feasted with all the luxuries of studied praise, is easily persuaded
that his influence will be extended beyond his life; that they who
cringe in his presence will reverence his memory, and that those who are
proud to be numbered among his friends, will endeavour to vindicate his
choice by zeal for his reputation.
With hopes like these, to the executors of Swift was committed the
history of the last years of queen Anne, and to those of Pope, the works
which remained unprinted in his closet. The performances of Pope were
burnt by those whom he had, perhaps, selected from all mankind as most
likely to publish them; and the history had likewise perished, had not a
straggling transcript fallen into busy hands.
The papers left in the closet of Pieresc supplied his heirs with a whole
winter's fuel; and many of the labours of the learned Bishop Lloyd were
consumed in the kitchen of his descendants.
Some works, indeed, have escaped total destruction, but yet have had
reason to lament the fate of orphans exposed to the frauds of unfaithful
guardians. How Hale would have borne the mutilations which his Pleas of
the Crown have suffered from the editor, they who know his character
will easily conceive[1].
The original copy of Burnet's history, though promised to some publick
library[2], has been never given; and who then can prove the fidelity of
the publication, when the authenticity of Clarendon's history, though
printed with the sanction of one of the first universities of the world,
had not an unexpected manuscript been happily discovered, would, with
the help of factious credulity, have been brought into question by the
two lowest of all human beings, a scribbler for a party, and a
commissioner of excise[3]?
Vanity is often no less mischievous than negligence or dishonesty. He
that possesses a valuable manuscript, hopes to raise its esteem by
concealment, and delights in the distinction which he imagines himself
to obtain by keeping the key of a treasure which he neither uses nor
imparts. From him it falls to some other owner, less vain but more
negligent, who considers it as useless lumber, and rids himself of the
encumbrance.
Yet there are some works which the authors must consign unpublished to
posterity, however uncertain be the event, however hopeless be the
trust. He that writes the history of his own times, if he adheres
steadily to truth, will write that which his own times will not easily
endure. He must be content to reposite his book, till all private
passions shall cease, and love and hatred give way to curiosity.
But many leave the labours of half their life to their executors and to
chance, because they will not send them abroad unfinished, and are
unable to finish them, having prescribed to themselves such a degree of
exactness as human diligence can scarcely attain. "Lloyd", says Burnet,
"did not lay out his learning with the same diligence as he laid it in."
He was always hesitating and inquiring, raising objections and removing
them, and waiting for clearer light and fuller discovery. Baker, after
many years passed in biography, left his manuscripts to be buried in a
library, because that was imperfect which could never be perfected.
Of these learned men, let those who aspire to the same praise imitate
the diligence, and avoid the scrupulosity. Let it be always remembered
that life is short, that knowledge is endless, and that many doubts
deserve not to be cleared. Let those whom nature and study have
qualified to teach mankind, tell us what they have learned while they
are yet able to tell it, and trust their reputation only to themselves.
[1] See Preface.
[2] It would be proper to reposite, in some public place, the manuscript
of Clarendon, which has not escaped all suspicion of unfaithful
publication.
The manuscript of Clarendon is now in the Bodleian library at
Oxford, and the editor of the present edition has it before him
while writing this note. He may likewise add, that a new and emended
edition is now printing from the original MS. at the Clarendon
press. December, 1824.
[3] See Preface.
Dr. Johnson's hatred of the excise reminds us of John Wesley's
wailing philippic against turnpike gates, which he denounced as the
most cruel of impositions on the way-faring man.
No. 66. SATURDAY, JULY 21, 1759.
No complaint is more frequently repeated among the learned, than that
of the waste made by time among the labours of antiquity. Of those who
once filled the civilized world with their renown, nothing is now left
but their names, which are left only to raise desires that never can be
satisfied, and sorrow which never can be comforted.
