MISELLUS.

No. 17. TUESDAY, MAY 15, 1750.

_----Me non oracula certum,_

_Sed mors certa facit._

LUCAN, lib. ix. 582.

Let those weak minds, who live in doubt and fear,

To juggling priests for oracles repair;

One certain hour of death to each decreed,

My fixt, my certain soul from doubt has freed.

ROWE.

It is recorded of some eastern monarch, that he kept an officer in

his house, whose employment it was to remind him of his mortality,

by calling out every morning, at a stated hour, _Remember, prince, that

thou shalt die!_ And the contemplation of the frailness and uncertainty

of our present state appeared of so much importance to Solon of Athens,

that he left this precept to future ages; _Keep thine eye fixed upon

the end of life._

A frequent and attentive prospect of that moment, which must put a

period to all our schemes, and deprive us of all our acquisitions, is

indeed of the utmost efficacy to the just and rational regulation of

our lives; nor would ever any thing wicked, or often any thing absurd,

be undertaken or prosecuted by him who should begin every day with a

serious reflection that he is born to die.

The disturbers of our happiness, in this world, are our desires, our

griefs, and our fears; and to all these, the consideration of mortality

is a certain and adequate remedy. Think, says Epictetus, frequently on

poverty, banishment, and death, and thou wilt then never indulge violent

desires, or give up thy heart to mean sentiments, ουδεν ουδεποτε ταπεινον

ενθυμηση, ουτε αγαν επιθυμησεις τινος.

That the maxim of Epictetus is founded on just observation will easily

be granted, when we reflect, how that vehemence of eagerness after

the common objects of pursuit is kindled in our minds. We represent

to ourselves the pleasures of some future possession, and suffer our

thoughts to dwell attentively upon it, till it has wholly engrossed

the imagination, and permits us not to conceive any happiness but

its attainment, or any misery but its loss; every other satisfaction

which the bounty of Providence has scattered over life is neglected as

inconsiderable, in comparison of the great object which we have placed

before us, and is thrown from us as incumbering our activity, or trampled

under foot as standing in our way.

Every man has experienced how much of this ardour has been remitted, when

a sharp or tedious sickness has set death before his eyes. The extensive

influence of greatness, the glitter of wealth, the praises of admirers,

and the attendance of supplicants, have appeared vain and empty things,

when the last hour seemed to be approaching: and the same appearance they

would always have, if the same thought was always predominant. We should

then find the absurdity of stretching out our arms incessantly to grasp

that which we cannot keep, and wearing out our lives in endeavours to

add new turrets to the fabrick of ambition, when the foundation itself

is shaking, and the ground on which it stands is mouldering away.

All envy is proportionate to desire; we are uneasy at the attainments

of another, according as we think our own happiness would be advanced by

the addition of that which he withholds from us; and therefore whatever

depresses immoderate wishes, will, at the same time, set the heart

free from the corrosion of envy, and exempt us from that vice which is,

above most others, tormenting to ourselves, hateful to the world, and

productive of mean artifices, and sordid projects. He that considers

how soon he must close his life, will find nothing of so much importance

as to close it well; and will, therefore, look with indifference upon

whatever is useless to that purpose. Whoever reflects frequently upon the

uncertainty of his own duration, will find out, that the state of others

is not more permanent, and that what can confer nothing on himself very

desirable, cannot so much improve the condition of a rival, as to make

him much superior to those from whom he has carried the prize--a prize

too mean to deserve a very obstinate opposition.

Even grief, that passion to which the virtuous and tender mind is

particularly subject, will be obviated or alleviated by the same

thoughts. It will be obviated, if all the blessings of our condition are

enjoyed with a constant sense of this uncertain tenure. If we remember,

that whatever we possess is to be in our hands but a very little time,

and that the little which our most lively hopes can promise us may be

made less by ten thousand accidents; we shall not much repine at a loss,

of which we cannot estimate the value, but of which, though we are not

able to tell the least amount, we know, with sufficient certainty, the

greatest; and are convinced that the greatest is not much to be regretted.

But, if any passion has so much usurped our understanding, as not to

suffer us to enjoy advantages with the moderation prescribed by reason, it

is not too late to apply this remedy, when we find ourselves sinking under

sorrow, and inclined to pine for that which is irrecoverably vanished. We

may then usefully revolve the uncertainty of our own condition, and the

folly of lamenting that from which, if it had stayed a little longer,

we should ourselves have been taken away.

