THE RAMBLER.

No. 1. TUESDAY, MARCH 20, 1749-50.

_Cur tamen hoc potius libeat decurrere campo,_

_Per quem magnus equos Auruncæ flexit alumnus,_

_Si vacat, et placidi rationem admittitis, edam._

JUV. Sat. i. 19.

Why to expatiate in this beaten field,

Why arms, oft us'd in vain, I mean to wield;

If time permit, and candour will attend,

Some satisfaction this essay may lend.

ELPHINSTON.

The difficulty of the first address on any new occasion, is felt by every

man in his transactions with the world, and confessed by the settled

and regular forms of salutation which necessity has introduced into

all languages. Judgment was wearied with the perplexity of being forced

upon choice, where there was no motive to preference; and it was found

convenient that some easy method of introduction should be established,

which, if it wanted the allurement of novelty, might enjoy the security

of prescription.

Perhaps few authors have presented themselves before the publick,

without wishing that such ceremonial modes of entrance had been anciently

established, as might have freed them from those dangers which the desire

of pleasing is certain to produce, and precluded the vain expedients

of softening censure by apologies, or rousing attention by abruptness.

The epick writers have found the proemial part of the poem such an

addition to their undertaking, that they have almost unanimously adopted

the first lines of Homer, and the reader needs only be informed of the

subject, to know in what manner the poem will begin.

But this solemn repetition is hitherto the peculiar distinction of

heroick poetry; it has never been legally extended to the lower orders

of literature, but seems to be considered as an hereditary privilege,

to be enjoyed only by those who claim it from their alliance to the

genius of Homer.

The rules which the injudicious use of this prerogative suggested to

Horace, may indeed be applied to the direction of candidates for inferior

fame; it may be proper for all to remember, that they ought not to raise

expectation which it is not in their power to satisfy, and that it is

more pleasing to see smoke brightening into flame, than flame sinking

into smoke.

This precept has been long received, both from regard to the authority

of Horace, and its conformity to the general opinion of the world; yet

there have been always some, that thought it no deviation from modesty

to recommend their own labours, and imagined themselves entitled by

indisputable merit to an exemption from general restraints, and to

elevations not allowed in common life. They perhaps believed, that when,

like Thucydides, they bequeathed to mankind κτημα ες αει, _an estate for

ever_, it was an additional favour to inform them of its value.

It may, indeed, be no less dangerous to claim, on certain occasions,

too little than too much. There is something captivating in spirit and

intrepidity, to which we often yield, as to a resistless power; nor

can he reasonably expect the confidence of others, who too apparently

distrusts himself.

Plutarch, in his enumeration of the various occasions on which a man may

without just offence proclaim his own excellencies, has omitted the case

of an author entering the world; unless it may be comprehended under

his general position, that a man may lawfully praise himself for those

qualities which cannot be known but from his own mouth; as when he is

among strangers, and can have no opportunity of an actual exertion of his

powers. That the case of an author is parallel will scarcely be granted,

because he necessarily discovers the degree of his merit to his judges

when he appears at his trial. But it should be remembered, that unless

his judges are inclined to favour him, they will hardly be persuaded to

hear the cause.

In love, the state which fills the heart with a degree of solicitude

next that of an author, it has been held a maxim, that success is most

easily obtained by indirect and unperceived approaches; he who too soon

professes himself a lover, raises obstacles to his own wishes, and those

whom disappointments have taught experience, endeavour to conceal their

passion till they believe their mistress wishes for the discovery. The

same method, if it were practicable to writers, would save many complaints

of the severity of the age, and the caprices of criticism. If a man could

glide imperceptibly into the favour of the publick, and only proclaim his

pretensions to literary honours when he is sure of not being rejected,

he might commence author with better hopes, as his failings might escape

contempt, though he shall never attain much regard.

But since the world supposes every man that writes ambitious of applause,

as some ladies have taught themselves to believe that every man intends

love, who expresses civility, the miscarriage of any endeavour in learning

raises an unbounded contempt, indulged by most minds, without scruple,

as an honest triumph over unjust claims and exorbitant expectations. The

artifices of those who put themselves in this hazardous state, have

therefore been multiplied in proportion to their fear as well as their

ambition; and are to be looked upon with more indulgence, as they are

incited at once by the two great movers of the human mind--the desire

of good, and the fear of evil. For who can wonder that, allured on one

side, and frightened on the other, some should endeavour to gain favour

by bribing the judge with an appearance of respect which they do not

feel, to excite compassion by confessing weakness of which they are

not convinced; and others to attract regard by a show of openness and

magnanimity, by a daring profession of their own deserts, and a publick

challenge of honours and rewards?

The ostentatious and haughty display of themselves has been the usual

refuge of diurnal writers, in vindication of whose practice it may be

said, that what it wants in prudence is supplied by sincerity, and who

at least may plead, that if their boasts deceive any into the perusal

of their performances, they defraud them of but little time.

_----Quid enim? Concurritur--horæ_

_Momento cita mors venit, aut victoria læta._

HOR. lib. i. Sat. 7.

The battle join, and in a moment's flight,

Death, or a joyful conquest, ends the fight.

FRANCIS.

The question concerning the merit of the day is soon decided, and we

are not condemned to toil through half a folio, to be convinced that

the writer has broke his promise.

It is one among many reasons for which I purpose to endeavour the

entertainment of my countrymen by a short essay on Tuesday and Saturday,

that I hope not much to tire those whom I shall not happen to please; and

if I am not commended for the beauty of my works, to be at least pardoned

for their brevity. But whether my expectations are most fixed on pardon

or praise, I think it not necessary to discover; for having accurately

weighed the reasons for arrogance and submission, I find them so nearly

equiponderant, that my impatience to try the event of my first performance

will not suffer me to attend any longer the trepidations of the balance.

There are, indeed, many conveniencies almost peculiar to this method

of publication, which may naturally flatter the author, whether he be

confident or timorous. The man to whom the extent of his knowledge, or

the sprightliness of his imagination, has, in his own opinion, already

secured the praises of the world, willingly takes that way of displaying

his abilities which will soonest give him an opportunity of hearing the

voice of fame; it heightens his alacrity to think in how many places he

shall hear what he is now writing, read with ecstasies to-morrow. He will

often please himself with reflecting, that the author of a large treatise

must proceed with anxiety, lest, before the completion of his work, the

attention of the publick may have changed its object; but that he who

is confined to no single topick may follow the national taste through

all its variations, and catch the _aura popularis_, the gale of favour,

from what point soever it shall blow.

Nor is the prospect less likely to ease the doubts of the cautious, and

the terrours of the fearful; for to such the shortness of every single

paper is a powerful encouragement. He that questions his abilities to

arrange the dissimilar parts of an extensive plan, or fears to be lost

in a complicated system, may yet hope to adjust a few pages without

perplexity; and if, when he turns over the repositories of his memory,

he finds his collection too small for a volume, he may yet have enough to

furnish out an essay. He that would fear to lay out too much time upon

an experiment of which he knows not the event, persuades himself that

a few days will show him what he is to expect from his learning and his

genius. If he thinks his own judgment not sufficiently enlightened, he

may, by attending the remarks which every paper will produce, rectify his

opinions. If he should with too little premeditation encumber himself by

an unwieldy subject, he can quit it without confessing his ignorance,

and pass to other topicks less dangerous, or more tractable. And if

he finds, with all his industry, and all his artifices, that he cannot

deserve regard, or cannot attain it, he may let the design fall at once,

and, without injury to others or himself, retire to amusements of greater

pleasure, or to studies of better prospect.

No. 2. SATURDAY, MARCH 24, 1749-50.

_Stare loco nescit, pereunt vestigia mille_

_Ante fugam, absentemque ferit gratis ungula campum._

STATIUS.

Th' impatient courser pants in every vein,

And pawing seems to beat the distant plain;

Hills, vales, and floods appear already crost,

And ere he starts, a thousand steps are lost.

POPE.

That the mind of man is never satisfied with the objects immediately

before it, but is always breaking away from the present moment, and

losing itself in schemes of future felicity; and that we forget the

proper use of the time, now in our power, to provide for the enjoyment

of that which, perhaps, may never be granted us, has been frequently

remarked; and as this practice is a commodious subject of raillery to

the gay, and of declamation to the serious, it has been ridiculed with

all the pleasantry of wit, and exaggerated with all the amplifications

of rhetorick. Every instance, by which its absurdity might appear most

flagrant, has been studiously collected; it has been marked with every

epithet of contempt, and all the tropes and figures have been called

forth against it.

Censure is willingly indulged, because it always implies some superiority:

men please themselves with imagining that they have made a deeper search,

or wider survey, than others, and detected faults and follies, which

escape vulgar observation. And the pleasure of wantoning in common

topicks is so tempting to a writer, that he cannot easily resign it;

a train of sentiments generally received enables him to shine without

labour, and to conquer without a contest. It is so easy to laugh at the

folly of him who lives only in idea, refuses immediate ease for distant

pleasures, and, instead of enjoying the blessings of life, lets life

glide away in preparations to enjoy them; it affords such opportunities

of triumphant exultation, to exemplify the uncertainty of the human state,

to rouse mortals from their dream, and inform them of the silent celerity

of time, that we may believe authors willing rather to transmit than

examine so advantageous a principle, and more inclined to pursue a track

so smooth and so flowery, than attentively to consider whether it leads

to truth.

This quality of looking-forward into futurity seems the unavoidable

condition of a being, whose motions are gradual, and whose life is

progressive: as his powers are limited, he must use means for the

attainment of his ends, and intend first what he performs last; as by

continual advances from his first stage of existence, he is perpetually

varying the horizon of his prospects, he must always discover new motives

of action, new excitements of fear, and allurements of desire.

The end therefore which at present calls forth our efforts, will be found,

when it is once gained, to be only one of the means to some remoter

end. The natural flights of the human mind are not from pleasure to

pleasure, but from hope to hope.

He that directs his steps to a certain point, must frequently turn

his eyes to that place which he strives to reach; he that undergoes the

fatigue of labour, must solace his weariness with the contemplation of its

reward. In agriculture, one of the most simple and necessary employments,

no man turns up the ground but because he thinks of the harvest, that

harvest which blights may intercept, which inundations may sweep away,

or which death or calamity may hinder him from reaping.

Yet, as few maxims are widely received or long retained but for some

conformity with truth and nature, it must be confessed, that this caution

against keeping our view too intent upon remote advantages is not without

its propriety or usefulness, though it may have been recited with too

much levity, or enforced with too little distinction; for, not to speak

of that vehemence of desire which presses through right and wrong to its

gratification, or that anxious inquietude which is justly chargeable

with distrust of heaven, subjects too solemn for my present purpose;

it frequently happens that by indulging early the raptures of success,

we forget the measures necessary to secure it, and suffer the imagination

to riot in the fruition of some possible good, till the time of obtaining

it has slipped away.

