such as we represent it to ourselves. Of the ladies that sparkle at a
musical performance, a very small number has any quick sensibility of
harmonious sounds. But every one that goes has her pleasure. She has the
pleasure of wearing fine clothes, and of showing them, of outshining
those whom she suspects to envy her; she has the pleasure of appearing
among other ladies in a place whither the race of meaner mortals seldom
intrudes, and of reflecting that, in the conversations of the next
morning, her name will be mentioned among those that sat in the first
row; she has the pleasure of returning courtesies, or refusing to return
them, of receiving compliments with civility, or rejecting them with
disdain. She has the pleasure of meeting some of her acquaintance, of
guessing why the rest are absent, and of telling them that she saw the
opera, on pretence of inquiring why they would miss it. She has the
pleasure of being supposed to be pleased with a refined amusement, and
of hoping to be numbered among the votaresses of harmony. She has the
pleasure of escaping for two hours the superiority of a sister, or the
control of a husband; and from all these pleasures she concludes, that
heavenly musick is the balm of life.
All assemblies of gaiety are brought together by motives of the same
kind. The theatre is not filled with those that know or regard the skill
of the actor, nor the ball-room by those who dance, or attend to the
dancers. To all places of general resort, where the standard of pleasure
is erected, we run with equal eagerness, or appearance of eagerness, for
very different reasons. One goes that he may say he has been there,
another because he never misses. This man goes to try what he can find,
and that to discover what others find. Whatever diversion is costly will
be frequented by those who desire to be thought rich; and whatever has,
by any accident, become fashionable, easily continues its reputation,
because every one is ashamed of not partaking it.
To every place of entertainment we go with expectation and desire of
being pleased; we meet others who are brought by the same motives; no
one will be the first to own the disappointment; one face reflects the
smile of another, till each believes the rest delighted, and endeavours
to catch and transmit the circulating rapture. In time all are deceived
by the cheat to which all contribute. The fiction of happiness is
propagated by every tongue, and confirmed by every look, till at last
all profess the joy which they do not feel, consent to yield to the
general delusion; and when the voluntary dream is at an end, lament that
bliss is of so short a duration.
If Drugget pretended to pleasures of which he had no perception, or
boasted of one amusement where he was indulging another, what did he
which is not done by all those who read his story? of whom some pretend
delight in conversation, only because they dare not be alone; some
praise the quiet of solitude, because they are envious of sense, and
impatient of folly; and some gratify their pride, by writing characters
which expose the vanity of life.
I am, Sir,
Your humble servant.
No. 19. SATURDAY, AUGUST 19, 1758.
Some of those ancient sages that have exercised their abilities in the
inquiry after the supreme good, have been of opinion, that the highest
degree of earthly happiness is quiet; a calm repose both of mind and
body, undisturbed by the sight of folly or the noise of business, the
tumults of publick commotion, or the agitations of private interest: a
state in which the mind has no other employment, but to observe and
regulate her own motions, to trace thought from thought, combine one
image with another, raise systems of science, and form theories of
virtue.
To the scheme of these solitary speculatists, it has been justly
objected, that if they are happy, they are happy only by being useless.
That mankind is one vast republick, where every individual receives many
benefits from the labours of others, which, by labouring in his turn for
others, he is obliged to repay; and that where the united efforts of all
are not able to exempt all from misery, none have a right to withdraw
from their task of vigilance, or to be indulged in idle wisdom or
solitary pleasures.
It is common for controvertists, in the heat of disputation, to add one
position to another till they reach the extremities of knowledge, where
truth and falsehood lose their distinction. Their admirers follow them
to the brink of absurdity, and then start back from each side towards
the middle point. So it has happened in this great disquisition. Many
perceive alike the force of the contrary arguments, find quiet shameful,
and business dangerous, and therefore pass their lives between them, in
bustle without business, and negligence without quiet.