With regard to the sharpest and most melting sorrow, that which arises

from the loss of those whom we have loved with tenderness, it may be

observed, that friendship between mortals can be contracted on no other

terms, than that one must some time mourn for the other's death: and this

grief will always yield to the survivor one consolation proportionate

to his affliction; for the pain, whatever it be, that he himself feels,

his friend has escaped.

Nor is fear, the most overbearing and resistless of all our passions,

less to be temperated by this universal medicine of the mind. The

frequent contemplation of death, as it shews the vanity of all human

good, discovers likewise the lightness of all terrestrial evil, which

certainly can last no longer than the subject upon which it acts; and

according to the old observation, must be shorter, as it is more

violent. The most cruel calamity which misfortune can produce, must,

by the necessity of nature, be quickly an at end. The soul cannot long

be held in prison, but will fly away, and leave a lifeless body to

human malice.

_----Ridetque sui ludibria trunci._

And soaring mocks the broken frame below.

The utmost that we can threaten to one another is that death, which,

indeed, we may precipitate, but cannot retard, and from which, therefore,

it cannot become a wise man to buy a reprieve at the expense of virtue,

since he knows not how small a portion of time he can purchase, but

knows, that whether short or long, it will be made less valuable by the

remembrance of the price at which it has been obtained. He is sure that

he destroys his happiness, but is not sure that he lengthens his life.

The known shortness of life, as it ought to moderate our passions, may

likewise, with equal propriety, contract our designs. There is not time

for the most forcible genius, and most active industry, to extend its

effects beyond a certain sphere. To project the conquest of the world,

is the madness of mighty princes; to hope for excellence in every

science, has been the folly of literary heroes; and both have found at

last, that they have panted for a height of eminence denied to humanity,

and have lost many opportunities of making themselves useful and happy,

by a vain ambition of obtaining a species of honour, which the eternal

laws of Providence have placed beyond the reach of man.

The miscarriages of the great designs of princes are recorded in the

histories of the world, but are of little use to the bulk of mankind,

who seem very little interested in admonitions against errours which they

cannot commit. But the fate of learned ambition is a proper subject for

every scholar to consider; for who has not had occasion to regret the

dissipation of great abilities in a boundless multiplicity of pursuits,

to lament the sudden desertion of excellent designs, upon the offer of

some other subject made inviting by its novelty, and to observe the

inaccuracy and deficiencies of works left unfinished by too great an

extension of the plan?

It is always pleasing to observe, how much more our minds can conceive,

than our bodies can perform; yet it is our duty, while we continue in

this complicated state, to regulate one part of our composition by some

regard to the other. We are not to indulge our corporeal appetites with

pleasures that impair our intellectual vigour, nor gratify our minds with

schemes which we know our lives must fail in attempting to execute. The

uncertainty of our duration ought at once to set bounds to our designs,

and add incitements to our industry; and when we find ourselves inclined

either to immensity in our schemes, or sluggishness in our endeavours,

we may either check, or animate, ourselves, by recollecting, with the

father of physick, _that art is long, and life is short_.

No. 18. SATURDAY, MAY 19, 1750.

_Illic matre carentibus,_

_Privignis mulier temperat innocens,_

_Nec dotata regit virum_

_Conjux, nec nitido fidit adultero:_

_Dos est magna parentium_

_Virtus, et metuens alterius viri_

_Certo fœdere castitas._

HOR. lib. iii. Ode xxiv. 17.

Not there the guiltless step-dame knows

The baleful draught for orphans to compose;

No wife high portion'd rules her spouse,

Or trusts her essenc'd lover's faithless vows:

The lovers there for dow'ry claim

The father's virtue, and the spotless fame,

Which dares not break the nuptial tie.

FRANCIS.

There is no observation more frequently made by such as employ themselves

in surveying the conduct of mankind, than that marriage, though the

dictate of nature, and the institution of Providence, is yet very often

the cause of misery, and that those who enter into that state can seldom

forbear to express their repentance, and their envy of those whom either

chance or caution hath withheld from it.

This general unhappiness has given occasion to many sage maxims among

the serious, and smart remarks among the gay; the moralist and the

writer of epigrams have equally shewn their abilities upon it; some have

lamented, and some have ridiculed it; but as the faculty of writing has

been chiefly a masculine endowment, the reproach of making the world

miserable has been always thrown upon the women, and the grave and the

merry have equally thought themselves at liberty to conclude either

with declamatory complaints, or satirical censures, of female folly or

fickleness, ambition or cruelty, extravagance or lust.

