addresses a mingled audience, may deserve inquiry. It is certain that
the senses are more powerful as the reason is weaker; and that he whose
ears convey little to his mind, may sometimes listen with his eyes till
truth may gradually take possession of his heart. If there be any use of
gesticulation, it must be applied to the ignorant and rude, who will be
more affected by vehemence than delighted by propriety. In the pulpit
little action can be proper, for action can illustrate nothing but that
to which it may be referred by nature or by custom. He that imitates by
his hand a motion which he describes, explains it by natural similitude;
he that lays his hand on his breast, when he expresses pity, enforces
his words by a customary allusion. But theology has few topicks to which
action can be appropriated; that action which is vague and indeterminate
will at last settle into habit, and habitual peculiarities are quickly
ridiculous.
It is, perhaps, the character of the English to despise trifles; and
that art may surely be accounted a trifle which is at once useless and
ostentatious, which can seldom be practised with propriety, and which,
as the mind is more cultivated, is less powerful. Yet as all innocent
means are to be used for the propagation of truth, I would not deter
those who are employed in preaching to common congregations from any
practice which they may find persuasive: for, compared with the
conversion of sinners, propriety and elegance are less than nothing.
[1] Johnson might here be glancing at the oratorical lectures of the
modern _Rhetor_ Sheridan, whose plans he delighted incessantly to
ridicule. See Boswell. Many acute remarks occur in Hume's Essay on
Eloquence.
No. 91. SATURDAY, JANUARY 12, 1760.
It is common to overlook what is near, by keeping the eye fixed upon
something remote. In the same manner present opportunities are
neglected, and attainable good is slighted, by minds busied in extensive
ranges, and intent upon future advantages. Life, however short, is made
still shorter by waste of time, and its progress towards happiness,
though naturally slow, is yet retarded by unnecessary labour.
The difficulty of obtaining knowledge is universally confessed. To fix
deeply in the mind the principles of science, to settle their
limitations, and deduce the long succession of their consequences; to
comprehend the whole compass of complicated systems, with all the
arguments, objections and solutions, and to reposite in the intellectual
treasury the numberless facts, experiments, apophthegms and positions,
which must stand single in the memory, and of which none has any
perceptible connexion with the rest, is a task which, though undertaken
with ardour and pursued with diligence, must at last be left unfinished
by the frailty of our nature.
To make the way to learning either less short or less smooth, is
certainly absurd; yet this is the apparent effect of the prejudice which
seems to prevail among us in favour of foreign authors, and of the
contempt of our native literature, which this excursive curiosity must
necessarily produce. Every man is more speedily instructed by his own
language, than by any other; before we search the rest of the world for
teachers, let us try whether we may not spare our trouble by finding
them at home.
The riches of the English language are much greater than they are
commonly supposed. Many useful and valuable books lie buried in shops
and libraries, unknown and unexamined, unless some lucky compiler opens
them by chance, and finds an easy spoil of wit and learning. I am far
from intending to insinuate, that other languages are not necessary to
him who aspires to eminence, and whose whole life is devoted to study;
but to him who reads only for amusement, or whose purpose is not to deck
himself with the honours of literature, but to be qualified for
domestick usefulness, and sit down content with subordinate reputation,
we have authors sufficient to fill up all the vacancies of his time, and
gratify most of his wishes for information.
Of our poets I need say little, because they are, perhaps, the only
authors to whom their country has done justice. We consider the whole
succession from Spenser to Pope as superior to any names which the
continent can boast; and, therefore, the poets of other nations, however
familiarly they may be sometimes mentioned, are very little read, except
by those who design to borrow their beauties.
There is, I think, not one of the liberal arts which may not be
competently learned in the English language. He that searches after
mathematical knowledge may busy himself among his own countrymen, and
will find one or other able to instruct him in every part of those
abstruse sciences. He that is delighted with experiments, and wishes to
know the nature of bodies from certain and visible effects, is happily
placed where the mechanical philosophy was first established by a
publick institution, and from which it was spread to all other
countries.
