No. 13. TUESDAY, MAY 1, 1750.
_Commissumque teges et vino tortus et irâ._
HOR. lib. i. Ep. xviii. 38.
And let not wine or anger wrest
Th' intrusted secret from your breast.
FRANCIS.
It is related by Quintus Curtius, that the Persians always conceived
an invincible contempt of a man who had violated the laws of secrecy;
for they thought, that, however he might be deficient in the qualities
requisite to actual excellence, the negative virtues at least were in
his power, and though he perhaps could not speak well if he was to try,
it was still easy for him not to speak.
In forming this opinion of the easiness of secrecy, they seem to have
considered it as opposed, not to treachery, but loquacity, and to have
conceived the man whom they thus censured, not frighted by menaces to
reveal, or bribed by promises to betray, but incited by the mere pleasure
of talking, or some other motive equally trifling, to lay open his heart
without reflection, and to let whatever he knew slip from him, only for
want of power to retain it. Whether, by their settled and avowed scorn
of thoughtless talkers, the Persians were able to diffuse to any great
extent the virtue of taciturnity, we are hindered by the distance of
those times from being able to discover, there being very few memoirs
remaining of the court of Persepolis, nor any distinct accounts handed
down to us of their office-clerks, their ladies of the bedchamber,
their attorneys, their chambermaids, or their footmen.
In these latter ages, though the old animosity against a prattler is still
retained, it appears wholly to have lost its effect upon the conduct of
mankind, for secrets are so seldom kept, that it may with some reason be
doubted whether the ancients were not mistaken, in their first postulate,
whether the quality of retention be so generally bestowed, and whether a
secret has not some subtle volatility, by which it escapes imperceptibly
at the smallest vent; or some power of fermentation, by which it expands
itself so as to burst the heart that will not give it way.
Those that study either the body or the mind of a man, very often find the
most specious and pleasing theory falling under the weight of contrary
experience; and instead of gratifying their vanity by inferring effects
from causes, they are always reduced at last to conjecture causes from
effects. That it is easy to be secret, the speculatist can demonstrate
in his retreat, and therefore thinks himself justified in placing
confidence; the man of the world knows, that, whether difficult or not,
it is uncommon, and therefore finds himself rather inclined to search
after the reason of this universal failure in one of the most important
duties of society.
The vanity of being known to be trusted with a secret is generally
one of the chief motives to disclose it; for, however absurd it may be
thought to boast an honour by an act which shews that it was conferred
without merit, yet most men seem rather inclined to confess the want
of virtue than of importance, and more willingly shew their influence,
though at the expense of their probity, than glide through life with no
other pleasure than the private consciousness of fidelity; which, while
it is preserved, must be without praise, except from the single person
who tries and knows it.
There are many ways of telling a secret, by which a man exempts himself
from the reproaches of his conscience, and gratifies his pride, without
suffering himself to believe that he impairs his virtue. He tells the
private affairs of his patron, or his friend, only to those from whom he
would not conceal his own; he tells them to those, who have no temptation
to betray the trust, or with a denunciation of a certain forfeiture of
his friendship, if he discovers that they become publick.
Secrets are very frequently told in the first ardour of kindness, or of
love, for the sake of proving, by so important a sacrifice, sincerity
or tenderness; but with this motive, though it be strong in itself,
vanity concurs, since every man desires to be most esteemed by those whom
he loves, or with whom he converses, with whom he passes his hours of
pleasure, and to whom he retires from business and from care.
When the discovery of secrets is under consideration, there is always a
distinction carefully to be made between our own and those of another;
those of which we are fully masters, as they affect only our own interest,
and those which are reposited with us in trust, and involve the happiness
or convenience of such as we have no right to expose to hazard. To tell
our own secrets is generally folly, but that folly is without guilt;
to communicate those with which we are intrusted is always treachery,
and treachery for the most part combined with folly.
There have, indeed, been some enthusiastick and irrational zealots for
friendship, who have maintained, and perhaps believed, that one friend
has a right to all that is in possession of another; and that therefore
it is a violation of kindness to exempt any secret from this boundless
confidence. Accordingly a late female minister of state[37] has been
shameless enough to inform the world, that she used, when she wanted
to extract any thing from her sovereign, to remind her of Montaigne's
reasoning, who has determined, that to tell a secret to a friend is
no breach of fidelity, because the number of persons trusted is not
multiplied, a man and his friend being virtually the same.
