who is incessantly talking about liberty; a word, which, since his
acquaintance with polite life, my husband has always in his mouth: he
is, on all occasions, afraid of our liberty, and declares his resolution
to hazard all for liberty. What can the man mean? I am sure he has
liberty enough; it were better for him and me if his liberty was
lessened.
He has a friend, whom he calls a critick, that comes twice a week to
read what he is writing. This critick tells him that his piece is a
little irregular, but that some detached scenes will shine prodigiously,
and that in the character of Bombulus he is wonderfully great. My
scribbler then squeezes his hand, calls him the best of friends, thanks
him for his sincerity, and tells him that he hates to be flattered. I
have reason to believe that he seldom parts with his dear friend without
lending him two guineas, and am afraid that he gave bail for him three
days ago.
By this course of life our credit as traders is lessened; and I cannot
forbear to suspect, that my husband's honour as a wit is not much
advanced, for he seems to be always the lowest of the company, and is
afraid to tell his opinion till the rest have spoken. When he was behind
his counter, he used to be brisk, active, and jocular, like a man that
knew what he was doing, and did not fear to look another in the face;
but among wits and criticks he is timorous and awkward, and hangs down
his head at his own table. Dear Mr. Idler, persuade him, if you can, to
return once more to his native element. Tell him, that wit will never
make him rich, but that there are places where riches will always make a
wit.
I am, Sir, &c.
DEBORAH GINGER.
No. 48. SATURDAY, MARCH 17, 1759.
There is no kind of idleness, by which we are so easily seduced, as that
which dignifies itself by the appearance of business; and, by making the
loiterer imagine that he has something to do which must not be
neglected, keeps him in perpetual agitation, and hurries him rapidly
from place to place.
He that sits still, or reposes himself upon a couch, no more deceives
himself than he deceives others; he knows that he is doing nothing, and
has no other solace of his insignificance than the resolution, which the
lazy hourly make, of changing his mode of life.
To do nothing every man is ashamed; and to do much almost every man is
unwilling or afraid. Innumerable expedients have, therefore, been
invented to produce motion without labour, and employment without
solicitude. The greater part of those, whom the kindness of fortune has
left to their own direction, and whom want does not keep chained to the
counter or the plough, play throughout life with the shadows of
business, and know not at last what they have been doing.
These imitators of action are of all denominations. Some are seen at
every auction without intention to purchase; others appear punctually at
the Exchange, though they are known there only by their faces: some are
always making parties to visit collections for which they have no taste;
and some neglect every pleasure and every duty to hear questions, in
which they have no interest, debated in parliament.
These men never appear more ridiculous than in the distress which they
imagine themselves to feel from some accidental interruption of those
empty pursuits. A tiger newly imprisoned is indeed more formidable, but
not more angry, than Jack Tulip, withheld from a florist's feast, or Tom
Distich, hindered from seeing the first representation of a play.
As political affairs are the highest and most extensive of temporal
concerns, the mimick of a politician is more busy and important than any
other trifler. Monsieur le Noir, a man who, without property or
importance in any corner of the earth, has, in the present confusion of
the world, declared himself a steady adherent to the French, is made
miserable by a wind that keeps back the packet-boat, and still more
miserable by every account of a Malouin privateer caught in his cruise;
he knows well that nothing can be done or said by him which can produce
any effect but that of laughter, that he can neither hasten nor retard
good or evil, that his joys and sorrows have scarcely any partakers; yet
such is his zeal, and such his curiosity, that he would run barefooted
to Gravesend, for the sake of knowing first that the English had lost a
tender, and would ride out to meet every mail from the continent, if he
might be permitted to open it.
Learning is generally confessed to be desirable, and there are some who
fancy themselves always busy in acquiring it. Of these ambulatory
students, one of the most busy is my friend Tom Restless.