The more airy and elegant studies of philology and criticism have little
need of any foreign help. Though our language, not being very
analogical, gives few opportunities for grammatical researches, yet we
have not wanted authors who have considered the principles of speech;
and with critical writings we abound sufficiently to enable pedantry to
impose rules which can seldom be observed, and vanity to talk of books
which are seldom read.
But our own language has, from the Reformation to the present time, been
chiefly dignified and adorned by the works of our divines, who,
considered as commentators, controvertists, or preachers, have
undoubtedly left all other nations far behind them. No vulgar language
can boast such treasures of theological knowledge, or such multitudes of
authors at once learned, elegant and pious. Other countries and other
communions have authors, perhaps, equal in abilities and diligence to
ours; but if we unite number with excellence, there is certainly no
nation which must not allow us to be superior. Of morality little is
necessary to be said, because it is comprehended in practical divinity,
and is, perhaps, better taught in English sermons than in any other
books, ancient and modern. Nor shall I dwell on our excellence in
metaphysical speculations, because he that reads the works of our
divines will easily discover how far human subtilty has been able to
penetrate.
Political knowledge is forced upon us by the form of our constitution;
and all the mysteries of government are discovered in the attack or
defence of every minister. The original law of society, the rights of
subjects and the prerogatives of kings, have been considered with the
utmost nicety, sometimes profoundly investigated, and sometimes
familiarly explained.
Thus copiously instructive is the English language; and thus needless is
all recourse to foreign writers. Let us not, therefore, make our
neighbours proud by soliciting help which we do not want, nor discourage
our own industry by difficulties which we need not suffer.
No. 92. SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 1760.
Whatever is useful or honourable will be desired by many who never can
obtain it; and that which cannot be obtained when it is desired,
artifice or folly will be diligent to counterfeit. Those to whom fortune
has denied gold and diamonds decorate themselves with stones and metals,
which have something of the show, but little of the value; and every
moral excellence or intellectual faculty has some vice or folly which
imitates its appearance.
Every man wishes to be wise, and they who cannot be wise are almost
always cunning. The less is the real discernment of those whom business
or conversation brings together, the more illusions are practised; nor
is caution ever so necessary as with associates or opponents of feeble
minds.
Cunning differs from wisdom as twilight from open day. He that walks in
the sunshine goes boldly forward by the nearest way; he sees that where
the path is straight and even, he may proceed in security, and where it
is rough and crooked he easily complies with the turns, and avoids the
obstructions. But the traveller in the dusk fears more as he sees less;
he knows there may be danger, and, therefore, suspects that he is never
safe, tries every step before he fixes his foot, and shrinks at every
noise lest violence should approach him. Wisdom comprehends at once the
end and the means, estimates easiness or difficulty, and is cautious or
confident in due proportion. Cunning discovers little at a time, and has
no other means of certainty than multiplication of stratagems and
superfluity of suspicion. The man of cunning always considers that he
can never be too safe, and, therefore, always keeps himself enveloped in
a mist, impenetrable, as he hopes, to the eye of rivalry or curiosity.
Upon this principle Tom Double has formed a habit of eluding the most
harmless question. What he has no inclination to answer, he pretends
sometimes not to hear, and endeavours to divert the inquirer's attention
by some other subject; but if he be pressed hard by repeated
interrogation, he always evades a direct reply. Ask him whom he likes
best on the stage; he is ready to tell that there are several excellent
performers. Inquire when he was last at the coffee-house; he replies,
that the weather has been bad lately. Desire him to tell the age of any
of his acquaintance; he immediately mentions another who is older or
younger.