That such a fallacy could be imposed upon any human understanding,
or that an author could have advanced a position so remote from truth
and reason, any otherwise than as a declaimer, to shew to what extent he
could stretch his imagination, and with what strength he could press his
principle, would scarcely have been credible, had not this lady kindly
shewn us how far weakness may be deluded, or indolence amused. But since
it appears, that even this sophistry has been able, with the help of
a strong desire, to repose in quiet upon the understanding of another,
to mislead honest intentions, and an understanding not contemptible[38],
it may not be superfluous to remark, that those things which are common
among friends are only such as either possesses in his own right, and
can alienate or destroy without injury to any other person. Without this
limitation confidence must run on without end, the second person may tell
the secret to the third, upon the same principle as he received it from
the first, and a third may hand it forward to a fourth, till at last it
is told in the round of friendship to them from whom it was the first
intention to conceal it.
The confidence which Caius has of the faithfulness of Titius is nothing
more than an opinion which himself cannot know to be true, and which
Claudius, who first tells his secret to Caius, may know to be false;
and therefore the trust is transferred by Caius, if he reveal what has
been told him, to one from whom the person originally concerned would
have withheld it: and whatever may be the event, Caius has hazarded
the happiness of his friend, without necessity and without permission,
and has put that trust in the hand of fortune, which was given only to
virtue.
All the arguments upon which a man who is telling the private affairs of
another may ground his confidence of security, he must upon reflection
know to be uncertain, because he finds them without effect upon
himself. When he is imagining that Titius will be cautious, from a regard
to his interest, his reputation, or his duty, he ought to reflect that
he is himself at that instant acting in opposition to all these reasons,
and revealing what interest, reputation, and duty, direct him to conceal.
Every one feels that in his own case he should consider the man incapable
of trust, who believed himself at liberty to tell whatever he knew to
the first whom he should conclude deserving of his confidence; therefore
Caius, in admitting Titius to the affairs imparted only to himself,
must know that he violates his faith, since he acts contrary to the
intention of Claudius, to whom that faith was given. For promises of
friendship are, like all others, useless and vain, unless they are made
in some known sense, adjusted and acknowledged by both parties.
I am not ignorant that many questions may be started relating to the duty
of secrecy, where the affairs are of publick concern; where subsequent
reasons may arise to alter the appearance and nature of the trust;
that the manner in which the secret was told may change the degree of
obligation, and that the principles upon which a man is chosen for a
confidant may not always equally constrain him. But these scruples, if
not too intricate, are of too extensive consideration for my present
purpose, nor are they such as generally occur in common life; and
though casuistical knowledge be useful in proper hands, yet it ought
by no means to be carelessly exposed, since most will use it rather to
lull than to awaken their own consciences; and the threads of reasoning,
on which truth is suspended, are frequently drawn to such subtility, that
common eyes cannot perceive, and common sensibility cannot feel them.
The whole doctrine, as well as practice of secrecy, is so perplexing
and dangerous, that next to him who is compelled to trust, I think him
unhappy who is chosen to be trusted; for he is often involved in scruples
without the liberty of calling in the help of any other understanding;
he is frequently drawn into guilt, under the appearance of friendship and
honesty; and sometimes subjected to suspicion by the treachery of others,
who are engaged without his knowledge in the same schemes; for he that
has one confidant has generally more, and when he is at last betrayed,
is in doubt on whom he shall fix the crime.
The rules therefore that I shall propose concerning secrecy, and from
which I think it not safe to deviate, without long and exact deliberation,
are--Never to solicit the knowledge of a secret. Not willingly, nor
without many limitations, to accept such confidence when it is offered.
When a secret is once admitted, to consider the trust as of a very high
nature, important as society, and sacred as truth, and therefore not
to be violated for any incidental convenience, or slight appearance of
contrary fitness.
[Footnote 37: Sarah Duchess of Marlborough.--C.]
[Footnote 38: That of Queen Anne.]
No. 14. SATURDAY, MAY 5, 1750.
_----Nil fuit unquam_
_Sic impar sibi----_
HOR. lib. i. Sat. iii. 18.
Sure such a various creature ne'er was known.
FRANCIS.
Among the many inconsistencies which folly produces, or infirmity suffers,
in the human mind, there has often been observed a manifest and striking
contrariety between the life of an author and his writings; and Milton,
in a letter to a learned stranger, by whom he had been visited, with
great reason congratulates himself upon the consciousness of being found
equal to his own character, and having preserved, in a private and
familiar interview, that reputation which his works had procured him.
Those whom the appearance of virtue, or the evidence of genius, have
tempted to a nearer knowledge of the writer in whose performances they
may be found, have indeed had frequent reason to repent their curiosity;
the bubble that sparkled before them has become common water at the
touch; the phantom of perfection has vanished when they wished to press
it to their bosom. They have lost the pleasure of imagining how far
humanity may be exalted, and, perhaps, felt themselves less inclined
to toil up the steeps of virtue, when they observe those who seem best
able to point the way, loitering below, as either afraid of the labour,
or doubtful of the reward.