Tom has long had a mind to be a man of knowledge, but he does not care
to spend much time among authors; for he is of opinion that few books
deserve the labour of perusal, that they give the mind an unfashionable
cast, and destroy that freedom of thought, and easiness of manners,
indispensably requisite to acceptance in the world. Tom has, therefore,
found another way to wisdom. When he rises he goes into a coffee-house,
where he creeps so near to men whom he takes to be reasoners, as to hear
their discourse, and endeavours to remember something which, when it has
been strained through Tom's head, is so near to nothing, that what it
once was cannot be discovered. This he carries round from friend to
friend through a circle of visits, till, hearing what each says upon the
question, he becomes able at dinner to say a little himself; and, as
every great genius relaxes himself among his inferiors, meets with some
who wonder how so young a man can talk so wisely.
At night he has a new feast prepared for his intellects; he always runs
to a disputing society, or a speaking club, where he half hears what, if
he had heard the whole, be would but half understand; goes home pleased
with the consciousness of a day well spent, lies down full of ideas, and
rises in the morning empty as before.
No. 49. SATURDAY, MARCH 24, 1759.
I supped three nights ago with my friend Will Marvel. His affairs
obliged him lately to take a journey into Devonshire, from which he has
just returned. He knows me to be a very patient hearer, and was glad of
my company, as it gave him an opportunity of disburdening himself, by a
minute relation of the casualties of his expedition.
Will is not one of those who go out and return with nothing to tell. He
has a story of his travels, which will strike a home-bred citizen with
horrour, and has in ten days suffered so often the extremes of terrour
and joy, that he is in doubt whether he shall ever again expose either
his body or mind to such danger and fatigue.
When he left London the morning was bright, and a fair day was promised.
But Will is born to struggle with difficulties. That happened to him,
which has sometimes, perhaps, happened to others. Before he had gone
more than ten miles, it began to rain. What course was to be taken? His
soul disdained to turn back. He did what the King of Prussia might have
done; he flapped his hat, buttoned up his cape, and went forwards,
fortifying his mind by the stoical consolation, that whatever is violent
will be short.
His constancy was not long tried; at the distance of about half a mile
he saw an inn, which he entered wet and weary, and found civil treatment
and proper refreshment. After a respite of about two hours, he looked
abroad, and seeing the sky clear, called for his horse, and passed the
first stage without any other memorable accident.
Will considered, that labour must be relieved by pleasure, and that the
strength which great undertakings require must be maintained by copious
nutriment; he, therefore, ordered himself an elegant supper, drank two
bottles of claret, and passed the beginning of the night in sound sleep;
but, waking before light, was forewarned of the troubles of the next
day, by a shower beating against his windows with such violence, as to
threaten the dissolution of nature. When he arose, he found what he
expected, that the country was under water. He joined himself, however,
to a company that was travelling the same way, and came safely to the
place of dinner, though every step of his horse dashed the mud into the
air.
In the afternoon, having parted from his company, he set forward alone,
and passed many collections of water, of which it was impossible to
guess the depth, and which he now cannot review without some censure of
his own rashness; but what a man undertakes he must perform, and Marvel
hates a coward at his heart.
Few that lie warm in their beds think what others undergo, who have,
perhaps, been as tenderly educated, and have as acute sensations as
themselves. My friend was now to lodge the second night almost fifty
miles from home, in a house which he never had seen before, among people
to whom he was totally a stranger, not knowing whether the next man he
should meet would prove good or bad; but seeing an inn of a good
appearance, he rode resolutely into the yard; and knowing that respect
is often paid in proportion as it is claimed, delivered his injunctions
to the ostler with spirit, and entering the house, called vigorously
about him.
On the third day up rose the sun and Mr. Marvel. His troubles and his
dangers were now such as he wishes no other man ever to encounter. The
ways were less frequented, and the country more thinly inhabited. He
rode many a lonely hour through mire and water, and met not a single
soul for two miles together, with whom he could exchange a word. He
cannot deny that, looking round upon the dreary region, and seeing
nothing but bleak fields and naked trees, hills obscured by fogs, and
flats covered with inundations, he did, for some time, suffer melancholy
to prevail upon him, and wished himself again safe at home. One comfort
he had, which was, to consider that none of his friends were in the same
distress, for whom, if they had been with him, he should have suffered
more than for himself; he could not forbear sometimes to consider how
happily the Idler is settled in an easier condition, who, surrounded
like him with terrours, could have done nothing but lie down and die.
