quiet; the poets of the grove cease their melody, the moon towers over
the world in gentle majesty, men forget their labours and their cares,
and every passion and pursuit is for a while suspended. All this we know
already, yet we hear it repeated without weariness; because such is
generally the life of man, that he is pleased to think on the time when
he shall pause from a sense of his condition.
When a poetical grove invites us to its covert, we know that we shall
find what we have already seen, a limpid brook murmuring over pebbles, a
bank diversified with flowers, a green arch that excludes the sun, and a
natural grot shaded with myrtles; yet who can forbear to enter the
pleasing gloom to enjoy coolness and privacy, and gratify himself once
more by scenes with which nature has formed him to be delighted?
Many moral sentiments likewise are so adapted to our state, that they
find approbation whenever they solicit it, and are seldom read without
exciting a gentle emotion in the mind: such is the comparison of the
life of man with the duration of a flower, a thought which perhaps every
nation has heard warbled in its own language, from the inspired poets of
the Hebrews to our own times; yet this comparion must always please,
because every heart feels its justness, and every hour confirms it by
example.
Such, likewise, is the precept that directs us to use the present hour,
and refer nothing to a distant time, which we are uncertain whether we
shall reach: this every moralist may venture to inculcate, because it
will always be approved, and because it is always forgotten.
This rule is, indeed, every day enforced, by arguments more powerful
than the dissertations of moralists: we see men pleasing themselves with
future happiness, fixing a certain hour for the completion of their
wishes, and perishing, some at a greater and some at a less distance
from the happy time; all complaining of their disappointments, and
lamenting that they had suffered the years which heaven allowed them, to
pass without improvement, and deferred the principal purpose of their
lives to the time when life itself was to forsake them.
It is not only uncertain, whether, through all the casualties and
dangers which beset the life of man, we shall be able to reach the time
appointed for happiness or wisdom; but it is likely, that whatever now
hinders us from doing that which our reason and conscience declare
necessary to be done, will equally obstruct us in times to come. It is
easy for the imagination, operating on things not yet existing, to
please itself with scenes of unmingled felicity, or plan out courses of
uniform virtue; but good and evil are in real life inseparably united;
habits grow stronger by indulgence; and reason loses her dignity, in
proportion as she has oftener yielded to temptation: "he that cannot
live well to-day," says Martial, "will be less qualified to live well
to-morrow."
Of the uncertainty of every human good, every human being seems to be
convinced; yet this uncertainty is voluntarily increased by unnecessary
delay, whether we respect external causes, or consider the nature of our
own minds. He that now feels a desire to do right, and wishes to
regulate his life according to his reason, is not sure that, at any
future time assignable, he shall be able to rekindle the same ardour; he
that has now an opportunity offered him of breaking loose from vice and
folly, cannot know, but that he shall hereafter be more entangled, and
struggle for freedom without obtaining it.
We are so unwilling to believe any thing to our own disadvantage, that
we will always imagine the perspicacity of our judgment and the strength
of our resolution more likely to increase than to grow less by time;
and, therefore, conclude, that the will to pursue laudable purposes,
will be always seconded by the power.
But, however we may be deceived in calculating the strength of our
faculties, we cannot doubt the uncertainty of that life in which they
must be employed: we see every day the unexpected death of our friends
and our enemies, we see new graves hourly opened for men older and
younger than ourselves, for the cautious and the careless, the dissolute
and the temperate, for men who like us were providing to enjoy or
improve hours now irreversibly cut off: we see all this, and yet,
instead of living, let year glide after year in preparations to live.
Men are so frequently cut off in the midst of their projections, that
sudden death causes little emotion in them that behold it, unless it be
impressed upon the attention by uncommon circumstances. I, like every
other man, have outlived multitudes, have seen ambition sink in its
triumphs, and beauty perish in its bloom; but have been seldom so much
affected as by the fate of Euryalus, whom I lately lost as I began to
love him.
Euryalus had for some time flourished in a lucrative profession; but
having suffered his imagination to be fired by an unextinguishable
curiosity, he grew weary of the same dull round of life, resolved to
harass himself no longer with the drudgery of getting money, but to quit
his business and his profit, and enjoy for a few years the pleasures of
travel. His friends heard him proclaim his resolution without suspecting
that he intended to pursue it; but he was constant to his purpose, and
with great expedition closed his accounts and sold his moveables, passed
a few days in bidding farewell to his companions, and with all the
eagerness of romantick chivalry crossed the sea in search of happiness.
Whatever place was renowned in ancient or modern history, whatever
region art or nature had distinguished, he determined to visit: full of
design and hope he lauded on the continent; his friends expected
accounts from him of the new scenes that opened in his progress, but
were informed in a few days, that Euryalus was dead.