There would, however, be few enterprises of great labour or hazard

undertaken, if we had not the power of magnifying the advantages which

we persuade ourselves to expect from them. When the knight of La Mancha

gravely recounts to his companion the adventures by which he is to

signalize himself in such a manner that he shall be summoned to the

support of empires, solicited to accept the heiress of the crown which

he has preserved, have honours and riches to scatter about him, and an

island to bestow on his worthy squire, very few readers, amidst their

mirth or pity, can deny that they have admitted visions of the same

kind; though they have not, perhaps, expected events equally strange,

or by means equally inadequate. When we pity him, we reflect on our own

disappointments; and when we laugh, our hearts inform us that he is

not more ridiculous than ourselves, except that he tells what we have

only thought.

The understanding of a man naturally sanguine, may, indeed, be easily

vitiated by luxurious indulgence of hope, however necessary to the

production of every thing great or excellent, as some plants are

destroyed by too open exposure to that sun which gives life and beauty

to the vegetable world.

Perhaps no class of the human species requires more to be cautioned

against this anticipation of happiness, than those that aspire to the

name of authors. A man of lively fancy no sooner finds a hint moving

in his mind, than he makes momentaneous excursions to the press, and

to the world, and, with a little encouragement from flattery, pushes

forward into future ages, and prognosticates the honours to be paid him,

when envy is extinct, and faction forgotten, and those, whom partiality

now suffers to obscure him, shall have given way to the triflers of as

short duration as themselves.

Those who have proceeded so far as to appeal to the tribunal of succeeding

times are not likely to be cured of their infatuation, but all endeavours

ought to be used for the prevention of a disease, for which, when it has

attained its height, perhaps no remedy will be found in the gardens of

philosophy, however she may boast her physick of the mind, her catharticks

of vice, or lenitives of passion.

I shall, therefore, while I am yet but lightly touched with the symptoms

of the writer's malady, endeavour to fortify myself against the infection,

not without some weak hope, that my preservatives may extend their

virtues to others, whose employment exposes them to the same danger:

_Laudis amore tumes? Sunt certa piacula, quæ te_

_Ter pure lecto poterunt recreare libello._

HOR. Ep. i. v. 36.

Is fame your passion? Wisdom's powerful charm,

If thrice read over, shall its force disarm.

FRANCIS.

It is the sage advice of Epictetus, that a man should accustom himself

often to think of what is most shocking and terrible, that by such

reflections he may be preserved from too ardent wishes for seeming good,

and from too much dejection in real evil.

There is nothing more dreadful to an author than neglect, compared with

which reproach, hatred, and opposition, are names of happiness; yet this

worst, this meanest fate, every one who dares to write has reason to fear.

_I nunc, et versus tecum meditare canoros._

HOR. lib. ii. v. 76.

Go now, and meditate thy tuneful lays.

ELPHINSTON.

It may not be unfit for him who makes a new entrance into the lettered

world, so far to suspect his own powers, as to believe that he possibly

may deserve neglect; that nature may not have qualified him much

to enlarge or embellish knowledge, nor sent him forth entitled by

indisputable superiority to regulate the conduct of the rest of mankind

that, though the world must be granted to be yet in ignorance, he is not

destined to dispel the cloud, nor to shine out as one of the luminaries

of life. For this suspicion, every catalogue of a library will furnish

sufficient reason; as he will find it crowded with names of men, who,

though now forgotten, were once no less enterprising or confident than

himself, equally pleased with their own productions, equally caressed by

their patrons, and flattered by their friends.

But though it should happen that an author is capable of excelling, yet

his merit may pass without notice, huddled in the variety of things, and

thrown into the general miscellany of life. He that endeavours after fame

by writing, solicits the regard of a multitude fluctuating in pleasures,

or immersed in business, without time for intellectual amusements; he

appeals to judges prepossessed by passions, or corrupted by prejudices,

which preclude their approbation of any new performance. Some are

too indolent to read any thing, till its reputation is established;

others too envious to promote that fame which gives them pain by its

increase. What is new is opposed, because most are unwilling to be

taught; and what is known is rejected, because it is not sufficiently

considered that men more frequently require to be reminded than informed.

The learned are afraid to declare their opinion early, lest they should

put their reputation in hazard; the ignorant always imagine themselves

giving some proof of delicacy, when they refuse to be pleased: and he

that finds his way to reputation through all these obstructions, must

acknowledge that he is indebted to other causes besides his industry,

his learning, or his wit.

No. 3. TUESDAY, MARCH 27, 1750.

VIRTUS, _repulsæ nescia sordidæ,_

_Intaminatis fulget honoribus,_

_Nec sumit aut pouit secures_

_Arbitrio popularis auræ._

HOR. lib. iii. Od. II. 18.

Undisappointed in designs,

With native honours virtue shines;

Nor takes up pow'r, nor lays it down,

As giddy rabbles smile or frown.

ELPHINSTON.

The task of an author is, either to teach what is not known, or to

recommend known truths by his manner of adorning them; either to let

new light in upon the mind, and open new scenes to the prospect, or

to vary the dress and situation of common objects, so as to give them

fresh grace and more powerful attractions, to spread such flowers over

the regions through which the intellect has already made its progress,

as may tempt it to return, and take a second view of things hastily

passed over, or negligently regarded.

Either of these labours is very difficult, because, that they may not

be fruitless, men must not only be persuaded of their errours, but

reconciled to their guide; they must not only confess their ignorance,

but, what is still less pleasing, must allow that he from whom they are

to learn is more knowing than themselves.

It might be imagined that such an employment was in itself sufficiently

irksome and hazardous; that none would be found so malevolent as wantonly

to add weight to the stone of Sisyphus; and that few endeavours would be

used to obstruct those advances to reputation, which must be made at such

an expense of time and thought, with so great hazard in the miscarriage,

and with so little advantage from the success.

Yet there is a certain race of men, that either imagine it their duty,

or make it their amusement, to hinder the reception of every work of

learning or genius, who stand as sentinels in the avenues of fame, and

value themselves upon giving Ignorance and Envy the first notice of

a prey.

To these men, who distinguish themselves by the appellation of Criticks,

it is necessary for a new author to find some means of recommendation.

It is probable, that the most malignant of these persecutors might be

somewhat softened, and prevailed on, for a short time, to remit their

fury. Having for this purpose considered many expedients, I find in the

records of ancient times, that Argus was lulled by musick, and Cerberus

quieted with a sop; and am, therefore, inclined to believe that modern

criticks, who, if they have not the eyes, have the watchfulness of Argus,

and can bark as loud as Cerberus, though, perhaps, they cannot bite with

equal force, might be subdued by methods of the same kind. I have heard

how some have been pacified with claret and a supper, and others laid

asleep by the soft notes of flattery.

Though the nature of my undertaking gives me sufficient reason to dread

the united attacks of this virulent generation, yet I have not hitherto

persuaded myself to take any measures for flight or treaty. For I am in

doubt whether they can act against me by lawful authority, and suspect

that they have presumed upon a forged commission, styled themselves the

ministers of Criticism, without any authentick evidence of delegation, and

uttered their own determinations as the decrees of a higher judicature.

Criticism, from whom they derive their claim to decide the fate of

writers, was the eldest daughter of Labour and of Truth: she was at

her birth committed to the care of Justice, and brought up by her

in the palace of Wisdom. Being soon distinguished by the celestials,

for her uncommon qualities, she was appointed the governess of Fancy,

and empowered to beat time to the chorus of the Muses, when they sung

before the throne of Jupiter.

When the Muses condescended to visit this lower world, they came

accompanied by Criticism, to whom, upon her descent from her native

regions, Justice gave a sceptre, to be carried aloft in her right hand,

one end of which was tinctured with ambrosia, and inwreathed with

a golden foliage of amaranths and bays; the other end was encircled

with cypress and poppies, and dipped in the waters of oblivion. In her

left hand she bore an unextinguishable torch, manufactured by Labour,

and lighted by Truth, of which it was the particular quality immediately

to shew every thing in its true form, however it might be disguised to

common eyes. Whatever Art could complicate, or Folly could confound, was,

upon the first gleam of the torch of Truth, exhibited in its distinct

parts and original simplicity; it darted through the labyrinths of

sophistry, and shewed at once all the absurdities to which they served

for refuge; it pierced through the robes, which Rhetoric often sold to

Falsehood, and detected the disproportion of parts, which artificial

veils had been contrived to cover.

Thus furnished for the execution of her office, Criticism came down to

survey the performances of those who professed themselves the votaries

of the Muses. Whatever was brought before her, she beheld by the steady

light of the torch of Truth, and when her examination had convinced her

that the laws of just writing had been observed, she touched it with

the amaranthine end of the sceptre, and consigned it over to immortality.

But it more frequently happened, that in the works, which required

her inspection, there was some imposture attempted; that false colours

were laboriously laid; that some secret inequality was found between

the words and sentiments, or some dissimilitude of the ideas and the

original objects; that incongruities were linked together, or that

some parts were of no use but to enlarge the appearance of the whole,

without contributing to its beauty, solidity, or usefulness.

Wherever such discoveries were made, and they were made whenever these

faults were committed, Criticism refused the touch which conferred the

sanction of immortality, and, when the errours were frequent and gross,

reversed the sceptre, and let drops of lethe distil from the poppies

and cypress, a fatal mildew, which immediately began to waste the work

away, till it was at last totally destroyed.

There were some compositions brought to the test, in which, when the

strongest light was thrown upon them, their beauties and faults appeared

so equally mingled, that Criticism stood with her sceptre poised in her

hand, in doubt whether to shed lethe, or ambrosia, upon them. These at

last increased to so great a number, that she was weary of attending

such doubtful claims, and, for fear of using improperly the sceptre of

Justice, referred the cause to be considered by Time.

The proceedings of Time, though very dilatory, were, some few caprices

excepted, conformable to Justice: and many who thought themselves secure

by a short forbearance, have sunk under his scythe, as they were posting

down with their volumes in triumph to futurity. It was observable that

some were destroyed by little and little, and others crushed for ever

by a single blow.

Criticism having long kept her eye fixed steadily upon Time, was at last

so well satisfied with his conduct, that she withdrew from the earth

with her patroness Astrea, and left Prejudice and False Taste to ravage

at large as the associates of Fraud and Mischief; contenting herself

thenceforth to shed her influence from afar upon some select minds,

fitted for its reception by learning and by virtue.

