desires, than from positive evil, it is of the utmost consequence to
attain just notions of the laws and order of the universe, that we
may not vex ourselves with fruitless wishes, or give way to groundless
and unreasonable discontent. The laws of natural philosophy, indeed,
are tolerably understood and attended to; and though we may suffer
inconveniences, we are seldom disappointed in consequence of them.
No man expects to preserve orange-trees in the open air through an
English winter; or when he has planted an acorn, to see it become
a large oak in a few months. The mind of man naturally yields to
necessity; and our wishes soon subside when we see the impossibility
of their being gratified. Now, upon an accurate inspection, we shall
find, in the moral government of the world, and the order of the
intellectual system, laws as determinate fixed and invariable as any
in Newton’s Principia. The progress of vegetation is not more certain
than the growth of habit; nor is the power of attraction more clearly
proved than the force of affection or the influence of example. The
man therefore who has well studied the operations of nature in mind
as well as matter, will acquire a certain moderation and equity in
his claims upon Providence. He never will be disappointed either in
himself or others. He will act with precision; and expect that effect
and that alone from his efforts, which they are naturally adapted to
produce. For want of this, men of merit and integrity often censure
the dispositions of Providence for suffering characters they despise
to run away with advantages which, they yet know, are purchased by
such means as a high and noble spirit could never submit to. If you
refuse to pay the price, why expect the purchase? We should consider
this world as a great mart of commerce, where fortune exposes to our
view various commodities, riches, ease, tranquillity, fame, integrity,
knowledge. Every thing is marked at a settled price. Our time, our
labour, our ingenuity, is so much ready money which we are to lay out
to the best advantage. Examine, compare, choose, reject; but stand to
your own judgment; and do not, like children, when you have purchased
one thing, repine that you do not possess another which you did not
purchase. Such is the force of well-regulated industry, that a steady
and vigorous exertion of our faculties, directed to one end, will
generally insure success. Would you, for instance, be rich? Do you
think that single point worth the sacrificing every thing else to? You
may then be rich. Thousands have become so from the lowest beginnings
by toil, and patient diligence, and attention to the minutest articles
of expence and profit. But you must give up the pleasures of leisure,
of a vacant mind, of a free unsuspicious temper. If you preserve your
integrity, it must be a coarse-spun and vulgar honesty. Those high and
lofty notions of morals which you brought with you from the schools
must be considerably lowered, and mixed with the baser alloy of a
jealous and worldly-minded prudence. You must learn to do hard, if
not unjust things; and for the nice embarrassments of a delicate and
ingenuous spirit, it is necessary for you to get rid of them as fast as
possible. You must shut your heart against the Muses, and be content
to feed your understanding with plain, houshold truths. In short, you
must not attempt to enlarge your ideas, or polish your taste, or refine
your sentiments; but must keep on in one beaten track, without turning
aside either to the right hand or to the left. “But I cannot submit to
drudgery like this--I feel a spirit above it.” ’Tis well: be above it
then; only do not repine that you are not rich.
Is knowledge the pearl of peace? That too may be purchased--by steady
application, and long solitary hours of study and reflection. Bestow
these, and you shall be wise. “But (says the man of letters) what a
hardship is it that many an illiterate fellow who cannot construe
the motto of the arms on his coach, shall raise a fortune and make a
figure, while I have little more than the common conveniences of life.”
_Et tibi magna satis!_--Was it in order to raise a fortune that you
consumed the sprightly hours of youth in study and retirement? Was it
to be rich that you grew pale over the midnight lamp, and distilled
the sweetness from the Greek and Roman spring? You have then mistaken
your path, and ill employed your industry. “What reward have I then
for all my labours?” What reward! A large comprehensive soul, well
purged from vulgar fears, and perturbations, and prejudices; able to
comprehend and interpret the works of man--of God. A rich, flourishing,
cultivated mind, pregnant with inexhaustible stores of entertainment
and reflection. A perpetual spring of fresh ideas; and the conscious
dignity of superior intelligence. Good heaven! and what reward can you
ask besides?