Will Puzzle values himself upon a long reach. He foresees every thing
before it will happen, though he never relates his prognostications till
the event is past. Nothing has come to pass for these twenty years of
which Mr. Puzzle had not given broad hints, and told at least that it
was not proper to tell. Of those predictions, which every conclusion
will equally verify, he always claims the credit, and wonders that his
friends did not understand them. He supposes very truly that much may be
known which he knows not, and, therefore, pretends to know much of which
he and all mankind are equally ignorant. I desired his opinion yesterday
of the German war, and was told, that if the Prussians were well
supported, something great may be expected; but that they have very
powerful enemies to encounter; that the Austrian general has long
experience, and the Russians are hardy and resolute; but that no human
power is invincible. I then drew the conversation to our own affairs,
and invited him to balance the probabilities of war and peace. He told
me that war requires courage, and negociation judgment, and that the
time will come when it will be seen, whether our skill in treaty is
equal to our bravery in battle. To this general prattle he will appeal
hereafter, and will demand to have his foresight applauded, whoever
shall at last be conquered or victorious.
With Ned Smuggle all is a secret. He believes himself watched by
observation and malignity on every side, and rejoices in the dexterity
by which he has escaped snares that never were laid. Ned holds that a
man is never deceived if he never trusts, and, therefore, will not tell
the name of his tailor or his hatter. He rides out every morning for the
air, and pleases himself with thinking that nobody knows where he has
been. When he dines with a friend, he never goes to his house the
nearest way, but walks up a by-street to perplex the scent. When he has
a coach called, he never tells him at the door the true place to which
he is going, but stops him in the way that he may give him directions
where nobody can hear him. The price of what he buys or sells is always
concealed. He often takes lodgings in the country by a wrong name, and
thinks that the world is wondering where he can be hid. All these
transactions he registers in a book, which, he says, will some time or
other amaze posterity.
It is remarked by Bacon, that many men try to procure reputation only by
objections, of which, if they are once admitted, the nullity never
appears, because the design is laid aside. "This false feint of wisdom,"
says he, "is the ruin of business." The whole power of cunning is
privative; to say nothing, and to do nothing, is the utmost of its
reach. Yet men thus narrow by nature, and mean by art, are sometimes
able to rise by the miscarriages of bravery and the openness of
integrity; and by watching failures and snatching opportunities, obtain
advantages which belong properly to higher characters.
No. 93. SATURDAY, JANUARY 26, 1760.
Sam Softly was bred a sugar-baker; but succeeding to a considerable
estate on the death of his elder brother, he retired early from
business, married a fortune, and settled in a country-house near
Kentish-town, Sam, who formerly was a sportsman, and in his
apprenticeship used to frequent Barnet races, keeps a high chaise, with
a brace of seasoned geldings. During the summer months, the principal
passion and employment of Sam's life is to visit, in this vehicle, the
most eminent seats of the nobility and gentry in different parts of the
kingdom, with his wife and some select friends. By these periodical
excursions Sam gratifies many important purposes. He assists the several
pregnancies of his wife; he shows his chaise to the best advantage; he
indulges his insatiable curiosity for finery, which, since he has turned
gentleman, has grown upon him to an extraordinary degree; he discovers
taste and spirit, and, what is above all, he finds frequent
opportunities of displaying to the party, at every house he sees, his
knowledge of family connexion. At first, Sam was contented with driving
a friend between London and his villa. Here he prided himself in
pointing out the boxes of the citizens on each side of the road, with an
accurate detail of their respective failures or successes in trade; and
harangued on the several equipages that were accidentally passing. Here,
too, the seats, interspersed on the surrounding hills, afforded ample
matter for Sam's curious discoveries. For one, he told his companion, a
rich Jew had offered money; and that a retired widow was courted at
another, by an eminent dry-salter. At the same time he discussed the
utility, and enumerated the expenses, of the Islington turnpike. But
Sam's ambition is at present raised to nobler undertakings.