Among the principal names of this moderate set is that great philosopher
Jack Whirler, whose business keeps him in perpetual motion, and whose
motion always eludes his business; who is always to do what he never
does, who cannot stand still because he is wanted in another place, and
who is wanted in many places because he stays in none.
Jack has more business than he can conveniently transact in one house;
he has therefore one habitation near Bow-church, and another about a
mile distant. By this ingenious distribution of himself between two
houses, Jack has contrived to be found at neither. Jack's trade is
extensive, and he has many dealers; his conversation is sprightly, and
he has many companions; his disposition is kind, and he has many
friends. Jack neither forbears pleasure for business, nor omits business
for pleasure, but is equally invisible to his friends and his customers;
to him that comes with an invitation to a club, and to him that waits to
settle an account.
When you call at his house, his clerk tells you that Mr. Whirler has
just stept out, but will be at home exactly at two; you wait at a
coffee-house till two, and then find that he has been at home, and is
gone out again, but left word that he should be at the Half-moon tavern
at seven, where he hopes to meet you. At seven you go to the tavern. At
eight in comes Mr. Whirler to tell you that he is glad to see you, and
only begs leave to run for a few minutes to a gentleman that lives near
the Exchange, from whom he will return before supper can be ready. Away
he runs to the Exchange, to tell those who are waiting for him that he
must beg them to defer the business till to-morrow, because his time is
come at the Half-moon.
Jack's cheerfulness and civility rank him among those whose presence
never gives pain, and whom all receive with fondness and caresses. He
calls often on his friends, to tell them that he will come again
to-morrow; on the morrow he comes again, to tell them how an unexpected
summons hurries him away.--When he enters a house, his first declaration
is, that he cannot sit down; and so short are his visits, that he seldom
appears to have come for any other reason, but to say, He must go.
The dogs of Egypt, when thirst brings them to the Nile, are said to run
as they drink for fear of the crocodiles. Jack Whirler always dines at
full speed. He enters, finds the family at table, sits familiarly down,
and fills his plate; but while the first morsel is in his mouth, hears
the clock strike, and rises; then goes to another house, sits down
again, recollects another engagement, has only time to taste the soup,
makes a short excuse to the company, and continues through another
street his desultory dinner.
But, overwhelmed as he is with business, his chief desire is to have
still more. Every new proposal takes possession of his thoughts; he soon
balances probabilities, engages in the project, brings it almost to
completion, and then forsakes it for another, which he catches with the
same alacrity, urges with the same vehemence, and abandons with the same
coldness.
Every man may be observed to have a certain strain of lamentation, some
peculiar theme of complaint, on which he dwells in his moments of
dejection. Jack's topick of sorrow is the want of time. Many an
excellent design languishes in empty theory for want of time. For the
omission of any civilities, want of time is his plea to others; for the
neglect of any affairs, want of time is his excuse to himself. That he
wants time, he sincerely believes; for he once pined away many months
with a lingering distemper, for want of time to attend to his health.
Thus Jack Whirler lives in perpetual fatigue without proportionate
advantage, because he does not consider that no man can see all with his
own eyes, or do all with his own hands; that whoever is engaged in
multiplicity of business, must transact much by substitution, and leave
something to hazard; and that he who attempts to do all, will waste his
life in doing little.
No. 20. SATURDAY, AUGUST 26, 1758.
There is no crime more infamous than the violation of truth. It is
apparent that men can be social beings no longer than they believe each
other. When speech is employed only as the vehicle of falsehood, every
man must disunite himself from others, inhabit his own cave, and seek
prey only for himself.
Yet the law of truth, thus sacred and necessary, is broken without
punishment, without censure, in compliance with inveterate prejudice and
prevailing passions. Men are willing to credit what they wish, and
encourage rather those who gratify them with pleasure, than those that
instruct them with fidelity.
For this reason every historian discovers his country; and it is
impossible to read the different accounts of any great event, without a
wish that truth had more power over partiality.