“But is it not some reproach upon the œconomy of Providence that such
a one, who is a mean dirty fellow, should have amassed wealth enough
to buy half a nation?” Not in the least. He made himself a mean dirty
fellow for that very end. He has paid his health, his conscience, his
liberty for it; and will you envy him his bargain? Will you hang your
head and blush in his presence because he outshines you in equipage and
show? Lift up your brow with a noble confidence, and say to yourself, I
have not these things, it is true; but it is because I have not sought,
because I have not desired them; it is because I possess something
better. I have chosen my lot. I am content and satisfied.
You are a modest man--You love quiet and independence, and have a
delicacy and reserve in your temper which renders it impossible for
you to elbow your way in the world, and be the herald of your own
merits. Be content then with a modest retirement, with the esteem of
your intimate friends, with the praises of a blameless heart, and a
delicate ingenuous spirit; but resign the splendid distinctions of
the world to those who can better scramble for them.
The man whose tender sensibility of conscience and strict regard to
the rules of morality makes him scrupulous and fearful of offending,
is often heard to complain of the disadvantages he lies under in every
path of honour and profit. “Could I but get over some nice points, and
conform to the practice and opinion of those about me, I might stand
as fair a chance as others for dignities and preferment.” And why can
you not? What hinders you from discarding this troublesome scrupulosity
of yours which stands so grievously in your way? If it be a small
thing to enjoy a healthful mind, found at the very core, that does not
shrink from the keenest inspection; inward freedom from remorse and
perturbation; unsullied whiteness and simplicity of manners; a genuine
integrity
Pure in the last recesses of the mind;
if you think these advantages an inadequate recompence for what you
resign, dismiss your scruples this instant, and be a slave-merchant, a
parasite, or--what you please.
If these be motives weak, break off betimes;
and as you have not spirit to assert the dignity of virtue, be wise
enough not to forego the emoluments of vice.
I much admire the spirit of the ancient philosophers, in that they
never attempted, as our moralists often do, to lower the tone of
philosophy, and make it confident with all the indulgences of indolence
and sensuality. They never thought of having the bulk of mankind for
their disciples; but kept themselves as distinct as possible from a
worldly life. They plainly told men what sacrifices were required, and
what advantages they were which might be expected.
Si virtus hoc una potest dare, fortis omissis
Hoc age deliciis -------- -------- --------
If you would be a philosopher these are the terms. You must do thus and
thus: There is no other way. If not, go and be one of the vulgar.
There is no one quality gives so much dignity to a character as
consistency of conduct. Even if a man’s pursuits be wrong and
unjustifiable, yet if they are prosecuted with steadiness and vigour,
we cannot withhold our admiration. The most characteristic mark of
a great mind is to choose some one important object, and pursue it
through life. It was this made Cæsar a great man. His object was
ambition; he pursued it steadily, and was always ready to sacrifice to
it every interfering passion or inclination.
There is a pretty passage in one of Lucian’s dialogues, where Jupiter
complains to Cupid that though he has had so many intrigues, he was
never sincerely beloved. In order to be loved, says Cupid, you must lay
aside your ægis and your thunder-bolts, and you must curl and perfume
your hair, and place a garland on your head, and walk with a soft step,
and assume a winning obsequious deportment. But, replied Jupiter, I am
not willing to resign so much of my dignity. Then, returns Cupid, leave
off desiring to be loved--He wanted to be Jupiter and Adonis at the
same time.
It must be confessed, that men of genius are of all others most
inclined to make these unreasonable claims. As their relish for
enjoyment is strong, their views large and comprehensive, and they
feel themselves lifted above the common bulk of mankind, they are
apt to slight that natural reward of praise and admiration which is
ever largely paid to distinguished abilities; and to expect to be
called forth to public notice and favour: without considering that
their talents are commonly very unfit for active life; that their
eccentricity and turn for speculation disqualifies them for the
business of the world, which is best carried on by men of moderate
genius; and that society is not obliged to reward any one who is not
useful to it. The Poets have been a very unreasonable race, and have
often complained loudly of the neglect of genius and the ingratitude
of the age. The tender and pensive Cowley, and the elegant Shenstone,
had their minds tinctured by this discontent; and even the sublime
melancholy of Young was too much owing to the stings of disappointed
ambition.