Had all the writings of the ancients been faithfully delivered down from
age to age, had the Alexandrian library been spared, and the Palatine
repositories remained unimpaired, how much might we have known of which
we are now doomed to be ignorant! how many laborious inquiries, and dark
conjectures; how many collations of broken hints and mutilated passages
might have been spared! We should have known the successions of princes,
the revolutions of empires, the actions of the great, and opinions of
the wise, the laws and constitutions of every state, and the arts by
which publick grandeur and happiness are acquired and preserved; we
should have traced the progress of life, seen colonies from distant
regions take possession of European deserts, and troops of savages
settled into communities by the desire of keeping what they had
acquired; we should have traced the gradations of civility, and
travelled upward to the original of things by the light of history, till
in remoter times it had glimmered in fable, and at last sunk into
darkness.
If the works of imagination had been less diminished, it is likely that
all future times might have been supplied with inexhaustible amusement
by the fictions of antiquity. The tragedies of Sophocles and Euripides
would all have shown the stronger passions in all their diversities; and
the comedies of Menander would have furnished all the maxims of
domestick life. Nothing would have been necessary to moral wisdom but to
have studied these great masters, whose knowledge would have guided
doubt, and whose authority would have silenced cavils.
Such are the thoughts that rise in every student, when his curiosity is
eluded, and his searches are frustrated; yet it may, perhaps, be
doubted, whether our complaints are not sometimes inconsiderate, and
whether we do not imagine more evil than we feel. Of the ancients,
enough remains to excite our emulation and direct our endeavours. Many
of the works which time has left us, we know to have been these that
were most esteemed, and which antiquity itself considered as models; so
that, having the originals, we may without much regret lose the
imitations. The obscurity which the want of contemporary writers often
produces, only darkens single passages, and those commonly of slight
importance. The general tendency of every piece may be known; and though
that diligence deserves praise which leaves nothing unexamined, yet its
miscarriages are not much to be lamented; for the most useful truths are
always universal, and unconnected with accidents and customs.
Such is the general conspiracy of human nature against contemporary
merit, that, if we had inherited from antiquity enough to afford
employment for the laborious, and amusement for the idle, I know not
what room would have been left for modern genius or modern industry;
almost every subject would have been pre-occupied, and every style would
have been fixed by a precedent from which few would have ventured to
depart. Every writer would have had a rival, whose superiority was
already acknowledged, and to whose fame his work would, even before it
was seen, be marked out for a sacrifice.
We see how little the united experience of mankind hath been able to add
to the heroick characters displayed by Homer, and how few incidents the
fertile imagination of modern Italy has yet produced, which may not be
found in the Iliad and Odyssey. It is likely, that if all the works of
the Athenian philosophers had been extant, Malbranche and Locke would
have been condemned to be silent readers of the ancient metaphysicians;
and it is apparent, that, if the old writers had all remained, the Idler
could not have written a disquisition on the loss[1].
[1] There was a weighty meaning in that fiction of the Stoics, of a
grand periodic year, in which all events should be re-acted in the same
mode and order as before. There is nothing new under the sun. Whatever
is, or shall be, is only an imitation, or, at best, a re-production of
something that has been. The moralist who speculates on the
contingencies of human conduct can only divine the future from what has
already been acted on the earth. The philosopher, leaning on principles
which Science styles immutable, is confined within the narrow bounds of
created matter. Why then should Reason make us undervalue that
Revelation which carries us upwards to Creation's birth, and bears us
downward to a period when time shall be no longer? ED.
No. 67. SATURDAY, JULY 28, 1759.
TO THE IDLER.
Sir,
In the observations which you have made on the various opinions and
pursuits of mankind, you must often, in literary conversations, have met
with men who consider dissipation as the great enemy of the intellect;
and maintain, that, in proportion as the student keeps himself within
the bounds of a settled plan, he will more certainly advance in science.
This opinion is, perhaps, generally true; yet, when we contemplate the
inquisitive nature of the human mind, and its perpetual impatience of
all restraint, it may be doubted whether the faculties may not be
contracted by confining the attention; and whether it may not sometimes
be proper to risk the certainty of little for the chance of much.