Before her departure she broke her sceptre, of which the shivers, that

formed the ambrosial end, were caught up by Flattery, and those that had

been infected with the waters of lethe were, with equal haste, seized

by Malevolence. The followers of Flattery, to whom she distributed

her part of the sceptre, neither had nor desired light, but touched

indiscriminately whatever Power or Interest happened to exhibit. The

companions of Malevolence were supplied by the Furies with a torch,

which had this quality peculiar to infernal lustre, that its light fell

only upon faults.

No light, but rather darkness visible

Serv'd only to discover sights of woe.

MILTON.

With these fragments of authority, the slaves of Flattery and Malevolence

marched out, at the command of their mistresses, to confer immortality,

or condemn to oblivion. But the sceptre had now lost its power;

and Time passes his sentence at leisure, without any regard to their

determinations.

No. 4. SATURDAY, MARCH 31, 1750.

_Simul et jucunda et idonea dicere vitæ._

HOR. A. P. 334.

And join both profit and delight in one.

CREECH.

The works of fiction, with which the present generation seems more

particularly delighted, are such as exhibit life in its true state,

diversified only by accidents that daily happen in the world, and

influenced by passions and qualities which are really to be found in

conversing with mankind.

This kind of writing may be termed not improperly the comedy of romance,

and is to be conducted nearly by the rules of comick poetry. Its province

is to bring about natural events by easy means, and to keep up curiosity

without the help of wonder: it is therefore precluded from the machines

and expedients of the heroic romance, and can neither employ giants

to snatch away a lady from the nuptial rites, nor knights to bring her

back from captivity; it can neither bewilder its personages in deserts,

nor lodge them in imaginary castles.

I remember a remark made by Scaliger upon Pontanus, that all his writings

are filled with the same images; and that if you take from him his

lilies and his roses, his satyrs and his dryads, he will have nothing

left that can be called poetry. In like manner almost all the fictions

of the last age will vanish, if you deprive them of a hermit and a wood,

a battle and a shipwreck.

Why this wild strain of imagination found reception so long in polite

and learned ages, it is not easy to conceive; but we cannot wonder that

while readers could be procured, the authors were willing to continue it;

for when a man had by practice gained some fluency of language, he had

no further care than to retire to his closet, let loose his invention,

and heat his mind with incredibilities; a book was thus produced without

fear of criticism, without the toil of study, without knowledge of nature,

or acquaintance with life.

The task of our present writers is very different; it requires, together

with that learning which is to be gained from books, that experience which

can never be attained by solitary diligence, but must arise from general

converse and accurate observation of the living world. Their performances

have, as Horace expresses it, _plus oneris quantum veniæ minus_, little

indulgence, and therefore more difficulty. They are engaged in portraits

of which every one knows the original, and can detect any deviation

from exactness of resemblance. Other writings are safe, except from the

malice of learning, but these are in danger from every common reader;

as the slipper ill executed was censured by a shoemaker who happened to

stop in his way at the Venus of Apelles.

But the fear of not being approved as just copiers of human manners,

is not the most important concern that an author of this sort ought

to have before him. These books are written chiefly to the young, the

ignorant, and the idle, to whom they serve as lectures of conduct, and

introductions into life. They are the entertainment of minds unfurnished

with ideas, and therefore easily susceptible of impressions; not fixed

by principles, and therefore easily following the current of fancy; not

informed by experience, and consequently open to every false suggestion

and partial account.

That the highest degree of reverence should be paid to youth, and that

nothing indecent should be suffered to approach their eyes or ears,

are precepts extorted by sense and virtue from an ancient writer, by

no means eminent for chastity of thought. The same kind, though not

the same degree, of caution, is required in every thing which is laid

before them, to secure them from unjust prejudices, perverse opinions,

and incongruous combinations of images.

In the romances formerly written, every transaction and sentiment was so

remote from all that passes among men, that the reader was in very little

danger of making any applications to himself; the virtues and crimes

were equally beyond his sphere of activity; and he amused himself with

heroes and with traitors, deliverers and persecutors, as with beings of

another species, whose actions were regulated upon motives of their own,

and who had neither faults nor excellencies in common with himself.

But when an adventurer is levelled with the rest of the world, and acts

in such scenes of the universal drama, as may be the lot of any other man;

young spectators fix their eyes upon him with closer attention, and hope,

by observing his behaviour and success, to regulate their own practices,

when they shall be engaged in the like part.

For this reason these familiar histories may perhaps be made of greater

use than the solemnities of professed morality, and convey the knowledge

of vice and virtue with more efficacy than axioms and definitions. But if

the power of example is so great as to take possession of the memory by a

kind of violence, and produce effects almost without the intervention of

the will, care ought to be taken, that, when the choice is unrestrained,

the best examples only should be exhibited; and that which is likely

to operate so strongly, should not be mischievous or uncertain in its

effects.

The chief advantage which these fictions have over real life is, that

their authors are at liberty, though not to invent, yet to select objects,

and to cull from the mass of mankind, those individuals upon which the

attention ought most to be employed; as a diamond, though it cannot be

made, may be polished by art, and placed in such a situation, as to

display that lustre which before was buried among common stones.

It is justly considered as the greatest excellency of art, to imitate

nature; but it is necessary to distinguish those parts of nature,

which are most proper for imitation: greater care is still required in

representing life, which is so often discoloured by passion, or deformed

by wickedness. If the world be promiscuously described, I cannot see

of what use it can be to read the account; or why it may not be as safe

to turn the eye immediately upon mankind as upon a mirrour which shews

all that presents itself without discrimination.

It is therefore not a sufficient vindication of a character, that it is

drawn as it appears; for many characters ought never to be drawn: nor

of a narrative, that the train of events is agreeable to observation and

experience; for that observation which is called knowledge of the world,

will be found much more frequently to make men cunning than good. The

purpose of these writings is surely not only to shew mankind, but to

provide that they may be seen hereafter with less hazard; to teach the

means of avoiding the snares which are laid by Treachery for Innocence,

without infusing any wish for that superiority with which the betrayer

flatters his vanity; to give the power of counteracting fraud, without

the temptation to practise it; to initiate youth by mock encounters in

the art of necessary defence, and to increase prudence without impairing

virtue.

Many writers, for the sake of following nature, so mingle good and bad

qualities in their principal personages, that they are both equally

conspicuous; and as we accompany them through their adventures with

delight, and are led by degrees to interest ourselves in their favour,

we lose the abhorrence of their faults, because they do not hinder our

pleasure, or, perhaps, regard them with some kindness, for being united

with so much merit.

There have been men indeed splendidly wicked, whose endowments threw a

brightness on their crimes, and whom scarce any villany made perfectly

detestable, because they never could be wholly divested of their

excellencies; but such have been in all ages the great corrupters of

the world, and their resemblance ought no more to be preserved, than

the art of murdering without pain.

Some have advanced, without due attention to the consequences of

this notion, that certain virtues have their correspondent faults,

and therefore that to exhibit either apart is to deviate from

probability. Thus men are observed by Swift to be "grateful in the same

degree as they are resentful." This principle, with others of the same

kind, supposes man to act from a brute impulse, and pursue a certain

degree of inclination, without any choice of the object; for, otherwise,

though it should be allowed that gratitude and resentment arise from

the same constitution of the passions, it follows not that they will be

equally indulged when reason is consulted; yet, unless that consequence

be admitted, this sagacious maxim becomes an empty sound, without any

relation to practice or to life.

Nor is it evident, that even the first motions to these effects are

always in the same proportion. For pride, which produces quickness of

resentment, will obstruct gratitude, by unwillingness to admit that

inferiority which obligation implies; and it is very unlikely that he

who cannot think he receives a favour, will acknowledge or repay it.

It is of the utmost importance to mankind, that positions of this tendency

should be laid open and confuted; for while men consider good and evil

as springing from the same root, they will spare the one for the sake of

the other, and in judging, if not of others at least of themselves, will

be apt to estimate their virtues by their vices. To this fatal errour all

those will contribute, who confound the colours of right and wrong, and,

instead of helping to settle their boundaries, mix them with so much art,

that no common mind is able to disunite them.

In narratives where historical veracity has no place, I cannot discover

why there should not be exhibited the most perfect idea of virtue; of

virtue not angelical, nor above probability, for what we cannot credit,

we shall never imitate, but the highest and purest that humanity can

reach, which, exercised in such trials as the various revolutions of

things shall bring upon it, may, by conquering some calamities, and

enduring others, teach us what we may hope, and what we can perform. Vice,

for vice is necessary to be shewn, should always disgust; nor should

the graces of gaiety, or the dignity of courage, be so united with it,

as to reconcile it to the mind. Wherever it appears, it should raise

hatred by the malignity of its practices, and contempt by the meanness

of its stratagems: for while it is supported by either parts or spirit,

it will be seldom heartily abhorred. The Roman tyrant was content to

be hated, if he was but feared; and there are thousands of the readers

of romances willing to be thought wicked, if they may be allowed to

be wits. It is therefore to be steadily inculcated, that virtue is the

highest proof of understanding, and the only solid basis of greatness;

and that vice is the natural consequence of narrow thoughts; that it

begins in mistake, and ends in ignominy[33].

[Footnote 33: This excellent paper was occasioned by the popularity of

Roderick Random, and Tom Jones, which appeared about this time, and have

been the models of that species of romance, now known by the more common

name of _Novel_.--C.]

No. 5. TUESDAY, APRIL 3, 1750.

_Et nunc omnis ager, nunc omnis parturit arbos:_

_Nunc frondent silvæ: nunc formosissimus annus._

VIRG. Ec. iii. v. 56.

Now ev'ry field, now ev'ry tree is green;

Now genial Nature's fairest face is seen.

ELPHINSTON.

Every man is sufficiently discontented with some circumstances of his

present state, to suffer his imagination to range more or less in quest

of future happiness, and to fix upon some point of time, in which, by

the removal of the inconvenience which now perplexes him, or acquisition

of the advantage which he at present wants, he shall find the condition

of his life very much improved.

When this time, which is too often expected with great impatience,

at last arrives, it generally comes without the blessing for which it

was desired; but we solace ourselves with some new prospect, and press

forward again with equal eagerness.

It is lucky for a man, in whom this temper prevails, when he turns his

hopes upon things wholly out of his own power; since he forbears then

to precipitate his affairs, for the sake of the great event that is to

complete his felicity, and waits for the blissful hour with less neglect

of the measures necessary to be taken in the mean time.