The moderation we have been endeavouring to inculcate will likewise
prevent much mortification and disgust in our commerce with mankind.
As we ought not to wish in ourselves, so neither should we expect
in our friends contrary qualifications. Young and sanguine, when we
enter the world, and feel our affections drawn forth by any particular
excellence in a character, we immediately give it credit for all
others; and are beyond measure disgusted when we come to discover, as
we soon must discover, the defects in the other side of the balance.
But nature is much more frugal than to heap together all manner of
shining qualities in one glaring mass. Like a judicious painter she
endeavours to preserve a certain unity of stile and colouring in
her pieces. Models of absolute perfection are only to be met with
in romance; where exquisite beauty and brilliant wit, and profound
judgment, and immaculate virtue, are all blended together to adorn
some favourite character. As an anatomist knows that the racer cannot
have the strength and muscles of the draught-horse; and that winged
men, gryffons, and mermaids must be mere creatures of the imagination;
so the philosopher is sensible that there are combinations of moral
qualities which never can take place but in idea. There is a different
air and complexion in characters as well as in faces, though perhaps
each equally beautiful; and the excellencies of one cannot be
transferred to the other. Thus if one man possesses a stoical apathy
of soul, acts independent of the opinion of the world, and fulfils
every duty with mathematical exactness, you must not expect that man
to be greatly influenced by the weakness of pity, or the partialities
of friendship: you must not be offended that he does not fly to meet
you after a short absence; or require from him the convivial spirit
and honest effusions of a warm, open, susceptible heart. If another is
remarkable for a lively active zeal, inflexible integrity, a strong
indignation against vice, and freedom in reproving it, he will probably
have some little bluntness in his address not altogether suitable to
polished life; he will want the winning arts of conversation; he will
disgust by a kind of haughtiness and negligence in his manner, and
often hurt the delicacy of his acquaintance with harsh and disagreeable
truths.
We usually say--that man is a genius, _but_ he has some whims and
oddities--such a one has a very general knowledge, _but_ he is
superficial; &c. Now in all such cases we should speak more rationally
did we substitute _therefore_ for _but_. He is a genius, _therefore_
he is whimsical; and the like.
It is the fault of the present age, owing to the freer commerce that
different ranks and professions now enjoy with each other, that
characters are not marked with sufficient strength: the several classes
run too much into one another. We have fewer pedants, it is true, but
we have fewer striking originals. Every one is expected to have such a
tincture of general knowledge as is incompatible with going deep into
any science; and such a conformity to fashionable manners as checks the
free workings of the ruling passion, and gives an insipid sameness to
the face of society, under the idea of polish and regularity.
There is a cast of manners peculiar and becoming to each age, sex,
and profession; one, therefore, should not throw out illiberal and
common-place censures against another. Each is perfect in its kind. A
woman as a woman: a tradesman as a tradesman. We are often hurt by the
brutality and sluggish conceptions of the vulgar; not considering that
some there must be to be hewers of wood and drawers of water, and that
cultivated genius, or even any great refinement and delicacy in their
moral feelings, would be a real misfortune to them.
Let us then study the philosophy of the human mind. The man who is
master of this science, will know what to expect from every one. From
this man, wise advice; from that, cordial sympathy; from another,
casual entertainment. The passions and inclinations of others are
his tools, which he can use with as much precision as he would the
mechanical powers; and he can as readily make allowance for the
workings of vanity, or the bias of self-interest in his friends, as for
the power of friction, or the irregularities of the needle.
THE CANAL AND THE BROOK.
AN APOLOGUE.
A delightfully pleasant evening succeeding a sultry summer-day, invited
me to take a solitary walk; and leaving the dust of the highway, I
fell into a path which led along a pleasant little valley watered by a
small meandering brook. The meadow-ground on its banks had been lately
mown, and the new grass was springing up with a lively verdure. The
brook was hid in several places by shrubs that grew on each side, and
intermingled their branches. The sides of the valley were roughened by
small irregular thickets; and the whole scene had an air of solitude
and retirement, uncommon in the neighbourhood of a populous town. The
Duke of Bridgewater’s canal crossed the valley, high raised on a mound
of earth, which preserved a level with the elevated ground on each
side. An arched road was carried under it, beneath which the brook that
ran along the valley was conveyed by a subterraneous passage. I threw
myself upon a green bank, shaded by a leafy thicket, and resting my
head upon my hand, after a welcome indolence had overcome my senses, I
saw, with the eyes of fancy, the following scene.