Acquisitions of knowledge, like blazes of genius, are often fortuitous.
Those who had proposed to themselves a methodical course of reading,
light by accident on a new book, which seizes their thoughts and kindles
their curiosity, and opens an unexpected prospect, to which the way
which they had prescribed to themselves would never have conducted them.
To enforce and illustrate my meaning, I have sent you a journal of three
days' employment, found among the papers of a late intimate
acquaintance; who, as will plainly appear, was a man of vast designs,
and of vast performances, though he sometimes designed one thing, and
performed another. I allow that the Spectator's inimitable productions
of this kind may well discourage all subsequent journalists; but, as the
subject of this is different from that of any which the Spectator has
given us, I leave it to you to publish or suppress it.
Mem. The following three days I purpose to give up to reading; and
intend, after all the delays which have obtruded themselves upon me, to
finish my Essay on the Extent of the Mental powers; to revise my
Treatise on Logick; to begin the Epick which I have long projected; to
proceed in my perusal of the Scriptures with Grotius's Comment; and at
my leisure to regale myself with the works of classicks, ancient and
modern, and to finish my Ode to Astronomy.
Monday.] Designed to rise at six, but, by my servant's laziness, my fire
was not lighted before eight, when I dropped into a slumber that lasted
till nine; at which time I arose, and, after breakfast, at ten, sat down
to study, purposing to begin upon my Essay; but, finding occasion to
consult a passage in Plato, was absorbed in the perusal of the Republick
till twelve. I had neglected to forbid company, and now enters Tom
Careless, who, after half an hour's chat, insisted upon my going with
him to enjoy an absurd character, that he had appointed, by an
advertisement, to meet him at a particular coffee-house. After we had
for some time entertained ourselves with him, we sallied out, designing
each to repair to his home; but, as it fell out, coming up in the street
to a man whose steel by his side declared him a butcher, we overheard
him opening an address to a genteelish sort of young lady, whom he
walked with: "Miss, though your father is master of a coal-lighter, and
you will be a great fortune, 'tis true; yet I wish I may be cut into
quarters if it is not only love, and not lucre of gain, that is my
motive for offering terms of marriage." As this lover proceeded in his
speech, he misled us the length of three streets, in admiration at the
unlimited power of the tender passion, that could soften even the heart
of a butcher. We then adjourned to a tavern, and from thence to one of
the publick gardens, where I was regaled with a most amusing variety of
men possessing great talents, so discoloured by affectation, that they
only made them eminently ridiculous; shallow things, who, by continual
dissipation, had annihilated the few ideas nature had given them, and
yet were celebrated for wonderful pretty gentlemen; young ladies
extolled for their wit, because they were handsome; illiterate empty
women as well as men, in high life, admired for their knowledge, from
their being resolutely positive; and women of real understanding so far
from pleasing the polite million, that they frightened them away, and
were left solitary. When we quitted this entertaining scene, Tom pressed
me, irresistibly, to sup with him. I reached home at twelve, and then
reflected, that, though indeed I had, by remarking various characters,
improved my insight into human nature, yet still I had neglected the
studies proposed, and accordingly took up my Treatise on Logick, to give
it the intended revisal, but found my spirits too much agitated, and
could not forbear a few satirical lines, under the title of The
Evening's Walk.
Tuesday.] At breakfast, seeing my Ode to Astronomy lying on my desk, I
was struck with a train of ideas, that I thought might contribute to its
improvement. I immediately rang my bell to forbid all visitants, when my
servant opened the door, with, "Sir, Mr. Jeffery Gape." My cup dropped
out of one hand, and my poem out of the other. I could scarcely ask him
to sit; he told me he was going to walk, but, as there was a likelihood
of rain, he would sit with me; he said, he intended at first to have
called at Mr. Vacant's, but as he had not seen me a great while, he did
not mind coming out of his way to wait on me; I made him a bow, but
thanks for the favour stuck in my throat. I asked him if he had been to
the coffee-house; he replied, Two hours.