It has been long the custom of the oriental monarchs to hide themselves
in gardens and palaces, to avoid the conversation of mankind, and to be
known to their subjects only by their edicts. The same policy is no less
necessary to him that writes, than to him that governs; for men would
not more patiently submit to be taught, than commanded, by one known to
have the same follies and weaknesses with themselves. A sudden intruder
into the closet of an author would perhaps feel equal indignation with
the officer, who having long solicited admission into the presence of
Sardanapalus, saw him not consulting upon laws, inquiring into grievances,
or modelling armies, but employed in feminine amusements, and directing
the ladies in their work.
It is not difficult to conceive, however, that for many reasons a man
writes much better than he lives. For without entering into refined
speculations, it may be shewn much easier to design than to perform.
A man proposes his schemes of life in a state of abstraction and
disengagement, exempt from the enticements of hope, the solicitations
of affection, the importunities of appetite, or the depressions of fear,
and is in the same state with him that teaches upon land the art of
navigation, to whom the sea is always smooth, and the wind always
prosperous.
The mathematicians are well acquainted with the difference between pure
science, which has to do only with ideas, and the application of its
laws to the use of life, in which they are constrained to submit to the
imperfection of matter and the influence of accidents. Thus, in moral
discussions, it is to be remembered that many impediments obstruct our
practice, which very easily give way to theory. The speculatist is only
in danger of erroneous reasoning; but the man involved in life, has his
own passions, and those of others, to encounter, and is embarrassed
with a thousand inconveniencies, which confound him with variety of
impulse, and either perplex or obstruct his way. He is forced to act
without deliberation, and obliged to choose before he can examine: he
is surprised by sudden alterations of the state of things, and changes
his measures according to superficial appearances; he is led by others,
either because he is indolent, or because he is timorous; he is sometimes
afraid to know what is right, and sometimes finds friends or enemies
diligent to deceive him.
We are, therefore, not to wonder that most fail, amidst tumult, and
snares, and danger, in the observance of those precepts, which they lay
down in solitude, safety, and tranquillity, with a mind unbiassed, and
with liberty unobstructed. It is the condition of our present state to see
more than we can attain; the exactest vigilance and caution can never
maintain a single day of unmingled innocence, much less can the utmost
efforts of incorporated mind reach the summit of speculative virtue.
It is, however, necessary for the idea of perfection to be proposed,
that we may have some object to which our endeavours are to be directed;
and he that is most deficient in the duties of life, makes some atonement
for his faults, if he warns others against his own failings, and hinders,
by the salubrity of his admonitions, the contagion of his example.
Nothing is more unjust, however common, than to charge with hypocrisy
him that expresses zeal for those virtues which he neglects to practise;
since he may be sincerely convinced of the advantages of conquering
his passions, without having yet obtained the victory, as a man may be
confident of the advantages of a voyage, or a journey, without having
courage or industry to undertake it, and may honestly recommend to others,
those attempts which he neglects himself.
The interest which the corrupt part of mankind have in hardening
themselves against every motive to amendment, has disposed them
to give to these contradictions, when they can be produced against
the cause of virtue, that weight which they will not allow them in
any other case. They see men act in opposition to their interest,
without supposing, that they do not know it; those who give way to the
sudden violence of passion, and forsake the most important pursuits
for petty pleasures, sire not supposed to have changed their opinions,
or to approve their own conduct. In moral or religious questions alone,
they determine the sentiments by the actions, and charge every man with
endeavouring to impose upon the world, whose writings are not confirmed
by his life. They never consider that themselves neglect or practise
something every day inconsistently with their own settled judgment,
nor discover that the conduct of the advocates for virtue can little
increase, or lessen, the obligations of their dictates; argument is to
be invalidated only by argument, and is in itself of the same force,
whether or not it convinces him by whom it is proposed.
Yet since this prejudice, however unreasonable, is always likely to
have some prevalence, it is the duty of every man to take care lest
he should hinder the efficacy of his own instructions. When he desires
to gain the belief of others, he should shew that he believes himself;
and when he teaches the fitness of virtue by his reasonings, he should,
by his example, prove its possibility: Thus much at least may be required
of him, that he shall not act worse than others because he writes better,
nor imagine that, by the merit of his genius, he may claim indulgence
beyond mortals of the lower classes, and be excused for want of prudence,
or neglect of virtue.