Amidst the joy of my countrymen for the acquisition of Louisbourg, I
could not forbear to consider how differently this revolution of
American power is not only now mentioned by the contending nations, but
will be represented by the writers of another century.
The English historian will imagine himself barely doing justice to
English virtue, when he relates the capture of Louisbourg in the
following manner:
"The English had hitherto seen, with great indignation, their attempts
baffled and their force defied by an enemy, whom they considered
themselves as entitled to conquer by the right of prescription, and whom
many ages of hereditary superiority had taught them to despise. Their
fleets were more numerous, and their seamen braver, than those of
France; yet they only floated useless on the ocean, and the French
derided them from their ports. Misfortunes, as is usual, produced
discontent, the people murmured at the ministers, and the ministers
censured the commanders.
"In the summer of this year, the English began to find their success
answerable to their cause. A fleet and an army were sent to America to
dislodge the enemies from the settlements which they had so perfidiously
made, and so insolently maintained, and to repress that power which was
growing more every day by the association of the Indians, with whom
these degenerate Europeans intermarried, and whom they secured to their
party by presents and promises.
"In the beginning of June the ships of war and vessels containing the
land-forces appeared before Louisbourg, a place so secured by nature
that art was almost superfluous, and yet fortified by art as if nature
had left it open. The French boasted that it was impregnable, and spoke
with scorn of all attempts that could be made against it. The garrison
was numerous, the stores equal to the longest siege, and their engineers
and commanders high in reputation. The mouth of the harbour was so
narrow, that three ships within might easily defend it against all
attacks from the sea. The French had, with that caution which cowards
borrow from fear, and attribute to policy, eluded our fleets, and sent
into that port five great ships and six smaller, of which they sunk four
in the mouth of the passage, having raised batteries and posted troops
at all the places where they thought it possible to make a descent. The
English, however, had more to dread from the roughness of the sea, than
from the skill or bravery of the defendants. Some days passed before the
surges, which rise very high round that island, would suffer them to
land. At last their impatience could be restrained no longer; they got
possession of the shore with little loss by the sea, and with less by
the enemy. In a few days the artillery was landed, the batteries were
raised, and the French had no other hope than to escape from one post to
another. A shot from the batteries fired the powder in one of their
largest ships, the flame spread to the two next, and all three were
destroyed; the English admiral sent his boats against the two large
ships yet remaining, took them without resistance, and terrified the
garrison to an immediate capitulation."
Let us now oppose to this English narrative the relation which will be
produced, about the same time, by the writer of the age of Louis XV.
"About this time the English admitted to the conduct of affairs a man
who undertook to save from destruction that ferocious and turbulent
people, who, from the mean insolence of wealthy traders, and the lawless
confidence of successful robbers, were now sunk in despair and stupified
with horrour. He called in the ships which had been dispersed over the
ocean to guard their merchants, and sent a fleet and an army, in which
almost the whole strength of England was comprised, to secure their
possessions in America, which were endangered alike by the French arms
and the French virtue. We had taken the English fortresses by force, and
gained the Indian nations by humanity. The English, wherever they come,
are sure to have the natives for their enemies; for the only motive of
their settlements is avarice, and the only consequence of their success
is oppression. In this war they acted like other barbarians; and, with a
degree of outrageous cruelty, which the gentleness of our manners
scarcely suffers us to conceive, offered rewards by open proclamation to
those who should bring in the scalps of Indian women and children. A
trader always makes war with the cruelty of a pirate.