Such was the end of Euryalus. He is entered that state, whence none ever
shall return; and can now only benefit his friends, by remaining to
their memories a permanent and efficacious instance of the blindness of
desire, and the uncertainty of all terrestrial good. But perhaps, every
man has like me lost an Euryalus, has known a friend die with happiness
in his grasp; and yet every man continues to think himself secure of
life, and defers to some future time of leisure what he knows it will be
fatal to have finally omitted.
It is, indeed, with this as with other frailties inherent in our nature;
the desire of deferring to another time, what cannot be done without
endurance of some pain, or forbearance of some pleasure, will, perhaps,
never be totally overcome or suppressed; there will always be something
that we shall wish to have finished, and be nevertheless unwilling to
begin: but against this unwillingness it is our duty to struggle, and
every conquest over our passions will make way for an easier conquest:
custom is equally forcible to bad and good; nature will always be at
variance with reason, but will rebel more feebly as she is oftener
subdued.
The common neglect of the present hour is more shameful and criminal, as
no man is betrayed to it by errour, but admits it by negligence. Of the
instability of life, the weakest understanding never thinks wrong,
though the strongest often omits to think justly: reason and experience
are always ready to inform us of our real state; but we refuse to listen
to their suggestions, because we feel our hearts unwilling to obey them:
but, surely, nothing is more unworthy of a reasonable being, than to
shut his eyes, when he sees the road which he is commanded to travel,
that he may deviate with fewer reproaches from himself: nor could any
motive to tenderness, except the consciousness that we have all been
guilty of the same fault, dispose us to pity those who thus consign
themselves to voluntary ruin.
No. 111. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 1753.
--Quae non fecimus ipsi,
Vix ea nostra voco. OVID.
The deeds of long descended ancestors
Are but by grace of imputation ours. DRYDEN
The evils inseparably annexed to the present condition of man, are so
numerous and afflictive, that it has been, from age to age, the task of
some to bewail, and of others to solace them; and he, therefore, will be
in danger of seeing a common enemy, who shall attempt to depreciate the
few pleasures and felicities which nature has allowed us.
Yet I will confess, that I have sometimes employed my thoughts in
examining the pretensions that are made to happiness, by the splendid
and envied condition of life; and have not thought the hour unprofitably
spent, when I have detected the imposture of counterfeit advantages, and
found disquiet lurking under false appearances of gaiety and greatness.
It is asserted by a tragick poet, that _est miser nemo nisi comparatus_,
"no man is miserable, but as he is compared with others happier than
himself:" this position is not strictly and philosophically true. He
might have said, with rigorous propriety, that no man is happy but as he
is compared with the miserable; for such is the state of this world,
that we find in it absolute misery, but happiness only comparative; we
may incur as much pain as we can possibly endure, though we can never
obtain as much happiness as we might possibly enjoy.
Yet it is certain, likewise, that many of our miseries are merely
comparative: we are often made unhappy, not by the presence of any real
evil, but by the absence of some fictitious good; of something which is
not required by any real want of nature, which has not in itself any
power of gratification, and which neither reason nor fancy would have
prompted us to wish, did we not see it in the possession of others.
For a mind diseased with vain longings after unattainable advantages, no
medicine can be prescribed, but an impartial inquiry into the real worth
of that which is so ardently desired. It is well known, how much the
mind, as well as the eye, is deceived by distance; and, perhaps, it will
be found, that of many imagined blessings it may be doubted, whether he
that wants or possesses them has more reason to be satisfied with his
lot.
The dignity of high birth and long extraction, no man, to whom nature
has denied it, can confer upon himself; and, therefore, it deserves to
be considered, whether the want of that which can never be gained, may
not easily be endured. It is true, that if we consider the triumph and
delight with which most of those recount their ancestors, who have
ancestors to recount, and the artifices by which some who have risen to
unexpected fortune endeavour to insert themselves into an honourable
stem, we shall be inclined to fancy that wisdom or virtue may be had by
inheritance, or that all the excellencies of a line of progenitors are
accumulated on their descendant. Reason, indeed, will soon inform us,
that our estimation of birth is arbitrary and capricious, and that dead
ancestors can have no influence but upon imagination; let it then be
examined, whether one dream may not operate in the place of another;
whether he that owes nothing to forefathers, may not receive equal
pleasure from the consciousness of owing all to himself; whether he may
not, with a little meditation, find it more honourable to found than to
continue a family, and to gain dignity than transmit it; whether, if he
receives no dignity from the virtues of his family, he does not likewise
escape the danger of being disgraced by their crimes; and whether he
that brings a new name into the world, has not the convenience of
playing the game of life without a stake, and opportunity of winning
much though he has nothing to lose.