I have long known a person of this temper, who indulged his dream of

happiness with less hurt to himself than such chimerical wishes commonly

produce, and adjusted his scheme with such address, that his hopes were

in full bloom three parts of the year, and in the other part never

wholly blasted. Many, perhaps, would be desirous of learning by what

means he procured to himself such a cheap and lasting satisfaction. It

was gained by a constant practice of referring the removal of all his

uneasiness to the coming of the next spring; if his health was impaired,

the spring would restore it; if what he wanted was at a high price,

it would fall its value in the spring.

The spring indeed did often come without any of these effects, but he

was always certain that the next would be more propitious; nor was ever

convinced, that the present spring would fail him before the middle of

summer; for he always talked of the spring as coming till it was past,

and when it was once past, every one agreed with him that it was coming.

By long converse with this man, I am, perhaps, brought to feel immoderate

pleasure in the contemplation of this delightful season; but I have

the satisfaction of finding many whom it can be no shame to resemble,

infected with the same enthusiasm; for there is, I believe, scarce any

poet of eminence, who has not left some testimony of his fondness for the

flowers, the zephyrs, and the warblers of the spring. Nor has the most

luxuriant imagination been able to describe the serenity and happiness

of the golden age, otherwise than by giving a perpetual spring, as the

highest reward of uncorrupted innocence.

There is, indeed, something inexpressibly pleasing in the annual

renovation of the world, and the new display of the treasures of

nature. The cold and darkness of winter, with the naked deformity of

every object on which we turn our eyes, make us rejoice at the succeeding

season, as well for what we have escaped as for what we may enjoy;

and every budding flower, which a warm situation brings early to our

view, is considered by us as a messenger to notify the approach of more

joyous days.

The spring affords to a mind, so free from the disturbance of cares or

passions as to be vacant to calm amusements, almost every thing that

our present state makes us capable of enjoying. The variegated verdure

of the fields and woods, the succession of grateful odours, the voice

of pleasure pouring out its notes on every side, with the gladness

apparently conceived by every animal, from the growth of his food, and

the clemency of the weather, throw over the whole earth an air of gaiety,

significantly expressed by the smile of nature.

Yet there are men to whom these scenes are able to give no delight,

and who hurry away from all the varieties of rural beauty, to lose their

hours and divert their thoughts by cards or assemblies, a tavern dinner,

or the prattle of the day.

It may be laid down as a position which will seldom deceive, that when

a man cannot bear his own company, there is something wrong. He must

fly from himself, either because he feels a tediousness in life from the

equipoise of an empty mind, which, having no tendency to one motion more

than another, but as it is impelled by some external power, must always

have recourse to foreign objects; or he must be afraid of the intrusion

of some unpleasing ideas, and perhaps is struggling to escape from the

remembrance of a loss, the fear of a calamity, or some other thought of

greater horrour.

Those whom sorrow incapacitates to enjoy the pleasures of contemplation,

may properly apply to such diversions, provided they are innocent, as

lay strong hold on the attention; and those, whom fear of any future

affliction chains down to misery, must endeavour to obviate the danger.

My considerations shall, on this occasion, be turned on such as

are burthensome to themselves merely because they want subjects for

reflection, and to whom the volume of nature is thrown open without

affording them pleasure or instruction, because they never learned to

read the characters.

A French author has advanced this seeming paradox, that _very few men

know how to take a walk_; and, indeed, it is true, that few know how to

take a walk with a prospect of any other pleasure, than the same company

would have afforded them at home.

There are animals that borrow their colour from the neighbouring body,

and consequently vary their hue as they happen to change their place.

In like manner it ought to be the endeavour of every man to derive his

reflections from the objects about him; for it is to no purpose that

he alters his position, if his attention continues fixed to the same

point. The mind should be kept open to the access of every new idea,

and so far disengaged from the predominance of particular thoughts,

as easily to accommodate itself to occasional entertainment.

A man that has formed this habit of turning every new object to his

entertainment, finds in the productions of nature an inexhaustible stock

of materials upon which he can employ himself, without any temptations to

envy or malevolence; faults, perhaps, seldom totally avoided by those,

whose judgment is much exercised upon the works of art. He has always

a certain prospect of discovering new reasons for adoring the sovereign

Author of the universe, and probable hopes of making some discovery of

benefit to others, or of profit to himself. There is no doubt but many

vegetables and animals have qualities that might be of great use, to the

knowledge of which there is not required much force of penetration, or

fatigue of study, but only frequent experiments, and close attention.

What is said by the chemists of their darling mercury, is, perhaps,

true of every body through the whole creation, that if a thousand lives

should be spent upon it, all its properties would not be found out.

Mankind must necessarily be diversified by various tastes, since life

affords and requires such multiplicity of employments, and a nation of

naturalists is neither to be hoped, nor desired; but it is surely not

improper to point out a fresh amusement to those who languish in health,

and repine in plenty, for want of some source of diversion that may

be less easily exhausted, and to inform the multitudes of both sexes,

who are burdened with every new day, that there are many shows which

they have not seen.

He that enlarges his curiosity after the works of nature, demonstrably

multiplies the inlets to happiness; and, therefore, the younger part

of my readers, to whom I dedicate this vernal speculation, must excuse

me for calling upon them, to make use at once of the spring of the year,

and the spring of life; to acquire, while their minds may be yet impressed

with new images, a love of innocent pleasures, and an ardour for useful

knowledge; and to remember, that a blighted spring makes a barren year,

and that the vernal flowers, however beautiful and gay, are only intended

by nature as preparatives to autumnal fruits.

No. 6. SATURDAY, APRIL 7, 1750.

_Strenua nos exercet inertia, navibus atque_

_Quadrigis petimus bene vicere: quod petis, hic est;_

_Est Ulubris, animus si te non deficit æquus._

HOR. Ep. xi. lib. i.

Active in indolence, abroad we roam

In quest of happiness which dwells at home:

With vain pursuits fatigu'd, at length you'll find,

No place excludes it from an equal mind.

ELPHINSTON.

That man should never suffer his happiness to depend upon external

circumstances, is one of the chief precepts of the Stoical philosophy; a

precept, indeed, which that lofty sect has extended beyond the condition

of human life, and in which some of them seem to have comprised an

utter exclusion of all corporal pain and pleasure from the regard or

attention of a wise man.

Such _sapientia insaniens_, as Horace calls the doctrine of another sect,

such extravagance of philosophy, can want neither authority nor argument

for its confutation; it is overthrown by the experience of every hour,

and the powers of nature rise up against it. But we may very properly

inquire, how near to this exalted state it is in our power to approach,

how far we can exempt ourselves from outward influences, and secure to

our minds a state of tranquillity: for, though the boast of absolute

independence is ridiculous and vain, yet a mean flexibility to every

impulse, and a patient submission to the tyranny of casual troubles,

is below the dignity of that mind, which, however depraved or weakened,

boasts its derivation from a celestial original, and hopes for an union

with infinite goodness, and unvariable felicity.

_Ni vitiis pejora fovens_

_Proprium deserat ortum._

Unless the soul, to vice a thrall,

Desert her own original.

The necessity of erecting ourselves to some degree of intellectual

dignity, and of preserving resources of pleasure, which may not be

wholly at the mercy of accident, is never more apparent than when we turn

our eyes upon those whom fortune has let loose to their own conduct;

who, not being chained down by their condition to a regular and stated

allotment of their hours, are obliged to find themselves business or

diversion, and having nothing within that can entertain or employ them,

are compelled to try all the arts of destroying time.

The numberless expedients practised by this class of mortals to alleviate

the burthen of life, are not less shameful, nor, perhaps, much less

pitiable, than those to which a trader on the edge of bankruptcy

is reduced. I have seen melancholy overspread a whole family at the

disappointment of a party for cards; and when, after the proposal of a

thousand schemes, and the dispatch of the footman upon a hundred messages,

they have submitted, with gloomy resignation, to the misfortune of passing

one evening in conversation with each other; on a sudden, such are the

revolutions of the world, an unexpected visitor has brought them relief,

acceptable as provision to a starving city, and enabled them to hold

out till the next day.

The general remedy of those, who are uneasy without knowing the cause,

is change of place; they are willing to imagine that their pain is

the consequence of some local inconvenience, and endeavour to fly

from it, as children from their shadows; always hoping for some more

satisfactory delight from every new scene, and always returning home

with disappointment and complaints.

Who can look upon this kind of infatuation, without reflecting on those

that suffer under the dreadful symptom of canine madness, termed by

physicians the _dread of water_? These miserable wretches, unable to

drink, though burning with thirst, are sometimes known to try various

contortions, or inclinations of the body, flattering themselves that

they can swallow in one posture that liquor which they find in another

to repel their lips.

Yet such folly is not peculiar to the thoughtless or ignorant, but

sometimes seizes those minds which seem most exempted from it, by the

variety of attainments, quickness of penetration, or severity of judgment;

and, indeed, the pride of wit and knowledge is often mortified by

finding that they confer no security against the common errours, which

mislead the weakest and meanest of mankind.

These reflections arose in my mind upon the remembrance of a passage

in Cowley's preface to his poems, where, however exalted by genius,

and enlarged by study, he informs us of a scheme of happiness to which

the imagination of a girl upon the loss of her first lover could have

scarcely given way; but which he seems to have indulged, till he had

totally forgotten its absurdity, and would probably have put in execution,

had he been hindered only by his reason.

"My desire," says he, "has been for some years past, though the execution

has been accidentally diverted, and does still vehemently continue, to

retire myself to some of our American plantations, not to seek for gold,

or enrich myself with the traffick of those parts, which is the end of

most men that travel thither; but to forsake this world for ever, with all

the vanities and vexations of it, and to bury myself there in some obscure

retreat, but not without the consolation of letters and philosophy."

Such was the chimerical provision which Cowley had made in his own mind,

for the quiet of his remaining life, and which he seems to recommend

to posterity, since there is no other reason for disclosing it. Surely

no stronger instance can be given of a persuasion that content was

the inhabitant of particular regions, and that a man might set sail

with a fair wind, and leave behind him all his cares, incumbrances,

and calamities.

If he travelled so far with no other purpose than to _bury himself

in some obscure retreat_, he might have found, in his own country,

innumerable coverts sufficiently dark to have concealed the genius of

Cowley; for whatever might be his opinion of the importunity with which

he might be summoned back into publick life, a short experience would

have convinced him, that privation is easier than acquisition, and that

it would require little continuance to free himself from the intrusion

of the world. There is pride enough in the human heart to prevent much

desire of acquaintance with a man, by whom we are sure to be neglected,

however his reputation for science or virtue may excite our curiosity

or esteem; so that the lover of retirement needs not be afraid lest the

respect of strangers should overwhelm him with visits. Even those to whom

he has formerly been known, will very patiently support his absence when

they have tried a little to live without him, and found new diversions

for those moments which his company contributed to exhilarate.