"They had long looked with envy and with terrour upon the influence
which the French exerted over all the northern regions of America by the
possession of Louisbourg, a place naturally strong, and new-fortified
with some slight outworks. They hoped to surprise the garrison
unprovided; but that sluggishness, which always defeats their malice,
gave us time to send supplies, and to station ships for the defence of
the harbour. They came before Louisbourg in June, and were for some time
in doubt whether they should land. But the commanders, who had lately
seen an admiral shot for not having done what he had not power to do,
durst not leave the place unassaulted. An Englishman has no ardour for
honour, nor zeal for duty; he neither values glory nor loves his king,
but balances one danger with another, and will fight rather than be
hanged. They therefore landed, but with great loss their engineers had,
in the last war with the French, learned something of the military
science, and made their approaches with sufficient skill; but all their
efforts had been without effect, had not a ball unfortunately fallen
into the powder of one of our ships, which communicated the fire to the
rest, and, by opening the passage of the harbour, obliged the garrison
to capitulate. Thus was Louisbourg lost, and our troops marched out with
the admiration of their enemies, who durst hardly think themselves
masters of the place."
No. 21. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 1758.
TO THE IDLER.
Dear Mr. Idler,
There is a species of misery, or of disease, for which our language is
commonly supposed to be without a name, but which I think is
emphatically enough denominated _listlessness_, and which is commonly
termed a want of something to do.
Of the unhappiness of this state I do not expect all your readers to
have an adequate idea. Many are overburdened with business, and can
imagine no comfort but in rest; many have minds so placid, as willingly
to indulge a voluntary lethargy; or so narrow, as easily to be filled to
their utmost capacity. By these I shall not be understood, and therefore
cannot be pitied. Those only will sympathize with my complaint, whose
imagination is active, and resolution weak, whose desires are ardent,
and whose choice is delicate; who cannot satisfy themselves with
standing still, and yet cannot find a motive to direct their course.
I was the second son of a gentleman, whose estate was barely sufficient
to support himself and his heir in the dignity of killing game. He
therefore made use of the interest which the alliances of his family
afforded him, to procure me a post in the army. I passed some years in
the most contemptible of all human stations, that of a soldier in time
of peace. I wandered with the regiment as the quarters were changed,
without opportunity for business, taste for knowledge, or money for
pleasure. Wherever I came, I was for some time a stranger without
curiosity, and afterwards an acquaintance without friendship. Having
nothing to hope in these places of fortuitous residence, I resigned my
conduct to chance; I had no intention to offend, I had no ambition to
delight.
I suppose every man is shocked when he hears how frequently soldiers are
wishing for war. The wish is not always sincere; the greater part are
content with sleep and lace, and counterfeit an ardour which they do not
feel; but those who desire it most are neither prompted by malevolence
nor patriotism; they neither pant for laurels, nor delight in blood; but
long to be delivered from the tyranny of idleness, and restored to the
dignity of active beings.
I never imagined myself to have more courage than other men, yet was
often involuntarily wishing for a war, but of a war, at that time, I had
no prospect; and being enabled, by the death of an uncle, to live
without my pay, I quitted the army, and resolved to regulate my own
motions.
I was pleased, for a while, with the novelty of independence, and
imagined that I had now found what every man desires. My time was in my
own power, and my habitation was wherever my choice should fix it. I
amused myself for two years in passing from place to place, and
comparing one convenience with another; but being at last ashamed of
inquiry, and weary of uncertainty, I purchased a house, and established
my family.
I now expected to begin to be happy, and was happy for a short time with
that expectation. But I soon perceived my spirits to subside, and my
imagination to grow dark. The gloom thickened every day round me. I
wondered by what malignant power my peace was blasted, till I discovered
at last that I had nothing to do.
Time, with all its celerity, moves slowly to him whose whole employment
is to watch its flight. I am forced upon a thousand shifts to enable me
to endure the tediousness of the day. I rise when I can sleep no longer,
and take my morning-walk; I see what I have seen before, and return. I
sit down, and persuade myself that I sit down to think; find it
impossible to think without a subject, rise up to inquire after news,
and endeavour to kindle in myself an artificial impatience for
intelligence of events, which will never extend any consequence to me,
but that, a few minutes, they abstract me from myself.