Under the oppression of this dull interruption, I sat looking wishfully
at the clock; for which, to increase my satisfaction, I had chosen the
inscription, "Art is long, and life is short;" exchanging questions and
answers at long intervals, and not without some hints that the
weather-glass promised fair weather. At half an hour after three he told
me he would trespass on me for a dinner, and desired me to send to his
house for a bundle of papers, about inclosing a common upon his estate,
which he would read to me in the evening. I declared myself busy, and Mr.
Gape went away.
Having dined, to compose my chagrin I took up Virgil, and several other
classicks, but could not calm my mind, or proceed in my scheme. At about
five I laid my hand on a Bible that lay on my table, at first with
coldness and insensibility; but was imperceptibly engaged in a close
attention to its sublime morality, and felt my heart expanded by warm
philanthropy, and exalted to dignity of sentiment. I then censured my
too great solicitude, and my disgust conceived at my acquaintance, who
had been so far from designing to offend, that he only meant to show
kindness and respect. In this strain of mind I wrote An Essay on
Benevolence, and An Elegy on Sublunary Disappointments. When I had
finished these, at eleven, I supped, and recollected how little I had
adhered to my plan, and almost questioned the possibility of pursuing
any settled and uniform design; however, I was not so far persuaded of
the truth of these suggestions, but that I resolved to try once more at
my scheme. As I observed the moon shining through my window, from a calm
and bright sky spangled with innumerable stars, I indulged a pleasing
meditation on the splendid scene, and finished my Ode to Astronomy.
Wednesday.] Rose at seven, and employed three hours in perusal of the
Scriptures with Grotius's Comment; and after breakfast fell into
meditation concerning my projected Epick; and being in some doubt as to
the particular lives of some heroes, whom I proposed to celebrate, I
consulted Bayle and Moreri, and was engaged two hours in examining
various lives and characters, but then resolved to go to my employment.
When I was seated at my desk, and began to feel the glowing succession
of poetical ideas, my servant brought me a letter from a lawyer,
requiring my instant attendance at Gray's Inn for half an hour. I went
full of vexation, and was involved in business till eight at night; and
then, being too much fatigued to study, supped, and went to bed.
Here my friend's Journal concludes, which, perhaps, is pretty much a
picture of the manner in which many prosecute their studies. I therefore
resolved to send it you, imagining, that, if you think it worthy of
appearing in your paper, some of your readers may receive entertainment
by recognising a resemblance between my friend's conduct and their own.
It must be left to the Idler accurately to ascertain the proper methods
of advancing in literature; but this one position, deducible from what
has been said above, may, I think, be reasonably asserted, that he who
finds himself strongly attracted to any particular study, though it may
happen to be out of his proposed scheme, if it is not trifling or
vicious, had better continue his application to it, since it is likely
that he will, with much more ease and expedition, attain that which a
warm inclination stimulates him to pursue, than that at which a
prescribed law compels him to toil.[1]
I am, &c.
[1] This paper, which is evidently throughout allusive to the Idler's
own broken resolutions, was the composition of Bennet Langton, for
whom Johnson cherished the fondest regard. In his admiration he
ventured even to exclaim, "Sit anima mea cum Langtono." Boswell,
iv.--ED.
No. 68. SATURDAY, AUGUST 4, 1759.
Among the studies which have exercised the ingenious and the learned for
more than three centuries, none has been more diligently or more
successfully cultivated than the art of translation; by which the
impediments which bar the way to science are, in some measure, removed,
and the multiplicity of languages become less incommodious.
Of every other kind of writing the ancients have left us models which
all succeeding ages have laboured to imitate; but translation may justly
be claimed by the moderns as their own. In the first ages of the world
instruction was commonly oral, and learning traditional, and what was
not written could not be translated. When alphabetical writing made the
conveyance of opinions and the transmission of events more easy and
certain, literature did not flourish in more than one country at once,
or distant nations had little commerce with each other; and those few
whom curiosity sent abroad in quest of improvement, delivered their
acquisitions in their own manner, desirous, perhaps, to be considered as
the inventors of that which they had learned from others.