It was, perhaps, ordained by Providence, to hinder us from tyrannizing

over one another, that no individual should be of such importance, as to

cause, by his retirement or death, any chasm in the world. And Cowley had

conversed to little purpose with mankind, if he had never remarked, how

soon the useful friend, the gay companion, and the favoured lover, when

once they are removed from before the sight, give way to the succession

of new objects.

The privacy, therefore, of his hermitage might have been safe enough

from violation, though he had chosen it within the limits of his native

island; he might have found here preservatives against the _vanities_

and _vexations_ of the world, not less efficacious than those which

the woods or fields of America could afford him: but having once his

mind imbittered with disgust, he conceived it impossible to be far

enough from the cause of his uneasiness; and was posting away with the

expedition of a coward, who, for want of venturing to look behind him,

thinks the enemy perpetually at his heels.

When he was interrupted by company, or fatigued with business, he

so strongly imaged to himself the happiness of leisure and retreat,

that he determined to enjoy them for the future without interruption,

and to exclude for ever all that could deprive him of his darling

satisfactions. He forgot, in the vehemence of desire, that solitude and

quiet owe their pleasures to those miseries, which he was so studious

to obviate: for such are the vicissitudes of the world, through all

its parts, that day and night, labour and rest, hurry and retirement,

endear each other; such are the changes that keep the mind in action;

we desire, we pursue, we obtain, we are satiated; we desire something

else, and begin a new pursuit.

If he had proceeded in his project, and fixed his habitation in the most

delightful part of the new world, it may be doubted, whether his distance

from the _vanities_ of life, would have enabled him to keep away the

_vexations_. It is common for a man, who feels pain, to fancy that he

could bear it better in any other part. Cowley having known the troubles

and perplexities of a particular condition, readily persuaded himself

that nothing worse was to be found, and that every alteration would bring

some improvement: he never suspected that the cause of his unhappiness

was within, that his own passions were not sufficiently regulated, and

that he was harassed by his own impatience, which could never be without

something to awaken it, would accompany him over the sea, and find its

way to his American elysium. He would, upon the trial, have been soon

convinced, that the fountain of content must spring up in the mind: and

that he who has so little knowledge of human nature, as to seek happiness

by changing any thing but his own dispositions, will waste his life in

fruitless efforts, and multiply the griefs which he purposes to remove[34].

[Footnote 34: See Dr. Johnson's Life of Cowley.]

No. 7. TUESDAY, APRIL 10, 1750.

_O qui perpetuâ mundum ratione gubernas,_

_Terrarum cœlique sator!----_

_Disjice terrenæ nebulas et pondera molis,_

_Atque tuo splendore mica! Tu namque serenum,_

_Tu requies tranquilla piis. Te cernere, finis,_

_Principium, vector, dux, semila, terminus idem._

BOETHIUS, lib. iii. Metr. 9.

O Thou, whose pow'r o'er moving worlds presides,

Whose voice created, and whose wisdom guides,

On darkling man in pure effulgence shine,

And cheer the clouded mind with light divine.

'Tis thine alone to calm the pious breast

With silent confidence and holy rest:

From thee, great God, we spring, to thee we tend,

Path, motive, guide, original, and end.

JOHNSON.

The love of Retirement has, in all ages, adhered closely to those minds,

which have been most enlarged by knowledge, or elevated by genius. Those

who have enjoyed every thing generally supposed to confer happiness,

have been forced to seek it in the shades of privacy. Though they

possessed both power and riches, and were, therefore, surrounded by men

who considered it as their chief interest to remove from them every thing

that might offend their ease, or interrupt their pleasure, they have soon

felt the languors of satiety, and found themselves unable to pursue the

race of life without frequent respirations of intermediate solitude.

To produce this disposition, nothing appears requisite but a quick

sensibility, and active imagination; for, though not devoted to virtue,

or science, the man, whose faculties enable him to make ready comparisons

of the present with the past, will find such a constant recurrence of the

same pleasures and troubles, the same expectations and disappointments,

that he will gladly snatch an hour of retreat, to let his thoughts

expatiate at large, and seek for that variety in his own ideas, which

the objects of sense cannot afford him.

Nor will greatness, or abundance, exempt him from the importunities of

this desire, since, if he is born to think, he cannot restrain himself

from a thousand inquiries and speculations, which he must pursue by his

own reason, and which the splendour of his condition can only hinder:

for those who are most exalted above dependance or controul, are yet

condemned to pay so large a tribute of their time to custom, ceremony,

and popularity, that, according to the Greek proverb, no man in the

house is more a slave than the master.

When a king asked Euclid, the mathematician, whether he could not

explain his art to him in a more compendious manner? he was answered,

that there was no royal way to geometry. Other things may be seized by

might, or purchased with money, but knowledge is to be gained only by

study, and study to be prosecuted only in retirement.

These are some of the motives which have had power to sequester kings and

heroes from the crowds that soothed them with flatteries, or inspirited

them with acclamations; but their efficacy seems confined to the higher

mind, and to operate little upon the common classes of mankind, to whose

conceptions the present assemblage of things is adequate, and who seldom

range beyond those entertainments and vexations, which solicit their

attention by pressing on their senses.

But there is an universal reason for some stated intervals of solitude,

which the institutions of the church call upon me now especially to

mention; a reason which extends as wide as moral duty, or the hopes of

divine favour in a future state; and which ought to influence all ranks

of life, and all degrees of intellect; since none can imagine themselves

not comprehended in its obligation, but such as determine to set their

Maker at defiance by obstinate wickedness, or whose enthusiastick security

of his approbation places them above external ordinances, and all human

means of improvement.

The great task of him who conducts his life by the precepts of religion,

is to make the future predominate over the present, to impress upon his

mind so strong a sense of the importance of obedience to the divine will,

of the value of the reward promised to virtue, and the terrours of the

punishment denounced against crimes, as may overbear all the temptations

which temporal hope or fear can bring in his way, and enable him to

bid equal defiance to joy and sorrow, to turn away at one time from

the allurements of ambition, and push forward at another against the

threats of calamity.

It is not without reason that the apostle represents our passage through

this stage of our existence by images drawn from the alarms and solicitude

of a military life; for we are placed in such a state, that almost every

thing about us conspires against our chief interest. We are in danger

from whatever can get possession of our thoughts; all that can excite

in us either pain or pleasure, has a tendency to obstruct the way that

leads to happiness, and either to turn us aside, or retard our progress.

Our senses, our appetites, and our passions, are our lawful and faithful

guides, in most things that relate solely to this life; and, therefore,

by the hourly necessity of consulting them, we gradually sink into an

implicit submission, and habitual confidence. Every act of compliance

with their motions facilitates a second compliance, every new step

towards depravity is made with less reluctance than the former, and thus

the descent to life merely sensual is perpetually accelerated.

The senses have not only that advantage over conscience, which things

necessary must always have over things chosen, but they have likewise a

kind of prescription in their favour. We feared pain much earlier than

we apprehended guilt, and were delighted with the sensations of pleasure,

before we had capacities to be charmed with the beauty of rectitude. To

this power, thus early established, and incessantly increasing, it

must be remembered that almost every man has, in some part of his life,

added new strength by a voluntary or negligent subjection of himself;

for who is there that has not instigated his appetites by indulgence,

or suffered them, by an unresisting neutrality, to enlarge their

dominion, and multiply their demands?

From the necessity of dispossessing the sensitive faculties of the

influence which they must naturally gain by this pre-occupation of

the soul, arises that conflict between opposite desires in the first

endeavours after a religious life; which, however enthusiastically it may

have been described, or however contemptuously ridiculed, will naturally

be felt in some degree, though varied without end, by different tempers

of mind, and innumerable circumstances of health or condition, greater

or less fervour, more or fewer temptations to relapse.

From the perpetual necessity of consulting the animal faculties, in our

provision for the present life, arises the difficulty of withstanding

their impulses, even in cases where they ought to be of no weight; for

the motions of sense are instantaneous, its objects strike unsought,

we are accustomed to follow its directions, and therefore often submit

to the sentence without examining the authority of the judge.

Thus it appears, upon a philosophical estimate, that, supposing the mind,

at any certain time, in an equipois between the pleasures of this life,

and the hopes of futurity, present objects falling more frequently

into the scale, would in time preponderate, and that our regard for an

invisible state would grow every moment weaker, till at last it would

lose all its activity, and become absolutely without effect.

To prevent this dreadful event, the balance is put into our own hands,

and we have power to transfer the weight to either side. The motives to

a life of holiness are infinite, not less than the favour or anger of

Omnipotence, not less than eternity of happiness or misery. But these can

only influence our conduct as they gain our attention, which the business

or diversions of the world are always calling off by contrary attractions.

The great art therefore of piety, and the end for which all the rites

of religion seem to be instituted, is the perpetual renovation of

the motives to virtue, by a voluntary employment of our mind in the

contemplation of its excellence, its importance, and its necessity, which,

in proportion as they are more frequently and more willingly revolved,

gain a more forcible and permanent influence, till in time they become

the reigning ideas, the standing principles of action, and the test by

which every thing proposed to the judgment is rejected or approved.

To facilitate this change of our affections, it is necessary that we

weaken the temptations of the world, by retiring at certain seasons from

it; for its influence, arising only from its presence, is much lessened

when it becomes the object of solitary meditation. A constant residence

amidst noise and pleasure, inevitably obliterates the impressions of

piety, and a frequent abstraction of ourselves into a state, where this

life, like the next, operates only upon the reason, will reinstate

religion in its just authority, even without those irradiations from

above, the hope of which I have no intention to withdraw from the sincere

and the diligent.

This is that conquest of the world and of ourselves, which has been

always considered as the perfection of human nature; and this is only

to be obtained by fervent prayer, steady resolutions, and frequent

retirement from folly and vanity, from the cares of avarice, and the

joys of intemperance, from the lulling sounds of deceitful flattery,

and the tempting sight of prosperous wickedness.

No. 8. SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 1750.

_----Patitur pœnas peccandi sola voluntas;_

_Nam scelus intra se tacitum qui cogitat ullum,_

_Facti crimen habet._

JUV. Sat. xiii. 208.

For he that but conceives a crime in thought,

Contracts the danger of an actual fault.

CREECH.

If the most active and industrious of mankind was able, at the close of

life, to recollect distinctly his past moments, and distribute them in a

regular account, according to the manner in which they have been spent,

it is scarcely to be imagined how few would be marked out to the mind,

by any permanent or visible effects, how small a proportion his real

action would bear to his seeming possibilities of action, how many chasms

he would find of wide and continued vacuity, and how many interstitial

spaces unfilled, even in the most tumultuous hurries of business, and

the most eager vehemence of pursuit.