Amidst these reflections he came to a town, and found a dinner which
disposed him to more cheerful sentiments: but the joys of life are
short, and its miseries are long; he mounted and travelled fifteen miles
more through dirt and desolation.
At last the sun set, and all the horrours of darkness came upon him. He
then repented the weak indulgence in which he had gratified himself at
noon with too long an interval of rest: yet he went forward along a path
which he could no longer see, sometimes rushing suddenly into water, and
sometimes incumbered with stiff clay, ignorant whither he was going, and
uncertain whether his next step might not be the last.
In this dismal gloom of nocturnal peregrination his horse unexpectedly
stood still. Marvel had heard many relations of the instinct of horses,
and was in doubt what danger might be at hand. Sometimes he fancied that
he was on the bank of a river still and deep, and sometimes that a dead
body lay across the track. He sat still awhile to recollect his
thoughts; and as he was about to alight and explore the darkness, out
stepped a man with a lantern, and opened the turnpike. He hired a guide
to the town, arrived in safety, and slept in quiet.
The rest of his journey was nothing but danger. He climbed and descended
precipices on which vulgar mortals tremble to look; he passed marshes
like the _Serbonian bog, where armies whole have sunk_; he forded rivers
where the current roared like the Egre or the Severn; or ventured
himself on bridges that trembled under him, from which he looked down on
foaming whirlpools, or dreadful abysses; he wandered over houseless
heaths, amidst all the rage of the elements, with the snow driving in
his face, and the tempest howling in his ears.
Such are the colours in which Marvel paints his adventures. He has
accustomed himself to sounding words and hyperbolical images, till he
has lost the power of true description. In a road, through which the
heaviest carriages pass without difficulty, and the post-boy every day
and night goes and returns, he meets with hardships like those which are
endured in Siberian deserts, and misses nothing of romantick danger but
a giant and a dragon. When his dreadful story is told in proper terms,
it is only that the way was dirty in winter, and that he experienced the
common vicissitudes of rain and sunshine.
No. 50. SATURDAY, MARCH 31, 1759.
The character of Mr. Marvel has raised the merriment of some and the
contempt of others, who do not sufficiently consider how often they hear
and practise the same arts of exaggerated narration.
There is not, perhaps, among the multitudes of all conditions that swarm
upon the earth, a single man who does not believe that he has something
extraordinary to relate of himself; and who does not, at one time or
other, summon the attention of his friends to the casualties of his
adventures and the vicissitudes of his fortune; casualties and
vicissitudes that happen alike in lives uniform and diversified; to the
commander of armies and the writer at a desk; to the sailor who resigns
himself to the wind and water, and the farmer whose longest journey is
to the market.
In the present state of the world man may pass through Shakespeare's
seven stages of life, and meet nothing singular or wonderful. But such
is every man's attention to himself, that what is common and unheeded,
when it is only seen, becomes remarkable and peculiar when we happen to
feel it.
It is well enough known to be according to the usual process of nature,
that men should sicken and recover, that some designs should succeed and
others miscarry, that friends should be separated and meet again, that
some should be made angry by endeavours to please them, and some be
pleased when no care has been used to gain their approbation; that men
and women should at first come together by chance, like each other so
well as to commence acquaintance, improve acquaintance into fondness,
increase or extinguish fondness by marriage, and have children of
different degrees of intellects and virtue, some of whom die before
their parents, and others survive them.
Yet let any man tell his own story, and nothing of all this has ever
befallen him according to the common order of things; something has
always discriminated his case; some unusual concurrence of events has
appeared, which made him more happy or more miserable than other
mortals; for in pleasures or calamities, however common, every one has
comforts and afflictions of his own.