The Greeks for a time travelled into Egypt, but they translated no books
from the Egyptian language; and when the Macedonians had overthrown the
empire of Persia, the countries that became subject to Grecian dominion
studied only the Grecian literature. The books of the conquered nations,
if they had any among them, sunk into oblivion; Greece considered
herself as the mistress, if not as the parent of arts, her language
contained all that was supposed to be known, and, except the sacred
writings of the Old Testament, I know not that the library of Alexandria
adopted any thing from a foreign tongue.
The Romans confessed themselves the scholars of the Greeks, and do not
appear to have expected, what has since happened, that the ignorance of
succeeding ages would prefer them to their teachers. Every man, who in
Rome aspired to the praise of literature, thought it necessary to learn
Greek, and had no need of versions when they could study the originals.
Translation, however, was not wholly neglected. Dramatick poems could be
understood by the people in no language but their own, and the Romans
were sometimes entertained with the tragedies of Euripides and the
comedies of Menander. Other works were sometimes attempted; in an old
scholiast there is mention of a Latin Iliad; and we have not wholly lost
Tully's version of the poem of Aratus; but it does not appear that any
man grew eminent by interpreting another, and perhaps it was more
frequent to translate for exercise or amusement, than for fame.
The Arabs were the first nation who felt the ardour of translation: when
they had subdued the eastern provinces of the Greek empire, they found
their captives wiser than themselves, and made haste to relieve their
wants by imparted knowledge. They discovered that many might grow wise
by the labour of a few, and that improvements might be made with speed,
when they had the knowledge of former ages in their own language. They,
therefore, made haste to lay hold on medicine end philosophy, and turned
their chief authors into Arabick[1]. Whether they attempted the poets is
not known; their literary zeal was vehement, but it was short, and
probably expired before they had time to add the arts of elegance to
those of necessity.
The study of ancient literature was interrupted in Europe by the
irruption of the Northern nations, who subverted the Roman empire, and
erected new kingdoms with new languages. It is not strange that such
confusion should suspend literary attention; those who lost, and those
who gained dominion, had immediate difficulties to encounter, and
immediate miseries to redress, and had little leisure, amidst the
violence of war, the trepidation of flight, the distresses of forced
migration, or the tumults of unsettled conquest, to inquire after
speculative truth, to enjoy the amusement of imaginary adventures, to
know the history of former ages, or study the events of any other lives.
But no sooner had this chaos of dominion sunk into order, than learning
began again to flourish in the calm of peace. When life and possessions
were secure, convenience and enjoyment were soon sought, learning was
found the highest gratification of the mind, and translation became one
of the means by which it was imparted.
At last, by a concurrence of many causes, the European world was roused
from its lethargy; those arts which had been long obscurely studied in
the gloom of monasteries became the general favourites of mankind; every
nation vied with its neighbour for the prize of learning; the epidemical
emulation spread from south to north, and curiosity and translation
found their way to Britain.
[1] Some popular information on the interesting subject of Arabian
Literature, is collected in the third part of Harris's Philological
Inquiries. Mr. Hallam's History of the Middle Ages is a rich storehouse
for these points.--ED.
No. 69. SATURDAY, AUGUST 11, 1759.
He that reviews the progress of English literature, will find that
translation was very early cultivated among us, but that some
principles, either wholly erroneous or too far extended, hindered our
success from being always equal to our diligence.
Chaucer, who is generally considered as the father of our poetry, has
left a version of Boethius on the Comforts of Philosophy, the book which
seems to have been the favourite of the middle ages, which had been
translated into Saxon by King Alfred, and illustrated with a copious
comment ascribed to Aquinas. It may be supposed that Chaucer would apply
more than common attention to an author of so much celebrity, yet he has
attempted nothing higher than a version strictly literal, and has
degraded the poetical parts to prose, that the constraint of
versification might not obstruct his zeal for fidelity.