There is another opinion concerning happiness, which approaches much
more nearly to universality, but which may, perhaps, with equal reason
be disputed. The pretensions to ancestral honours many of the sons of
earth easily see to be ill-grounded; but all agree to celebrate the
advantage of hereditary riches, and to consider those as the minions of
fortune, who are wealthy from their cradles, whose estate is _res non
parta labore, sed relicta_; "the acquisition of another, not of
themselves;" and whom a father's industry has dispensed from a laborious
attention to arts or commerce, and left at liberty to dispose of life as
fancy shall direct them.
If every man were wise and virtuous, capable to discern the best use of
time, and resolute to practise it, it might be granted, I think, without
hesitation, that total liberty would be a blessing; and that it would be
desirable to be left at large to the exercise of religious and social
duties, without the interruption of importunate avocations.
But, since felicity is relative, and that which is the means of
happiness to one man may be to another the cause of misery, we are to
consider, what state is best adapted to human nature in its present
degeneracy and frailty. And, surely, to far the greater number it is
highly expedient, that they should by some settled scheme of duties be
rescued from the tyranny of caprice, that they should be driven on by
necessity through the paths of life with their attention confined to a
stated task, that they may be less at leisure to deviate into mischief
at the call of folly.
When we observe the lives of those whom an ample inheritance has let
loose to their own direction, what do we discover that can excite our
envy? Their time seems not to pass with much applause from others, or
satisfaction to themselves: many squander their exuberance of fortune in
luxury and debauchery, and have no other use of money than to inflame
their passions, and riot in a wide range of licentiousness; others, less
criminal indeed, but surely not much to be praised, lie down to sleep,
and rise up to trifle, are employed every morning in finding expedients
to rid themselves of the day, chase pleasure through all the places of
publick resort, fly from London to Bath, and from Bath to London,
without any other reason for changing place, but that they go in quest
of company as idle and as vagrant as themselves, always endeavouring to
raise some new desire, that they may have something to pursue, to
rekindle some hope which they know will be disappointed, changing one
amusement for another which a few months will make equally insipid, or
sinking into languor and disease for want of something to actuate their
bodies or exhilarate their minds.
Whoever has frequented those places, where idlers assemble to escape
from solitude, knows that this is generally the state of the wealthy;
and from this state it is no great hardship to be debarred. No man can
be happy in total idleness: he that should be condemned to lie torpid
and motionless, "would fly for recreation," says South, "to the mines
and the galleys;" and it is well, when nature or fortune find employment
for those, who would not have known how to procure it for themselves.
He, whose mind is engaged by the acquisition or improvement of a
fortune, not only escapes the insipidity of indifference, and the
tediousness of inactivity, but gains enjoyments wholly unknown to those,
who live lazily on the toil of others; for life affords no higher
pleasure than that of surmounting difficulties, passing from one step of
success to another, forming new wishes, and seeing them gratified. He
that labours in any great or laudable undertaking, has his fatigues
first supported by hope, and afterwards rewarded by joy; he is always
moving to a certain end, and when he has attained it, an end more
distant invites him to a new pursuit.
It does not, indeed, always happen, that diligence is fortunate; the
wisest schemes are broken by unexpected accidents; the most constant
perseverance sometimes toils through life without a recompense; but
labour, though unsuccessful, is more eligible than idleness; he that
prosecutes a lawful purpose by lawful means, acts always with the
approbation of his own reason; he is animated through the course of his
endeavours by an expectation which, though not certain, he knows to be
just; and is at last comforted in his disappointment, by the
consciousness that he has not failed by his own fault.
That kind of life is most happy which affords us most opportunities of
gaining our own esteem; and what can any man infer in his own favour
from a condition to which, however prosperous, he contributed nothing,
and which the vilest and weakest of the species would have obtained by
the same right, had he happened to be the son of the same father?
To strive with difficulties, and to conquer them, is the highest human
felicity; the next is, to strive, and deserve to conquer: but he whose
life has passed without a contest, and who can boast neither success nor
merit, can survey himself only as a useless filler of existence; and if
he is content with his own character, must owe his satisfaction to
insensibility.
Thus it appears that the satirist advised rightly, when he directed us
to resign ourselves to the hands of Heaven, and to leave to superior
powers the determination of our lot:
_Permittes ipsis expendere Numinibus, quid
Conveniat nobis, rebusque sit utile nostris:--
Carior est illis homo quam sibi._ JUV. Sat. x. 347.
Intrust thy fortune to the Pow'rs above:
Leave them to manage for thee, and to grant
What their unerring wisdom sees the want.
In goodness as in greatness they excel:
Ah! that we lov'd ourselves but half so well. DRYDEN.
What state of life admits most happiness, is uncertain; but that
uncertainty ought to repress the petulance of comparison, and silence
the murmurs of discontent.
No. 115. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 11, 1753.
_Scribimus indocti doctique._ HOR. Lib. ii. Ep. i. 17.
All dare to write, who can or cannot read.