It is said by modern philosophers, that not only the great globes

of matter are thinly scattered through the universe, but the hardest

bodies are so porous, that, if all matter were compressed to perfect

solidity, it might be contained in a cube of a few feet. In like manner,

if all the employments of life were crowded into the time which it really

occupied, perhaps a few weeks, days, or hours, would be sufficient for its

accomplishment, so far as the mind was engaged in the performance. For

such is the inequality of our corporeal to our intellectual faculties,

that we contrive in minutes what we execute in years, and the soul often

stands an idle spectator of the labour of the hands, and expedition of

the feet.

For this reason the ancient generals often found themselves at leisure to

pursue the study of philosophy in the camp; and Lucan, with historical

veracity, makes Cæsar relate of himself, that he noted the revolutions

of the stars in the midst of preparations for battle.

_----Media inter prœlia semper_

_Stellarum, cœlique plagis, superisque vacavi._

LUCAN, l. x. 186.

Amid the storms of war, with curious eyes

I trace the planets and survey the skies.

That the soul always exerts her peculiar powers, with greater or less

force, is very probable, though the common occasions of our present

condition require but a small part of that incessant cogitation; and by

the natural frame of our bodies, and general combination of the world,

we are so frequently condemned to inactivity, that as though all our

time we are thinking, so for a great part of our time we can only think.

Lest a power so restless should be either unprofitably or hurtfully

employed, and the superfluities of intellect run to waste, it is no vain

speculation to consider how we may govern our thoughts, restrain them

from irregular motions, or confine them from boundless dissipation.

How the understanding is best conducted to the knowledge of science,

by what steps it is to be led forwards in its pursuit, how it is to be

cured of its defects, and habituated to new studies, has been the inquiry

of many acute and learned men, whose observations I shall not either

adopt or censure: my purpose being to consider the moral discipline of

the mind, and to promote the increase of virtue rather than of learning.

This inquiry seems to have been neglected for want of remembering, that

all action has its origin in the mind, and that therefore to suffer

the thoughts to be vitiated, is to poison the fountains of morality;

irregular desires will produce licentious practices; what men allow

themselves to wish they will soon believe, and will be at last incited

to execute what they please themselves with contriving.

For this reason the casuists of the Roman church, who gain, by confession,

great opportunities of knowing human nature, have generally determined

that what it is a crime to do, it is a crime to think[35]. Since by

revolving with pleasure the facility, safety, or advantage of a wicked

deed, a man soon begins to find his constancy relax, and his detestation

soften; the happiness of success glittering before him, withdraws his

attention from the atrociousness of the guilt, and acts are at last

confidently perpetrated, of which the first conception only crept into

the mind, disguised in pleasing complications, and permitted rather

than invited.

No man has ever been drawn to crimes by love or jealousy, envy or

hatred, but he can tell how easily he might at first have repelled the

temptation, how readily his mind would have obeyed a call to any other

object, and how weak his passion has been after some casual avocation,

till he has recalled it again to his heart, and revived the viper by

too warm a fondness.

Such, therefore, is the importance of keeping reason a constant guard

over imagination, that we have otherwise no security for our own virtue,

but may corrupt our hearts in the most recluse solitude, with more

pernicious and tyrannical appetites and wishes than the commerce of the

world will generally produce; for we are easily shocked by crimes which

appear at once in their full magnitude; but the gradual growth of our

own wickedness, endeared by interest, and palliated by all the artifices

of self-deceit, gives us time to form distinctions in our own favour,

and reason by degrees submits to absurdity, as the eye is in time

accommodated to darkness.

In this disease of the soul, it is of the utmost importance to apply

remedies at the beginning; and therefore I shall endeavour to shew what

thoughts are to be rejected or improved, as they regard the past, present,

or future; in hopes that some may be awakened to caution and vigilance,

who, perhaps, indulge themselves in dangerous dreams, so much the more

dangerous, because, being yet only dreams, they are concluded innocent.

The recollection of the past is only useful by way of provision for the

future; and, therefore, in reviewing all occurrences that fall under a

religious consideration, it is proper that a man stop at the first

thoughts, to remark how he was led thither, and why he continues the

reflection. If he is dwelling with delight upon a stratagem of successful

fraud, a night of licentious riot, or an intrigue of guilty pleasure,

let him summon off his imagination as from an unlawful pursuit, expel

those passages from his remembrance, of which, though he cannot seriously

approve them, the pleasure overpowers the guilt, and refer them to

a future hour, when they may be considered with greater safety. Such

an hour will certainly come; for the impressions of past pleasure are

always lessening, but the sense of guilt, which respects futurity,

continues the same.

The serious and impartial retrospect of our conduct, is indisputably

necessary to the confirmation or recovery of virtue, and is, therefore,

recommended under the name of self-examination, by divines, as the first

act previous to repentance. It is, indeed, of so great use, that without

it we should always be to begin life, be seduced for ever by the same

allurements, and misled by the same fallacies. But in order that we

may not lose the advantage of our experience, we must endeavour to see

every thing in its proper form, and excite in ourselves those sentiments,

which the great Author of nature has decreed the concomitants or followers

of good and bad actions.

Μηδ' ὑπνον μαλακοισιν επ' ομμασι προσδεξασθαι,

Πριν των ἡμερινων εργων τρις ἑκαστον επελθειν·

Πηι παρεβην; τι δ' ερεξα; τι μοι δεον ουκ ετελεσθη;

Αρξαμενος δ' απο πρωτου επεξιθι; και μετεπειτα,

Δειλα μεν εκπρηξας, επιπλησσεο, χρηστα δε, τερπου.

Let not sleep (says Pythagoras) fall upon thy eyes till thou

hast thrice reviewed the transactions of the past day. Where have

I turned aside from rectitude? What have I been doing? What have

I left undone, which I ought to have done? Begin thus from the

first act, and proceed; and in conclusion, at the ill which thou

hast done be troubled, and rejoice for the good.

Our thoughts on present things being determined by the objects before us,

fall not under those indulgences or excursions, which I am now considering.

But I cannot forbear, under this head, to caution pious and tender minds,

that are disturbed by the irruptions of wicked imaginations, against too

great dejection, and too anxious alarms; for thoughts are only criminal,

when they are first chosen, and then voluntarily continued.

Evil into the mind of God or man

May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave

No spot or stain behind.

MILTON.

In futurity chiefly are the snares lodged, by which the imagination

is entangled. Futurity is the proper abode of hope and fear, with all

their train and progeny of subordinate apprehensions and desires. In

futurity, events and chances are yet floating at large, without apparent

connexion with their causes, and we therefore easily indulge the liberty

of gratifying ourselves with a pleasing choice. To pick and cull among

possible advantages is, as the civil law terms it, _in vacuum venire_,

to take what belongs to nobody; but it has this hazard in it, that we

shall be unwilling to quit what we have seized, though an owner should be

found. It is easy to think on that which may be gained, till at last we

resolve to gain it, and to image the happiness of particular conditions,

till we can be easy in no other. We ought, at least, to let our desires

fix upon nothing in another's power for the sake of our quiet, or in

another's possession for the sake of our innocence. When a man finds

himself led, though by a train of honest sentiments, to wish for that to

which he has no right, he should start back as from a pitfall covered

with flowers. He that fancies he should benefit the publick more in a

great station than the man that fills it, will in time imagine it an

act of virtue to supplant him; and as opposition readily kindles into

hatred, his eagerness to do that good, to which he is not called, will

betray him to crimes, which in his original scheme were never proposed.

He therefore that would govern his actions by the laws of virtue, must

regulate his thoughts by those of reason; he must keep guilt from the

recesses of his heart, and remember that the pleasures of fancy, and

the emotions of desire, are more dangerous as they are more hidden,

since they escape the awe of observation, and operate equally in every

situation, without the concurrence of external opportunities.

[Footnote 35: This was determined before their time. See Matt. ch. v.

ver. 28.--C.]

No. 9. TUESDAY, APRIL 17, 1750.

_Quod sis esse velis, nihilque malis._

MART. lib. x. Ep. xlvii. 12.

Choose what you are; no other state prefer.

ELPHINSTON.

It is justly remarked by Horace, that howsoever every man may complain

occasionally of the hardships of his condition, he is seldom willing

to change it for any other on the same level: for whether it be that

he, who follows an employment, made choice of it at first on account

of its suitableness to his inclination; or that when accident, or the

determination of others, have placed him in a particular station, he,

by endeavouring to reconcile himself to it, gets the custom of viewing

it only on the fairest side; or whether every man thinks that class to

which he belongs the most illustrious, merely because he has honoured

it with his name; it is certain that, whatever be the reason, most men

have a very strong and active prejudice in favour of their own vocation,

always working upon their minds, and influencing their behaviour.

This partiality is sufficiently visible in every rank of the human

species; but it exerts itself more frequently and with greater force

among those who have never learned to conceal their sentiments for reasons

of policy, or to model their expressions by the laws of politeness; and

therefore the chief contests of wit among artificers and handicraftsmen

arise from a mutual endeavour to exalt one trade by depreciating another.

From the same principles are derived many consolations to alleviate the

inconveniences to which every calling is peculiarly exposed. A blacksmith

was lately pleasing himself at his anvil, with observing that, though

his trade was hot and sooty, laborious and unhealthy, yet he had the

honour of living by his hammer, he got his bread like a man, and if his

son should rise in the world, and keep his coach, nobody could reproach

him that his father was a tailor.

A man, truly zealous for his fraternity, is never so irresistibly

flattered, as when some rival calling is mentioned with contempt. Upon

this principle a linen-draper boasted that he had got a new customer,

whom he could safely trust, for he could have no doubt of his honesty,

since it was known, from unquestionable authority, that he was now filing

a bill in chancery to delay payment for the clothes which he had worn

the last seven years; and he himself had heard him declare, in a public

coffee-house, that he looked upon the whole generation of woollen-drapers

to be such despicable wretches, that no gentleman ought to pay them.

It has been observed that physicians and lawyers are no friends to

religion; and many conjectures have been formed to discover the reason

of such a combination between men who agree in nothing else, and who

seem less to be affected, in their own provinces, by religious opinions,

than any other part of the community. The truth is, very few of them

have thought about religion; but they have all seen a parson; seen him

in a habit different from their own, and therefore declared war against

him. A young student from the inns of court, who has often attacked the

curate of his father's parish with such arguments as his acquaintances

could furnish, and returned to town without success, is now gone down

with a resolution to destroy him; for he has learned at last how to

manage a prig, and if he pretends to hold him again to syllogism, he

has a catch in reserve, which neither logick nor metaphysicks can resist:

I laugh to think how your unshaken Cato

Will look aghast, when unforeseen destruction

Pours in upon him thus.