It is certain that without some artificial augmentations, many of the
pleasures of life, and almost all its embellishments, would fall to the
ground. If no man was to express more delight than he felt, those who
felt most would raise little envy. If travellers were to describe the
most laboured performances of art with the same coldness as they survey
them, all expectations of happiness from change of place would cease.
The pictures of Raphaël would hang without spectators, and the gardens
of Versailles might be inhabited by hermits. All the pleasure that is
received ends in an opportunity of splendid falsehood, in the power of
gaining notice by the display of beauties which the eye was weary of
beholding, and a history of happy moments, of which, in reality, the
most happy was the last.
The ambition of superior sensibility and superior eloquence disposes the
lovers of arts to receive rapture at one time, and communicate it at
another; and each labours first to impose upon himself, and then to
propagate the imposture.
Pain is less subject than pleasure to caprices of expression. The
torments of disease, and the grief for irremediable misfortunes,
sometimes are such as no words can declare, and can only be signified by
groans, or sobs, or inarticulate ejaculations. Man has from nature a
mode of utterance peculiar to pain, but he has none peculiar to
pleasure, because he never has pleasure but in such degrees as the
ordinary use of language may equal or surpass.
It is nevertheless certain, that many pains, as well as pleasures, are
heightened by rhetorical affectation, and that the picture is, for the
most part, bigger than the life.
When we describe our sensations of another's sorrows, either in friendly
or ceremonious condolence, the customs of the world scarcely admit of
rigid veracity. Perhaps, the fondest friendship would enrage oftener
than comfort, were the tongue on such occasions faithfully to represent
the sentiments of the heart; and I think the strictest moralists allow
forms of address to be used without much regard to their literal
acceptation, when either respect or tenderness requires them, because
they are universally known to denote not the degree but the species of
our sentiments.
But the same indulgence cannot be allowed to him who aggravates dangers
incurred, or sorrow endured, by himself, because he darkens the prospect
of futurity, and multiplies the pains of our condition by useless
terrour. Those who magnify their delights are less criminal deceivers,
yet they raise hopes which are sure to be disappointed. It would be
undoubtedly best, if we could see and hear every thing as it is, that
nothing might be too anxiously dreaded, or too ardently pursued.
No. 51. SATURDAY, APRIL 7, 1759.
It has been commonly remarked, that eminent men are least eminent at
home, that bright characters lose much of their splendour at a nearer
view, and many, who fill the world with their fame, excite very little
reverence among those that surround them in their domestick privacies.
To blame or suspect is easy and natural. When the fact is evident, and
the cause doubtful, some accusation is always engendered between
idleness and malignity. This disparity of general and familiar esteem
is, therefore, imputed to hidden vices, and to practices indulged in
secret, but carefully covered from the publick eye.
Vice will indeed always produce contempt. The dignity of Alexander,
though nations fell prostrate before him, was certainly held in little
veneration by the partakers of his midnight revels, who had seen him, in
the madness of wine, murder his friend, or set fire to the Persian
palace at the instigation of a harlot; and it is well remembered among
us, that the avarice of Marlborough kept him in subjection to his wife,
while he was dreaded by France as her conqueror, and honoured by the
emperour as his deliverer.
But though, where there is vice there must be want of reverence, it is
not reciprocally true, that where there is want of reverence there is
always vice. That awe which great actions or abilities impress will be
inevitably diminished by acquaintance, though nothing either mean or
criminal should be found.
Of men, as of every thing else, we must judge according to our
knowledge. When we see of a hero only his battles, or of a writer only
his books, we have nothing to allay our ideas of their greatness. We
consider the one only as the guardian of his country, and the other only
as the instructor of mankind. We have neither opportunity nor motive to
examine the minuter parts of their lives, or the less apparent
peculiarities of their characters; we name them with habitual respect,
and forget, what we still continue to know, that they are men like other
mortals.