Bacon, in his History of the Winds, after having offered something to
the imagination as desirable, often proposes lower advantages in its
place to the reason as attainable. The same method may be sometimes
pursued in moral endeavours, which this philosopher has observed in
natural inquiries; having first set positive and absolute excellence
before us, we may be pardoned though we sink down to humbler virtue,
trying, however, to keep our point always in view, and struggling not
to lose ground, though we cannot gain it.
It is recorded of Sir Mathew Hale, that he, for a long time, concealed the
consecration of himself to the stricter duties of religion, lest by some
flagitious and shameful action, he should bring piety into disgrace. For
the same reason it may be prudent for a writer, who apprehends that he
shall not enforce his own maxims by his domestick character, to conceal
his name, that he may not injure them.
There are, indeed, a great number whose curiosity to gain a more familiar
knowledge of successful writers, is not so much prompted by an opinion
of their power to improve as to delight, and who expect from them not
arguments against vice, or dissertations on temperance or justice; but
flights of wit, and sallies of pleasantry, or, at least, acute remarks,
nice distinctions, justness of sentiment, and elegance of diction.
This expectation is, indeed, specious and probable, and yet, such is
the fate of all human hopes, that it is very often frustrated, and those
who raise admiration by their books, disgust by their company. A man of
letters for the most part spends in the privacies of study, that season
of life in which the manners are to be softened into ease, and polished
into elegance; and, when he has gained knowledge enough to be respected,
has neglected the minuter acts by which he might have pleased. When he
enters life, if his temper be soft and timorous, he is diffident and
bashful, from the knowledge of his defects; or if he was born with spirit
and resolution, he is ferocious and arrogant, from the consciousness of
his merit; he is either dissipated by the awe of company, and unable
to recollect his reading, and arrange his arguments; or he is hot and
dogmatical, quick in opposition, and tenacious in defence, disabled by
his own violence, and confused by his haste to triumph.
The graces of writing and conversation are of different kinds, and though
he who excels in one might have been, with opportunities and application,
equally successful in the other, yet as many please by extemporary talk,
though utterly unacquainted with the more accurate method, and more
laboured beauties, which composition requires; so it is very possible
that men, wholly accustomed to works of study, may be without that
readiness of conception, and affluence of language, always necessary to
colloquial entertainment. They may want address to watch the hints which
conversation offers for the display of their particular attainments,
or they may be so much unfurnished with matter on common subjects, that
discourse not professedly literary, glides over them as heterogeneous
bodies, without admitting their conceptions to mix in the circulation.
A transition from an author's book to his conversation, is too often
like an entrance into a large city, after a distant prospect. Remotely,
we see nothing but spires of temples and turrets of palaces, and imagine
it the residence of splendour, grandeur and magnificence; but, when
we have passed the gates, we find it perplexed with narrow passages,
disgraced with despicable cottages, embarrassed with obstructions,
and clouded with smoke.
No. 15. TUESDAY, MAY 8, 1750.
_Et quando uberior vitiorum copia? quando_
_Major avaritiæ patuit sinus? Alea quando_
_Hos animos?_
JUV. Sat. i. 87.
What age so large a crop of vices bore,
Or when was avarice extended more?
When were the dice with more profusion thrown?
DRYDEN.
There is no grievance, publick or private, of which, since I took upon
me the office of a periodical monitor, I have received so many, or so
earnest complaints, as of the predominance of play; of a fatal passion
for cards and dice, which seems to have overturned, not only the ambition
of excellence, but the desire of pleasure; to have extinguished the
flames of the lover, as well as of the patriot; and threatens, in its
further progress, to destroy all distinctions, both of rank and sex,
to crush all emulation but that of fraud, to corrupt all those classes
of our people, whose ancestors have, by their virtue, their industry,
or their parsimony, given them the power of living in extravagance,
idleness, and vice, and to leave them without knowledge, but of the
modish games, and without wishes, but for lucky hands.
I have found by long experience, that there are few enterprises so
hopeless as contests with the fashion, in which the opponents are not
only made confident by their numbers, and strong by their union, but
are hardened by contempt of their antagonist, whom they always look
upon as a wretch of low notions, contracted views, mean conversation,
and narrow fortune, who envies the elevations which he cannot reach, who
would gladly imbitter the happiness which his inelegance or indigence
deny him to partake, and who has no other end in his advice than to
revenge his own mortification by hindering those whom their birth and
taste have set above him, from the enjoyment of their superiority, and
bringing them down to a level with himself.
Though I have never found myself much affected by this formidable
censure, which I have incurred often enough to be acquainted with its
full force, yet I shall, in some measure, obviate it on this occasion,
by offering very little in my own name, either of argument or entreaty,
since those who suffer by this general infatuation may be supposed best
able to relate its effects.
* * * * *