When I have heard any thing that may gratify curiosity, I am busied for
a while in running to relate it. I hasten from one place of concourse,
to another, delighted with my own importance, and proud to think that I
am doing something, though I know that another hour would spare my
labour.
I had once a round of visits, which I paid very regularly; but I have
now tired most of my friends. When I have sat down I forget to rise, and
have more than once overheard one asking another, when I would be gone.
I perceive the company tired, I observe the mistress of the family
whispering to her servants, I find orders given to put off business till
to-morrow, I see the watches frequently inspected, and yet cannot
withdraw to the vacuity of solitude, or venture myself in my own
company.
Thus burdensome to myself and others, I form many schemes of employment
which may make my life useful or agreeable, and exempt me from the
ignominy of living by sufferance. This new course I have long designed,
but have not yet begun. The present moment is never proper for the
change, but there is always a time in view when all obstacles will be
removed, and I shall surprise all that know me with a new distribution
of my time. Twenty years have past since I have resolved a complete
amendment, and twenty years have been lost in delays. Age is coming upon
me; and I should look back with rage and despair upon the waste of life,
but that I am now beginning in earnest to begin a reformation.
I am, Sir,
Your humble servant,
DICK LINGER.
No. 22. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1758.
_Oh nomen dulce libertatis! Oh jus eximium nostra civitatis!_
CICERO.
TO THE IDLER.
Sir,
As I was passing lately under one of the gates of this city, I was
struck with horrour by a rueful cry, which summoned me _to remember the
poor debtors_.
The wisdom and justice of the English laws are, by Englishmen at least,
loudly celebrated: but scarcely the most zealous admirers of our
institutions can think that law wise, which, when men are capable of
work, obliges them to beg; or just, which exposes the liberty of one to
the passions of another.
The prosperity of a people is proportionate to the number of hands and
minds usefully employed. To the community, sedition is a fever,
corruption is a gangrene, and idleness an atrophy. Whatever body, and
whatever society, wastes more than it acquires, must gradually decay;
and every being that continues to be fed, and ceases to labour, takes
away something from the publick stock.
The confinement, therefore, of any man in the sloth and darkness of a
prison, is a loss to the nation, and no gain to the creditor. For of the
multitudes who are pining in those cells of misery, a very small part is
suspected of any fraudulent act by which they retain what belongs to
others. The rest are imprisoned by the wantonness of pride, the
malignity of revenge, or the acrimony of disappointed expectation.
If those, who thus rigorously exercise the power which the law has put
into their hands, be asked, why they continue to imprison those whom
they know to be unable to pay them; one will answer, that his debtor
once lived better than himself; another, that his wife looked above her
neighbours, and his children went in silk clothes to the dancing-school;
and another, that he pretended to be a joker and a wit. Some will reply,
that if they were in debt, they should meet with the same treatment;
some, that they owe no more than they can pay, and need therefore give
no account of their actions. Some will confess their resolution, that
their debtors shall rot in jail; and some will discover, that they hope,
by cruelty, to wring the payment from their friends.
The end of all civil regulations is to secure private happiness from
private malignity; to keep individuals from the power of one another;
but this end is apparently neglected, when a man, irritated with loss,
is allowed to be the judge of his own cause, and to assign the
punishment of his own pain; when the distinction between guilt and
happiness, between casualty and design, is intrusted to eyes blind with
interest, to understandings depraved by resentment.
Since poverty is punished among us as a crime, it ought at least to be
treated with the same lenity as other crimes; the offender ought not to
languish at the will of him whom he has offended, but to be allowed some
appeal to the justice of his country. There can be no reason why any
debtor should be imprisoned, but that he may be compelled to payment;
and a term should therefore be fixed, in which the creditor should
exhibit his accusation of concealed property. If such property can be
discovered, let it be given to the creditor; if the charge is not
offered, or cannot be proved, let the prisoner be dismissed.