When the happy hour of the annual expedition arrives, the seat of the
chaise is furnished with Ogilvy's Book of Roads, and a choice quantity
of cold tongues. The most alarming disaster which can happen to our
hero, who thinks he _throws a whip_ admirably well, is to be overtaken
in a road which affords no _quarter_ for wheels. Indeed, few men possess
more skill or discernment for concerting and conducting a _party of
pleasure_. When a seat is to be surveyed, he has a peculiar talent in
selecting some shady bench in the park, where the company may most
commodiously refresh themselves with cold tongue, chicken and French
rolls; and is very sagacious in discovering what cool temple in the
garden will be best adapted for drinking tea, brought for this purpose,
in the afternoon, and from which the chaise may be resumed with the
greatest convenience. In viewing the house itself, he is principally
attracted by the chairs and beds, concerning the cost of which his
minute inquiries generally gain the clearest information. An agate table
easily diverts his eyes from the most capital strokes of Rubens, and a
Turkey carpet has more charms than a Titian. Sam, however, dwells with
some attention on the family portraits, particularly the most modern
ones; and as this is a topick on which the housekeeper usually harangues
in a more copious manner, he takes this opportunity of improving his
knowledge of intermarriages. Yet, notwithstanding this appearance of
satisfaction, Sam has some objection to all he sees. One house has too
much gilding; at another, the chimney-pieces are all monuments; at a
third, he conjectures that the beautiful canal must certainly be dried
up in a hot summer. He despises the statues at Wilton, because he thinks
he can see much better carving in Westminster Abbey. But there is one
general objection which he is sure to make at almost every house,
particularly at those which are most distinguished. He allows that all
the apartments are extremely fine, but adds, with a sneer, that they are
too fine to be inhabited.
Misapplied genius most commonly proves ridiculous. Had Sam, as Nature
intended, contentedly continued in the calmer and less conspicuous
pursuits of sugar-baking, he might have been a respectable and useful
character. At present he dissipates his life in a specious idleness,
which neither improves himself nor his friends. Those talents, which
might have benefited society, he exposes to contempt by false
pretensions. He affects pleasures which he cannot enjoy, and is
acquainted only with those subjects on which he has no right to talk,
and which it is no merit to understand[1].
[1] This humorous paper was written by Mr. Thomas Warton, who is said to
have sketched from a character in real life, distantly related to
himself.--Drake's Essays, Vol. II.
No. 94. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 1760.
It is common to find young men ardent and diligent in the pursuit of
knowledge; but the progress of life very often produces laxity and
indifference; and not only those who are at liberty to choose their
business and amusements, but those likewise whose professions engage
them in literary inquiries, pass the latter part of their time without
improvement, and spend the day rather in any other entertainment than
that which they might find among their books.
This abatement of the vigour of curiosity is sometimes imputed to the
insufficiency of learning. Men are supposed to remit their labours,
because they find their labours to have been vain; and to search no
longer after truth and wisdom, because they at last despair of finding
them.
But this reason is, for the most part, very falsely assigned. Of
learning, as of virtue, it may be affirmed, that it is at once honoured
and neglected. Whoever forsakes it will for ever look after it with
longing, lament the loss which he does not endeavour to repair, and
desire the good which he wants resolution to seize and keep. The Idler
never applauds his own idleness, nor does any man repent of the
diligence of his youth.
So many hindrances may obstruct the acquisition of knowledge, that there
is little reason for wondering that it is in a few hands. To the greater
part of mankind the duties of life are inconsistent with much study; and
the hours which they would spend upon letters must be stolen from their
occupations and their families. Many suffer themselves to be lured by
more sprightly and luxurious pleasures from the shades of contemplation,
where they find seldom more than a calm delight, such as, though greater
than all others, its certainty and its duration being reckoned with its
power of gratification, is yet easily quitted for some extemporary joy,
which the present moment offers, and another, perhaps, will put out of
reach.
It is the great excellence of learning, that it borrows very little from
time or place; it is not confined to season or to climate, to cities or
to the country, but may be cultivated and enjoyed where no other
pleasure can be obtained. But this quality, which constitutes much of
its value, is one occasion of neglect; what may be done at all times
with equal propriety, is deferred from day to day, till the mind is
gradually reconciled to the omission, and the attention is turned to
other objects. Thus habitual idleness gains too much power to be
conquered, and the soul shrinks from the idea of intellectual labour and
intenseness of meditation.