They who have attentively considered the history of mankind, know that
every age has its peculiar character. At one time, no desire is felt but
for military honours; every summer affords battles and sieges, and the
world is filled with ravage, bloodshed, and devastation: this sanguinary
fury at length subsides, and nations are divided into factions, by
controversies about points that will never be decided. Men then grow
weary of debate and altercation, and apply themselves to the arts of
profit; trading companies are formed, manufactures improved, and
navigation extended; and nothing is any longer thought on, but the
increase and preservation of property, the artifices of getting money,
and the pleasures of spending it.
The present age, if we consider chiefly the state of our own country,
may be styled, with great propriety, _The Age of Authors_[1]; for,
perhaps, there never was a time in which men of all degrees of ability,
of every kind of education, of every profession and employment, were
posting with ardour so general to the press. The province of writing was
formerly left to those, who by study, or appearance of study, were
supposed to have gained knowledge unattainable by the busy part of
mankind; but in these enlightened days, every man is qualified to
instruct every other man: and he that beats the anvil, or guides the
plough, not content with supplying corporal necessities, amuses himself
in the hours of leisure with providing intellectual pleasures for his
countrymen.
It may be observed, that of this, as of other evils, complaints have
been made by every generation: but though it may, perhaps, be true, that
at all times more have been willing than have been able to write, yet
there is no reason for believing, that the dogmatical legions of the
present race were ever equalled in number by any former period: for so
widely is spread the itch of literary praise, that almost every man is
an author, either in act or in purpose: has either bestowed his favours
on the publick, or withholds them, that they may be more seasonably
offered, or made more worthy of acceptance.
In former times, the pen, like the sword, was considered as consigned by
nature to the hands of men; the ladies contented themselves with private
virtues and domestick excellence; and a female writer, like a female
warrior, was considered as a kind of eccentrick being, that deviated,
however illustriously, from her due sphere of motion, and was,
therefore, rather to be gazed at with wonder, than countenanced by
imitation. But as in the times past are said to have been a nation of
Amazons, who drew the bow and wielded the battle-axe, formed encampments
and wasted nations, the revolution of years has now produced a
generation of Amazons of the pen, who with the spirit of their
predecessors have set masculine tyranny at defiance, asserted their
claim to the regions of science, and seem resolved to contest the
usurpations of virility.
Some indeed there are, of both sexes, who are authors only in desire,
but have not yet attained the power of executing their intentions; whose
performances have not arrived at bulk sufficient to form a volume, or
who have not the confidence, however impatient of nameless obscurity, to
solicit openly the assistance of the printer. Among these are the
innumerable correspondents of publick papers, who are always offering
assistance which no man will receive, and suggesting hints that are
never taken; and who complain loudly of the perverseness and arrogance
of authors, lament their insensibility of their own interest, and fill
the coffee-houses with dark stories of performances by eminent hands,
which have been offered and rejected.
To what cause this universal eagerness of writing can be properly
ascribed, I have not yet been able to discover. It is said, that every
art is propagated in proportion to the rewards conferred upon it; a
position from which a stranger would naturally infer, that literature
was now blessed with patronage far transcending the candour or
munificence of the Augustan age, that the road to greatness was open to
none but authors, and that by writing alone riches and honour were to be
obtained.
But since it is true, that writers, like other competitors, are very
little disposed to favour one another, it is not to be expected, that at
a time when every man writes, any man will patronize; and, accordingly,
there is not one that I can recollect at present, who professes the
least regard for the votaries of science, invites the addresses of
learned men, or seems to hope for reputation from any pen but his own.
The cause, therefore, of this epidemical conspiracy for the destruction
of paper, must remain a secret: nor can I discover, whether we owe it to
the influences of the constellations, or the intemperature of seasons:
whether the long continuance of the wind at any single point, or
intoxicating vapours exhaled from the earth, have turned our nobles and
our peasants, our soldiers and traders, our men and women, all into
wits, philosophers, and writers.
It is, indeed, of more importance to search out the cure than the cause
of this intellectual malady; and he would deserve well of this country,
who, instead of amusing himself with conjectural speculations, should
find means of persuading the peer to inspect his steward's accounts, or
repair the rural mansion of his ancestors; who could replace the
tradesman behind his counter, and send back the farmer to the mattock
and the flail.
General irregularities are known in time to remedy themselves. By the
constitution of ancient Egypt, the priesthood was continually
increasing, till at length there was no people beside themselves; the
establishment was then dissolved, and the number of priests was reduced
and limited. Thus among us, writers will, perhaps, be multiplied, till
no readers will be found, and then the ambition of writing must
necessarily cease.
But as it will be long before the cure is thus gradually effected, and
the evil should be stopped, if it be possible, before it rises to so
great a height, I could wish that both sexes would fix their thoughts
upon some salutary considerations, which might repress their ardour for
that reputation, which not one of many thousands is fated to obtain.