The firm-built side of the aqueduct suddenly opened, and a gigantic
form issued forth, which I soon discovered to be the _Genius of the
Canal_. He was clad in a close garment of a russet hue. A mural crown,
indented with battlements, surrounded his brow. His naked feet were
discoloured with clay. On his left shoulder he bore a huge pick-ax;
and in his right hand he held certain instruments, used in surveying
and levelling. His looks were thoughtful, and his features harsh. The
breach through which he proceeded, instantly closed; and with a heavy
tread he advanced into the valley. As he approached the brook, the
_Deity of the Stream_ arose to meet him. He was habited in a light
green mantle, and the clear drops fell from his dark hair, which was
encircled with a wreath of water lily, interwoven with sweet scented
flag. An angling rod supported his steps. The Genius of the Canal eyed
him with a contemptuous look, and in a hoarse voice thus began:
“Hence, ignoble rill! with thy scanty tribute to thy lord, the Mersey;
nor thus waste thy almost exhausted urn in lingering windings along
the vale. Feeble as thine aid is, it will not be unacceptable to
that master stream himself; for, as I lately crossed his channel, I
perceived his sands loaded with stranded vessels. I saw, and pitied
him, for undertaking a task to which he is unequal. But thou, whose
languid current is obscured by weeds, and interrupted by mishapen
pebbles; who losest thyself in endless mazes, remote from any sound,
but thy own idle gurgling; how canst thou support an existence so
contemptible and useless? For me, the noblest child of art, who hold
my unremitting course from hill to hill, over vales and rivers; who
pierce the solid rock for my passage, and connect unknown lands with
distant seas; wherever I appear I am viewed with astonishment, and
exulting commerce hails my waves. Behold my channel thronged with
capacious vessels for the conveyance of merchandise, and splendid
barges for the use and pleasure of travellers; my banks crowned with
airy bridges and huge warehouses, and echoing with the busy sounds of
industry. Pay then the homage due from sloth and obscurity to grandeur
and utility.”
“I readily acknowledge,” replied the Deity of the Brook, in a modest
accent, “the superior magnificence and more extensive utility of
which you so proudly boast; yet, in my humble walk, I am not void of
a praise, less shining, but not less solid than yours. The nymph of
this peaceful valley, rendered more fertile and beautiful by my stream;
the neighbouring sylvan deities, to whose pleasure I contribute, will
pay a grateful testimony to my merit. The windings of my course, which
you so much blame, serve to diffuse over a greater extent of ground
the refreshment of my waters; and the lovers of nature and the Muses,
who are fond of straying on my banks, are better pleased that the line
of beauty marks my way, than if, like yours, it were directed in a
straight, unvaried line. They prize the irregular wildness with which
I am decked, as the charms of beauteous simplicity. What you call the
weeds which darken and obscure my waves, afford to the botanist a
pleasing speculation of the works of nature; and the poet and painter
think the lustre of my stream greatly improved by glittering through
them. The pebbles which diversify my bottom, and make these ripplings
in my current, are pleasing objects to the eye of taste; and my simple
murmurs are more melodious to the learned ear, than all the rude noises
of your banks, or even the music that resounds from your stately
barges. If the unfeeling sons of wealth and commerce judge of me by the
mere standard of usefulness, I may claim no undistinguished rank. While
your waters, confined in deep channels, or lifted above the valleys,
roll on, a useless burden to the fields, and only subservient to the
drudgery of bearing temporary merchandises, my stream will bestow
unvarying fertility on the meadows, during the summers of future ages.
Yet I scorn to submit my honours to the decision of those, whose hearts
are shut up to taste and sentiment. Let me appeal to nobler judges.