CATO, Act. ii. Sc. 6.

The malignity of soldiers and sailors against each other has been

often experienced at the cost of their country; and, perhaps, no orders

of men have an enmity of more acrimony, or longer continuance. When,

upon our late successes at sea, some new regulations were concerted

for establishing the rank of the naval commanders, a captain of foot

very acutely remarked, that nothing was more absurd than to give any

honorary rewards to seamen, "for honour," says he, "ought only to be

won by bravery, and all the world knows that in a sea-fight there is no

danger, and therefore no evidence of courage."

But although this general desire of aggrandizing themselves, by raising

their profession, betrays men to a thousand ridiculous and mischievous

acts of supplantation and detraction, yet as almost all passions have

their good as well as bad effects, it likewise excites ingenuity, and

sometimes raises an honest and useful emulation of diligence. It may be

observed in general, that no trade had ever reached the excellence to

which it is now improved, had its professors looked upon it with the eyes

of indifferent spectators; the advances, from the first rude essays,

must have been made by men who valued themselves for performances,

for which scarce any other would be persuaded to esteem them.

It is pleasing to contemplate a manufacture rising gradually from its

first mean state by the successive labours of innumerable minds; to

consider the first hollow trunk of an oak, in which, perhaps, the shepherd

could scarce venture to cross a brook swelled with a shower, enlarged

at last into a ship of war, attacking fortresses, terrifying nations,

setting storms and billows at defiance, and visiting the remotest parts of

the globe. And it might contribute to dispose us to a kinder regard for

the labours of one another, if we were to consider from what unpromising

beginnings the most useful productions of art have probably arisen. Who,

when he saw the first sand or ashes, by a casual intenseness of heat,

melted into a metalline form, rugged with excrescences, and clouded

with impurities, would have imagined, that in this shapeless lump lay

concealed so many conveniences of life, as would in time constitute a

great part of the happiness of the world? Yet by some such fortuitous

liquefaction was mankind taught to procure a body at once in a high

degree solid and transparent, which might admit the light of the sun,

and exclude the violence of the wind; which might extend the sight of

the philosopher to new ranges of existence, and charm him at one time

with the unbounded extent of the material creation, and at another

with the endless subordination of animal life; and, what is yet of

more importance, might supply the decays of nature, and succour old age

with subsidiary sight. Thus was the first artificer in glass employed,

though without his own knowledge or expectation. He was facilitating

and prolonging the enjoyment of light, enlarging the avenues of science,

and conferring the highest and most lasting pleasures; he was enabling

the student to contemplate nature, and the beauty to behold herself.

This passion for the honour of a profession, like that for the grandeur

of our own country, is to be regulated, not extinguished. Every man,

from the highest to the lowest station, ought to warm his heart, and

animate his endeavours with the hopes of being useful to the world, by

advancing the art which it is his lot to exercise, and for that end he

must necessarily consider the whole extent of its application, and the

whole weight of its importance. But let him not too readily imagine that

another is ill employed, because, for want of fuller knowledge of his

business, he is not able to comprehend its dignity. Every man ought to

endeavour at eminence, not by pulling others down, but by raising himself,

and enjoy the pleasure of his own superiority, whether imaginary or real,

without interrupting others in the same felicity. The philosopher may

very justly be delighted with the extent of his views, and the artificer

with the readiness of his hands; but let the one remember, that, without

mechanical performances, refined speculation is an empty dream, and the

other, that, without theoretical reasoning, dexterity is little more

than a brute instinct.

No. 10. SATURDAY, APRIL 21, 1750.

_Posthabui tamen illorum mea seria ludo._

VIRG. Ec. vii. 17.

For trifling sports I quitted grave affairs.

The number of correspondents which increases every day upon me, shews

that my paper is at least distinguished from the common productions of

the press. It is no less a proof of eminence to have many enemies than

many friends, and I look upon every letter, whether it contains encomiums

or reproaches, as an equal attestation of rising credit. The only pain,

which I can feel from my correspondence, is the fear of disgusting those,

whose letters I shall neglect; and therefore I take this opportunity of

reminding them, that in disapproving their attempts, whenever it may

happen, I only return the treatment which I often receive. Besides,

many particular motives influence a writer, known only to himself,

or his private friends; and it may be justly concluded, that not all

letters which are postponed are rejected, nor all that are rejected,

critically condemned.

Having thus eased my heart of the only apprehension that sat heavy on

it, I can please myself with the candour of Benevolus, who encourages me

to proceed, without sinking under the anger of Flirtilla, who quarrels

with me for being old and ugly, and for wanting both activity of body,

and sprightliness of mind; feeds her monkey with my lucubrations,

and refuses any reconciliation till I have appeared in vindication

of masquerades. That she may not however imagine me without support,

and left to rest wholly upon my own fortitude, I shall now publish some

letters which I have received from men as well dressed, and as handsome,

as her favourite; and others from ladies, whom I sincerely believe as

young, as rich, as gay, as pretty, as fashionable, and as often toasted

and treated as herself.

"A set of candid readers send their respects to the Rambler,

and acknowledge his merit in so well beginning a work that may

be of publick benefit. But, superior as his genius is to the

impertinences of a trifling age, they cannot help a wish that he

would condescend to the weakness of minds softened by perpetual

amusements, and now and then throw in, like his predecessors,

some papers of a gay and humorous turn. Too fair a field now

lies open, with too plentiful a harvest of follies! let the

cheerful Thalia put in her sickle, and, singing at her work,

deck her hair with red and blue."

"A lady sends her compliments to the Rambler, and desires to know

by what other name she may direct to him; what are his set of

friends, his amusements; what his way of thinking, with regard

to the living world, and its ways; in short, whether he is a

person now alive, and in town? If he be, she will do herself

the honour to write to him pretty often, and hopes, from time

to time, to be the better for his advice and animadversions;

for his animadversions on her neighbours at least. But, if he

is a mere essayist, and troubles not himself with the manners

of the age, she is sorry to tell him, that even the genius and

correctness of an Addison will not secure him from neglect."

No man is so much abstracted from common life, as not to feel a particular

pleasure from the regard of the female world; the candid writers of the

first billet will not be offended, that my haste to satisfy a lady has

hurried their address too soon out of my mind, and that I refer them

for a reply to some future paper, in order to tell this curious inquirer

after my other name, the answer of a philosopher to a man, who meeting

him in the street, desired to see what he carried under his cloak;

_I carry it there_, says he, _that you may not see it_. But, though she

is never to know my name, she may often see my face; for I am of her

opinion, that a diurnal writer ought to view the world, and that he who

neglects his contemporaries, may be, with justice, neglected by them.

"Lady Racket sends compliments to the Rambler, and lets him know

she shall have cards at her house, every Sunday, the remainder of

the season, where he will be sure of meeting all the good company

in town. By this means she hopes to see his papers interspersed

with living characters. She longs to see the torch of truth

produced at an assembly, and to admire the charming lustre it

will throw on the jewels, complexions, and behaviour of every

dear creature there."

It is a rule with me to receive every offer with the same civility as

it is made; and, therefore, though lady Racket may have had some reason

to guess, that I seldom frequent card-tables on Sundays, I shall not

insist upon an exception, which may to her appear of so little force.

My business has been to view, as opportunity was offered, every place

in which mankind was to be seen; but at card-tables, however brilliant,

I have always thought my visit lost, for I could know nothing of the

company, but their clothes and their faces. I saw their looks clouded

at the beginning of every game with an uniform solicitude, now and then

in its progress varied with a short triumph, at one time wrinkled with

cunning, at another deadened with despondency, or by accident flushed with

rage at the unskilful or unlucky play of a partner. From such assemblies,

in whatever humour I happened to enter them, I was quickly forced to

retire; they were too trifling for me, when I was grave, and too dull,

when I was cheerful.

Yet I cannot but value myself upon this token of regard from a lady who

is not afraid to stand before the torch of truth. Let her not, however,

consult her curiosity more than her prudence; but reflect a moment on

the fate of Semele, who might have lived the favourite of Jupiter,

if she could have been content without his thunder. It is dangerous

for mortal beauty, or terrestrial virtue, to be examined by too strong

a light. The torch of truth shews much that we cannot, and all that we

would not see. In a face dimpled with smiles, it has often discovered

malevolence and envy, and detected under jewels and brocade, the frightful

forms of poverty and distress. A fine hand of cards have changed before

it into a thousand spectres of sickness, misery, and vexation; and

immense sums of money, while the winner counted them with transport,

have at the first glimpse of this unwelcome lustre vanished from before

him. If her ladyship therefore designs to continue her assembly, I would

advise her to shun such dangerous experiments, to satisfy herself with

common appearances, and to light up her apartments rather with myrtle,

than the torch of truth.

"A modest young man sends his service to the author of the

Rambler, and will be very willing to assist him in his work,

but is sadly afraid of being discouraged by having his first

essay rejected, a disgrace he has woefully experienced in every

offer he had made of it to every new writer of every new paper;

but he comforts himself by thinking, without vanity, that

this has been from a peculiar favour of the muses, who saved

his performance from being buried in trash, and reserved it to

appear with lustre in the Rambler."

I am equally a friend to modesty and enterprize; and therefore shall

think it an honour to correspond with a young man who possesses both in

so eminent a degree. Youth is, indeed, the time in which these qualities

ought chiefly to be found; modesty suits well with inexperience, and

enterprize with health and vigour, and an extensive prospect of life.

One of my predecessors has justly observed, that, though modesty has

an amiable and winning appearance, it ought not to hinder the exertion of

the active powers, but that a man should shew under his blushes a latent

resolution. This point of perfection, nice as it is, my correspondent

seems to have attained. That he is modest, his own declaration may evince;

and, I think, the _latent resolution_ may be discovered in his letter

by an acute observer. I will advise him, since he so well deserves my

precepts, not to be discouraged though the Rambler should prove equally

envious, or tasteless, with the rest of this fraternity. If his paper is

refused, the presses of England are open, let him try the judgment of

the publick. If, as it has sometimes happened in general combinations

against merit, he cannot persuade the world to buy his works, he may

present them to his friends; and if his friends are seized with the

epidemical infatuation, and cannot find his genius, or will not confess

it, let him then refer his cause to posterity, and reserve his labours

for a wiser age.