That those who profess to advance learning sometimes obstruct it, cannot
be denied; the continual multiplication of books not only distracts
choice, but disappoints inquiry. To him that has moderately stored his
mind with images, few writers afford any novelty, or what little they
have to add to the common stock of learning, is so buried in the mass of
general notions, that, like silver mingled with the ore of lead, it is
too little to pay for the labour of separation; and he that has often
been deceived by the promise of a title, at last grows weary of
examining, and is tempted to consider all as equally fallacious.
There are indeed some repetitions always lawful, because they never
deceive. He that writes the history of past times, undertakes only to
decorate known facts by new beauties of method or of style, or at most
to illustrate them by his own reflections. The author of a system,
whether moral or physical, is obliged to nothing beyond care of
selection and regularity of disposition. But there are others who claim
the name of authors merely to disgrace it, and fill the world with
volumes only to bury letters in their own rubbish. The traveller, who
tells, in a pompous folio, that he saw the Pantheon at Rome, and the
Medicean Venus at Florence; the natural historian, who, describing the
productions of a narrow island, recounts all that it has in common with
every other part of the world; the collector of antiquities, that
accounts every thing a curiosity which the ruins of Herculaneum happen
to emit, though an instrument already shown in a thousand repositories,
or a cup common to the ancients, the moderns and all mankind; may be
justly censured as the persecutors of students, and the thieves of that
time which never can be restored.
No. 95. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 1760.
TO THE IDLER.
Mr. Idler,
It is, I think, universally agreed, that seldom any good is gotten by
complaint; yet we find that few forbear to complain, but those who are
afraid of being reproached as the authors of their own miseries. I hope,
therefore, for the common permission to lay my case before you and your
readers, by which I shall disburden my heart, though I cannot hope to
receive either assistance or consolation.
I am a trader, and owe my fortune to frugality and industry. I began
with little; but by the easy and obvious method of spending less than I
gain, I have every year added something to my stock, and expect to have
a seat in the common-council at the next election.
My wife, who was as prudent as myself, died six years ago, and left me
one son and one daughter, for whose sake I resolved never to marry
again, and rejected the overtures of Mrs. Squeeze, the broker's widow,
who had ten thousand pounds at her own disposal.
I bred my son at a school near Islington; and when he had learned
arithmetick, and wrote a good hand, I took him into the shop, designing,
in about ten years, to retire to Stratford or Hackney, and leave him
established in the business.
For four years he was diligent and sedate, entered the shop before it
was opened, and when it was shut, always examined the pins of the
window. In any intermission of business it was his constant practice to
peruse the leger. I had always great hopes of him, when I observed how
sorrowfully he would shake his head over a bad debt, and how eagerly he
would listen to me when I told him that he might at one time or other
become an alderman.
We lived together with mutual confidence, till, unluckily, a visit was
paid him by two of his school-fellows, who were placed, I suppose, in
the army, because they were fit for nothing better: they came glittering
in their military dress, accosted their old acquaintance, and invited
him to a tavern, where, as I have been since informed, they ridiculed
the meanness of commerce, and wondered how a youth of spirit could spend
the prime of life behind a counter. I did not suspect any mischief. I
knew my son was never without money in his pocket, and was better able
to pay his reckoning than his companions; and expected to see him return
triumphing in his own advantages, and congratulating himself that he was
not one of those who expose their heads to a musket bullet for three
shillings a day.
He returned sullen and thoughtful; I supposed him sorry for the hard
fortune of his friends; and tried to comfort him, by saying that the war
would soon be at an end, and that, if they had any honest occupation,
half-pay would be a pretty help. He looked at me with indignation; and
snatching up his candle, told me, as he went up stairs, that _he hoped
to see a battle yet_.