But such is the constitution of the world, that much of life must be
spent in the same manner by the wise and the ignorant, the exalted and
the low. Men, however distinguished by external accidents or intrinsick
qualities, have all the same wants, the same pains, and, as far as the
senses are consulted, the same pleasures. The petty cares and petty
duties are the same in every station to every understanding, and every
hour brings some occasion on which we all sink to the common level. We
are all naked till we are dressed, and hungry till we are fed; and the
general's triumph, and sage's disputation, end, like the humble labours
of the smith or ploughman, in a dinner or in sleep.
Those notions which are to be collected by reason, in opposition to the
senses, will seldom stand forward in the mind, but lie treasured in the
remoter repositories of memory, to be found only when they are sought.
Whatever any man may have written or done, his precepts or his valour
will scarcely overbalance the unimportant uniformity which runs through
his time. We do not easily consider him as great, whom our own eyes show
us to be little; nor labour to keep present to our thoughts the latent
excellencies of him, who shares with us all our weaknesses and many of
our follies; who, like us, is delighted with slight amusements, busied
with trifling employments, and disturbed by little vexations.
Great powers cannot be exerted, but when great exigencies make them
necessary. Great exigencies can happen but seldom, and, therefore, those
qualities which have a claim to the veneration of mankind, lie hid, for
the most part, like subterranean treasures, over which the foot passes
as on common ground, till necessity breaks open the golden cavern.
In the ancient celebration of victory, a slave was placed on the
triumphal car, by the side of the general, who reminded him by a short
sentence, that he was a man[1]. Whatever danger there might be lest a
leader, in his passage to the capitol, should forget the frailties of
his nature, there was surely no need of such an admonition; the
intoxication could not have continued long; he would have been at home
but a few hours, before some of his dependants would have forgot his
greatness, and shown him, that, notwithstanding his laurels, he was yet
a man.
There are some who try to escape this domestick degradation, by
labouring to appear always wise or always great; but he that strives
against nature, will for ever strive in vain. To be grave of mien and
slow of utterrance; to look with solicitude and speak with hesitation,
is attainable at will; but the show of wisdom is ridiculous when there
is nothing to cause doubt, as that of valour where there is nothing to
be feared.
A man who has duly considered the condition of his being, will
contentedly yield to the course of things; he will not pant for
distinction where distinction would imply no merit; but though on great
occasions he may wish to be greater than others, he will be satisfied in
common occurrences not to be less.
[1]
--Sibi Consul
Ne placeat, curru servus portatur eodem. JUV. Sat. x. 41.
No 52. SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 1759.
_Responsare cupidinibus_.--HOR. Lib. ii. Sat. vii. 85.
The practice of self-denial, or the forbearance of lawful pleasure, has
been considered by almost every nation, from the remotest ages, as the
highest exaltation of human virtue; and all have agreed to pay respect
and veneration to those who abstained from the delights of life, even
when they did not censure those who enjoy them.
The general voice of mankind, civil and barbarous, confesses that the
mind and body are at variance, and that neither can be made happy by its
proper gratifications, but at the expense of the other; that a pampered
body will darken the mind, and an enlightened mind will macerate the
body. And none have failed to confer their esteem on those who prefer
intellect to sense, who control their lower by their higher faculties,
and forget the wants and desires of animal life for rational
disquisitions or pious contemplations.
The earth has scarcely a country, so far advanced towards political
regularity as to divide the inhabitants into classes, where some orders
of men or women are not distinguished by voluntary severities, and where
the reputation of their sanctity is not increased in proportion to the
rigour of their rules, and the exactness of their performance.
When an opinion to which there is no temptation of interest spreads
wide, and continues long, it may be reasonably presumed to have been
infused by nature or dictated by reason. It has been often observed that
the fictions of impostures and illusions of fancy, soon give way to time
and experience; and that nothing keeps its ground but truth, which gains
every day new influence by new confirmation.