The philosopher and poet, by whose labours the human mind is elevated
and refined, and opened to pleasures beyond the conception of vulgar
souls, will acknowledge that the elegant deities who preside over
simple and natural beauty, have inspired them with their charming and
instructive ideas. The sweetest and most majestic bard that ever sung,
has taken a pride in owning his affection to woods and streams; and
while the stupendous monuments of Roman grandeur, the columns which
pierced the skies, and the aqueducts which poured their waves over
mountains and valleys, are sunk in oblivion, the gently winding Mincius
still retains his tranquil honours. And when thy glories, proud Genius!
are lost and forgotten; when the flood of commerce, which now supplies
thy urn, is turned into another course, and has left thy channel dry
and desolate; the softly-flowing Avon shall still murmur in song, and
his banks receive the homage of all who are beloved by Phœbus and the
Muses.”
ON MONASTIC INSTITUTIONS.
I happened the other day to take a solitary walk amongst the venerable
ruins of an old Abbey. The stillness and solemnity of the place were
favourable to thought, and naturally led me to a train of ideas
relative to the scene; when, like a good protestant, I began to indulge
a secret triumph in the ruin of so many structures which I had always
considered as the haunts of ignorance and superstition.
Ye are fallen, said I, ye dark and gloomy mansions of mistaken zeal,
where the proud priest and lazy monk fattened upon the riches of the
land, and crept like vermin from their cells to spread their poisonous
doctrines through the nation, and disturb the peace of kings. Obscure
in their origin, but daring and ambitious in their guilt! See how the
pure light of heaven is clouded by the dim glass of the arched window,
stained with the gaudy colours of monkish tales and legendary fiction;
fit emblem how reluctantly they admitted the fairer light of truth
amidst these dark recesses, and how much they have debased its genuine
lustre! The low cells, the long and narrow aisles, the gloomy arches,
the damp and secret caverns which wind beneath the hollow ground, far
from impressing on the mind the idea of the God of truth and love,
seem only fit for those dark places of the earth in which are the
habitations of cruelty. These massy stones and scattered reliques of
the vast edifice, like the large bones and gigantic armour of a once
formidable ruffian, produce emotions of mingled dread and exultation.
Farewel, ye once venerated seats! enough of you remains, and may
it always remain, to remind us from what we have escaped, and make
posterity for ever thankful for this fairer age of liberty and light.
Such were for a while my meditations; but it is cruel to insult a
fallen enemy, and I gradually fell into a different train of thought. I
began to consider whether something might not be advanced in favour of
these institutions during the barbarous ages in which they flourished;
and though they have been productive of much mischief and superstition,
whether they might not have spread the glimmering of a feeble ray of
knowledge, through that thick night which once involved the western
hemisphere.
And where, indeed, could the precious remains of classical learning,
and the divine monuments of ancient taste, have been safely lodged
amidst the ravages of that age of ferocity and rapine which succeeded
the desolation of the Roman empire, except in sanctuaries like these,
consecrated by the superstition of the times beyond their intrinsic
merit? The frequency of wars, and the licentious cruelty with which
they were conducted, left neither the hamlet of the peasant nor the
castle of the baron free from depredation; but the church and monastery
generally remained inviolate. There Homer and Aristotle were obliged
to shroud their heads from the rage of gothic ignorance; and there the
sacred records of divine truth were preserved, like treasure hid in the
earth in troublesome times, safe, but unenjoyed. Some of the barbarous
nations were converted before their conquests, and most of them soon
after their settlement in the countries they over-ran. Those buildings
which their new faith taught them to venerate, afforded a shelter for
those valuable manuscripts, which must otherwise have been destroyed in
the common wreck. At the revival of learning, they were produced from
their dormitories. A copy of the pandect of Justinian, that valuable
remain of Roman law, which first gave to Europe the idea of a more
perfect jurisprudence, and gave men a relish for a new and important
study, was discovered in a monastery of Amalphi. Most of the classics
were recovered by the same means; and to this it is owing, to the books
and learning preserved in these repositories, that we were not obliged
to begin anew, and trace every art by slow and uncertain steps from
its first origin. Science, already full grown and vigorous, awaked as
from a trance, shook her pinions, and soon soared to the heights of
knowledge.