Thus have I dispatched some of my correspondents in the usual manner with

fair words, and general civility. But to Flirtilla, the gay Flirtilla,

what shall I reply? Unable as I am to fly, at her command, over land

and seas, or to supply her from week to week with the fashions of

Paris, or the intrigues of Madrid, I am yet not willing to incur her

further displeasure, and would save my papers from her monkey on any

reasonable terms. By what propitiation, therefore, may I atone for my

former gravity, and open, without trembling, the future letters of

this sprightly persecutor? To write in defence of masquerades is no

easy task; yet something difficult and daring may well be required,

as the price of so important an approbation. I therefore consulted,

in this great emergency, a man of high reputation in gay life, who

having added to his other accomplishments, no mean proficiency, in the

minute philosophy, after the fifth perusal of her letter, broke out with

rapture into these words: "And can you, Mr. Rambler, stand out against

this charming creature? Let her know, at least, that from this moment

Nigrinus devotes his life and his labours to her service. Is there any

stubborn prejudice of education, that stands between thee and the most

amiable of mankind? Behold, Flirtilla, at thy feet, a man grown gray in

the study of those noble arts by which right and wrong may be confounded;

by which reason may be blinded, when we have a mind to escape from her

inspection; and caprice and appetite instated in uncontrouled command,

and boundless dominion! Such a casuist may surely engage, with certainty

of success, in vindication of an entertainment, which in an instant

gives confidence to the timorous, and kindles ardour in the cold; an

entertainment where the vigilance of jealousy has so often been eluded,

and the virgin is set free from the necessity of languishing in silence;

where all the outworks of chastity are at once demolished; where the

heart is laid open without a blush; where bashfulness may survive virtue,

and no wish is crushed under the frown of modesty. Far weaker influence

than Flirtilla's might gain over an advocate for such amusements. It

was declared by Pompey, that if the commonwealth was violated, he

could stamp with his foot, and raise an army out of the ground; if the

rights of pleasure are again invaded, let but Flirtilla crack her fan,

neither pens, nor swords, shall be wanting at the summons; the wit and

the colonel shall march out at her command, and neither law nor reason

shall stand before us[36]."

[Footnote 36: The four billets in this paper were written by Miss Mulso,

afterwards Mrs. Chapone, who survived this work more than half a century,

and died Dec. 25, 1801.]

No. 11. TUESDAY, APRIL 24, 1750.

_Non Dindymene, non adytis quatit_

_Mentem sacerdotum incota Pythius,_

_Non Liber æque, non acuta_

_Sic geminant Corybantes æra,_

_Tristes ut inæ.--_

HOR. lib. i. Ode xvi. 5.

Yet O! remember, nor the god of wine,

Nor Pythian Phœbus from his inmost shrine,

Nor Dindymene, nor her priests possest,

Can with their sounding cymbals shake the breast,

Like furious anger.

FRANCIS.

The maxim which Periander of Corinth, one of the seven sages of Greece,

left as a memorial of his knowledge and benevolence, was χολου κρατει,

_Be master of thy anger_. He considered anger as the great disturber

of human life, the chief enemy both of publick happiness and private

tranquillity, and thought that he could not lay on posterity a stronger

obligation to reverence his memory, than by leaving them a salutary

caution against this outrageous passion.

To what latitude Periander might extend the word, the brevity of his

precept will scarce allow us to conjecture. From anger, in its full

import, protracted into malevolence, and exerted in revenge, arise,

indeed, many of the evils to which the life of man is exposed. By

anger operating upon power are produced the subversion of cities,

the desolation of countries, the massacre of nations, and all those

dreadful and astonishing calamities which fill the histories of the

world, and which could not be read at any distant point of time, when

the passions stand neutral, and every motive and principle is left to

its natural force, without some doubt of the truth of the relation, did

we not see the same causes still tending to the same effects, and only

acting with less vigour for want of the same concurrent opportunities.

But this gigantick and enormous species of anger falls not properly

under the animadversion of a writer, whose chief end is the regulation

of common life, and whose precepts are to recommend themselves by their

general use. Nor is this essay intended to expose the tragical or fatal

effects even of private malignity. The anger which I propose now for

my subject, is such as makes those who indulge it more troublesome

than formidable, and ranks them rather with hornets and wasps, than

with basilisks and lions. I have, therefore, prefixed a motto, which

characterizes this passion, not so much by the mischief that it causes,

as by the noise that it utters.

There is in the world a certain class of mortals, known, and contentedly

known, by the appellation of _passionate men_, who imagine themselves

entitled by that distinction to be provoked on every slight occasion,

and to vent their rage in vehement and fierce vociferations, in furious

menaces and licentious reproaches. Their rage, indeed, for the most

part, fumes away in outcries of injury, and protestations of vengeance,

and seldom proceeds to actual violence, unless a drawer or linkboy falls

in their way; but they interrupt the quiet of those that happen to be

within the reach of their clamours, obstruct the course of conversation,

and disturb the enjoyment of society.

Men of this kind are sometimes not without understanding or virtue,

and are, therefore, not always treated with the severity which their

neglect of the ease of all about them might justly provoke; they have

obtained a kind of prescription for their folly, and are considered by

their companions as under a predominant influence that leaves them not

masters of their conduct or language, as acting without consciousness, and

rushing into mischief with a mist before their eyes; they are therefore

pitied rather than censured, and their sallies are passed over as the

involuntary blows of a man agitated by the spasms of a convulsion.

It is surely not to be observed without indignation, that men may be

found of minds mean enough to be satisfied with this treatment; wretches

who are proud to obtain the privilege of madmen, and can, without shame,

and without regret, consider themselves as receiving hourly pardons from

their companions, and giving them continual opportunities of exercising

their patience, and boasting their clemency.

Pride is undoubtedly the original of anger; but pride, like every

other passion, if it once breaks loose from reason, counteracts its own

purposes. A passionate man, upon the review of his day, will have very

few gratifications to offer to his pride, when he has considered how his

outrages were caused, why they were borne, and in what they are likely

to end at last.

Those sudden bursts of rage generally break out upon small occasions; for

life, unhappy as it is, cannot supply great evils as frequently as the

man of fire thinks it fit to be enraged; therefore the first reflection

upon his violence must shew him that he is mean enough to be driven from

his post by every petty incident, that he is the mere slave of casualty,

and that his reason and virtue are in the power of the wind.

One motive there is of these loud extravagancies, which a man is careful

to conceal from others, and does not always discover to himself. He that

finds his knowledge narrow, and his arguments weak, and by consequence

his suffrage not much regarded, is sometimes in hope of gaining that

attention by his clamours which he cannot otherwise obtain, and is

pleased with remembering that at least he made himself heard, that he

had the power to interrupt those whom he could not confute, and suspend

the decision which he could not guide.

Of this kind is the fury to which many men give way among their servants

and domesticks; they feel their own ignorance, they see their own

insignificance; and therefore they endeavour, by their fury, to fright

away contempt from before them, when they know it must follow them

behind; and think themselves eminently masters, when they see one folly

tamely complied with, only lest refusal or delay should provoke them to

a greater.

These temptations cannot but be owned to have some force. It is so

little pleasing to any man to see himself wholly overlooked in the mass

of things, that he may be allowed to try a few expedients for procuring

some kind of supplemental dignity, and use some endeavour to add weight,

by the violence of his temper, to the lightness of his other powers. But

this has now been long practised, and found, upon the most exact estimate,

not to produce advantages equal to its inconveniences; for it appears not

that a man can by uproar, tumult, and bluster, alter any one's opinion of

his understanding, or gain influence, except over those whom fortune or

nature have made his dependants. He may, by a steady perseverance in his

ferocity, fright his children, and harass his servants, but the rest of

the world will look on and laugh; and he will have the comfort at last of

thinking, that he lives only to raise contempt and hatred, emotions to

which wisdom and virtue would be always unwilling to give occasion. He

has contrived only to make those fear him, whom every reasonable being

is endeavouring to endear by kindness; and must content himself with

the pleasure of a triumph, obtained by trampling on those who could

not resist. He must perceive that the apprehension which his presence

causes is not the awe of his virtue, but the dread of his brutality,

and that he has given up the felicity of being loved, without gaining

the honour of being reverenced.

But this is not the only ill consequence of the frequent indulgence of

this blustering passion, which a man, by often calling to his assistance

will teach, in a short time, to intrude before the summons, to rush

upon him with resistless violence, and without any previous notice of

its approach. He will find himself liable to be inflamed at the first

touch of provocation, and unable to retain his resentment till he has

a full conviction of the offence, to proportion his anger to the cause,

or to regulate it by prudence or by duty. When a man has once suffered

his mind to be thus vitiated, he becomes one of the most hateful and

unhappy beings. He can give no security to himself that he shall not,

at the next interview, alienate by some sudden transport his dearest

friend; or break out, upon some slight contradiction, into such terms

of rudeness as can never be perfectly forgotten. Whoever converses with

him, lives with the suspicion and solicitude of a man that plays with

a tame tiger, always under a necessity of watching the moment in which

the capricious savage shall begin to growl.

It is told by Prior, in a panegyrick on the earl of Dorset, that his

servants used to put themselves in his way when he was angry, because

he was sure to recompense them for any indignities which he made them

suffer. This is the round of a passionate man's life; he contracts debts

when he is furious, which his virtue, if he has virtue, obliges him to

discharge at the return of reason. He spends his time in outrage and

acknowledgment, injury and reparation. Or, if there be any who hardens

himself in oppression, and justifies the wrong, because he has done it,

his insensibility can make small part of his praise, or his happiness; he

only adds deliberate to hasty folly, aggravates petulance by contumacy,

and destroys the only plea that he can offer for the tenderness and

patience of mankind.

Yet, even this degree of depravity we may be content to pity, because it

seldom wants a punishment equal to its guilt. Nothing is more despicable

or more miserable than the old age of a passionate man. When the vigour

of youth fails him, and his amusements pall with frequent repetition,

his occasional rage sinks by decay of strength into peevishness; that

peevishness, for want of novelty and variety, becomes habitual; the

world falls off from around him, and he is left, as Homer expresses it,

φθινυθων φιλον κηρ, to devour his own heart in solitude and contempt.

No. 12. SATURDAY, APRIL 28, 1750.

_----Miserum parva stipe focilat, ut pudibundos_

_Exercere sales inter convivia possit.----_

_----Tu mitis, et acri_

_Asperitate carens, positoque per omnia fastu,_

_Inter ut æquales unus numeraris amicos,_

_Obsequiumque doces, et amorem quæris amando._

Lucanus _ad_ Pisonem.

Unlike the ribald whose licentious jest

Pollutes his banquet, and insults his guest;

From wealth and grandeur easy to descend,

Thou joy'st to lose the master in the friend:

We round thy board the cheerful menials see,

Gay with the smile of bland equality;

No social care the gracious lord disdains;

Love prompts to love, and rev'rence rev'rence gains.