verses of Homer be compared with the rest of the poem,
they will not appear remarkable for plainness or simplicity, but rather
eminently adorned and illuminated:

[Greek:
Andra moi ennepe, Mousa, polutropon, os mala polla
Plagchthae, epei Troiaes ieron ptoliethron eperse;
Pollon d anthropon iden astea, kai noon egno;
Polla d og en pontps pathen algea on kata thumon,
Arnumenos aen te psuchaen kai noston etairon;
All oud os etarous errusato, iemenos per;
Auton gar spheteraesin atasthaliaesin olonto.
Naepioi, oi kata bous uperionos Aeelioio
Aesthion; autar o toisin apheileto vostimon aemao;
Ton amothen ge, thea, thugater Dios, eipe kai eamin. ]

The man, for wisdom's various arts renown'd,
Long exercised in woes, O muse! resound.
Who, when his arms had wrought the destin'd fall
Of sacred Troy, and raz'd her heav'n-built wall,
Wandering from clime to clime, observant stray'd,
The manners noted, and their states survey'd.
On stormy seas unnumber'd toils he bore,
Safe with his friends to gain his natal shore:
Vain toils! their impious folly dar'd to prey
On herds devoted to the god of day;
The god vindictive doom'd them never more
(Ah! men unbless'd) to touch that natal shore.
O snatch some portion of these acts from fate,
Celestial muse! and to our world relate. POPE.

The first verses of the Iliad are in like manner particularly splendid,
and the proposition of the Aeneid closes with dignity and magnificence
not often to be found even in the poetry of Virgil.

The intent of the introduction is to raise expectation, and suspend it;
something therefore must be discovered, and something concealed; and the
poet, while the fertility of his invention is yet unknown, may properly
recommend himself by the grace of his language.

He that reveals too much, or promises too little; he that never
irritates the intellectual appetite, or that immediately satiates it,
equally defeats his own purpose. It is necessary to the pleasure of the
reader, that the events should not be anticipated, and how then can his
attention be invited, but by grandeur of expression?



No. 159. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1751.

_Sunt verba et voces, quibus hunc lenire dolorem
Possis, et magnuum morbi deponere partem_. HOR. Ep. Lib. i. 34.

The power of words, and soothing sounds, appease
The raging pain, and lessen the disease. FRANCIS.

The imbecility with which Verecundulus complains that the presence of a
numerous assembly freezes his faculties, is particularly incident to the
studious part of mankind, whose education necessarily secludes them in
their earlier years from mingled converse, till, at their dismission
from schools and academies, they plunge at once into the tumult of the
world, and, coming forth from the gloom of solitude, are overpowered by
the blaze of publick life.

It is, perhaps, kindly provided by nature, that as the feathers and
strength of a bird grow together, and her wings are not completed till
she is able to fly, so some proportion should be preserved in the human
kind between judgment and courage; the precipitation of inexperience is
therefore restrained by shame, and we remain shackled by timidity, till
we have learned to speak and act with propriety. I believe few can
review the days of their youth without recollecting temptations, which
shame, rather than virtue, enabled them to resist; and opinions which,
however erroneous in their principles, and dangerous in their
consequences, they have panted to advance at the hazard of contempt and
hatred, when they found themselves irresistibly depressed by a languid
anxiety, which seized them at the moment of utterance, and still
gathered strength from their endeavours to resist it.

It generally happens that assurance keeps an even pace with ability, and
the fear of miscarriage, which hinders Our first attempts, is gradually
dissipated as our skill advances towards certainty of success. That
bashfulness, therefore, which prevents disgrace, that short and
temporary shame which secures us from the danger of lasting reproach,
cannot be properly counted among our misfortunes.

Bashfulness, however it may incommode for a moment, scarcely ever
produces evils of long continuance; it may flush the cheek, flutter in
the heart, deject the eyes, and enchain the tongue, but its mischiefs
soon pass off without remembrance. It may sometimes exclude pleasure,
but seldom opens any avenue to sorrow or remorse. It is observed
somewhere that _few have repented of having forborne to speak_.

To excite opposition, and inflame malevolence, is the unhappy privilege
of courage made arrogant by consciousness of strength. No man finds in
himself any inclination to attack or oppose him who confesses his
superiority by blushing in his presence. Qualities exerted with apparent
fearfulness, receive applause from every voice, and support from every
hand. Diffidence may check resolution and obstruct performance, but
compensates its embarrassments by more important advantages; it
conciliates the proud, and softens the severe, averts envy from
excellence, and censure from miscarriage.

It may indeed happen that knowledge and virtue remain too long congealed
by this frigorifick power, as the principles of vegetation are sometimes
obstructed by lingering frosts. He that enters late into a public
station, though with all the abilities requisite to the discharge of his
duty, will find his powers at first impeded by a timidity which he
himself knows to be vicious, and must struggle long against dejection
and reluctance, before he obtains the full command of his own attention,
and adds the gracefulness of ease to the dignity of merit.

For this disease of the mind I know not whether any remedies of much
efficacy can be found. To advise a man unaccustomed to the eyes of
multitudes to mount a tribunal without perturbation, to tell him whose
life was passed in the shades of contemplation, that he must not be
disconcerted or perplexed in receiving and returning the compliments of
a splendid assembly, is to advise an inhabitant of Brasil or Sumatra not
to shiver at an English winter, or him who has always lived upon a plain
to look from a precipice without emotion. It is to suppose custom
instantaneously controllable by reason, and to endeavour to communicate,
by precept, that which only time and habit can bestow.

He that hopes by philosophy and contemplation alone to fortify himself
against that awe which all, at their first appearance on the stage of
life, must feel from the spectators, will, at the hour of need, be
mocked by his resolution; and I doubt whether the preservatives which
Plato relates Alcibiades to have received from Socrates, when he was
about to speak in publick, proved sufficient to secure him from the
powerful fascination.

Yet, as the effects of time may by art and industry be accelerated or
retarded, it cannot be improper to consider how this troublesome
instinct may be opposed when it exceeds its just proportion, and instead
of repressing petulance and temerity, silences eloquence, and
debilitates force; since, though it cannot be hoped that anxiety should
be immediately dissipated, it may be at least somewhat abated; and the
passions will operate with less violence, when reason rises against
them, than while she either slumbers in neutrality, or, mistaking her
interest, lends them her assistance.

No cause more frequently produces bashfulness than too high an opinion
of our own importance. He that imagines an assembly filled with his
merit, panting with expectation, and hushed with attention, easily
terrifies himself with the dread of disappointing them, and strains his
imagination in pursuit of something that may vindicate the veracity of
fame, and shew that his reputation was not gained by chance.