Led by such a number of examples, and incited by my share in the common

interest, I sometimes venture to consider this universal grievance,

having endeavoured to divest my heart of all partiality, and place

myself as a kind of neutral being between the sexes, whose clamours

being equally vented on both sides with all the vehemence of distress,

all the apparent confidence of justice, and all the indignation of

injured virtue, seem entitled to equal regard. The men have, indeed,

by their superiority of writing, been able to collect the evidence

of many ages, and raise prejudices in their favour by the venerable

testimonies of philosophers, historians, and poets; but the pleas of the

ladies appeal to passions of more forcible operation than the reverence

of antiquity. If they have not so great names on their side, they have

stronger arguments: it is to little purpose that Socrates, or Euripides,

are produced against the sighs of softness, and the tears of beauty. The

most frigid and inexorable judge would at least stand suspended between

equal powers, as Lucan was perplexed in the determination of the cause,

where the deities were on one side, and Cato on the other.

But I, who have long studied the severest and most abstracted philosophy,

have now, in the cool maturity of life, arrived at such command over

my passions, that I can hear the vociferations of either sex without

catching any of the fire from those that utter them. For I have found,

by long experience, that a man will sometimes rage at his wife, when

in reality his mistress has offended him; and a lady complain of the

cruelty of her husband, when she has no other enemy than bad cards.

I do not suffer myself to be any longer imposed upon by oaths on one

side, or fits on the other; nor when the husband hastens to the tavern,

and the lady retires to her closet, am I always confident that they

are driven by their miseries; since I have sometimes reason to believe,

that they purpose not so much to soothe their sorrows, as to animate their

fury. But how little credit soever may be given to particular accusations,

the general accumulation of the charge shews, with too much evidence, that

married persons are not very often advanced in felicity; and, therefore,

it may be proper to examine at what avenues so many evils have made

their way into the world. With this purpose, I have reviewed the lives

of my friends, who have been least successful in connubial contracts,

and attentively considered by what motives they were incited to marry,

and by what principles they regulated their choice.

One of the first of my acquaintances that resolved to quit the unsettled

thoughtless condition of a bachelor, was Prudentius, a man of slow parts,

but not without knowledge or judgment in things which he had leisure

to consider gradually before he determined them. Whenever we met at a

tavern, it was his province to settle the scheme of our entertainment,

contract with the cook, and inform us when we had called for wine to the

sum originally proposed. This grave considerer found, by deep meditation,

that a man was no loser by marrying early, even though he contented

himself with a less fortune; for estimating the exact worth of annuities,

he found that considering the constant diminution of the value of life,

with the probable fall of the interest of money, it was not worse to

have ten thousand pounds at the age of two and twenty years, than a much

larger fortune at thirty; for many opportunities, says he, occur of

improving money, which if a man misses, he may not afterwards recover.

Full of these reflections, he threw his eyes about him, not in search

of beauty or elegance, dignity or understanding, but of a woman with ten

thousand pounds. Such a woman, in a wealthy part of the kingdom, it was

not very difficult to find; and by artful management with her father,

whose ambition was to make his daughter a gentlewoman, my friend got

her, as he boasted to us in confidence two days after his marriage,

for a settlement of seventy-three pounds a year less than her fortune

might have claimed, and less than he would himself have given, if the

fools had been but wise enough to delay the bargain.

Thus, at once delighted with the superiority of his parts and the

augmentation of his fortune, he carried Furia to his own house, in which

he never afterwards enjoyed one hour of happiness. For Furia was a wretch

of mean intellects, violent passions, a strong voice, and low education,

without any sense of happiness but that which consisted in eating and

counting money. Furia was a scold. They agreed in the desire of wealth,

but with this difference, that Prudentius was for growing rich by gain,

Furia by parsimony. Prudentius would venture his money with chances

very much in his favour; but Furia very wisely observing, that what

they had was, while they had it, _their own_, thought all traffick

too great a hazard, and was for putting it out at low interest,

upon good security. Prudentius ventured, however, to insure a ship

at a very unreasonable price, but happening to lose his money, was

so tormented with the clamours of his wife, that he never durst try

a second experiment. He has now grovelled seven and forty years under

Furia's direction, who never once mentioned him, since his bad luck,

by any other name than that of _the insurer_.

The next that married from our society was Florentius. He happened to

see Zephyretta in a chariot at a horse-race, danced with her at night,

was confirmed in his first ardour, waited on her next morning, and

declared himself her lover. Florentius had not knowledge enough of

the world, to distinguish between the flutter of coquetry, and the

sprightliness of wit, or between the smile of allurement, and that of

cheerfulness. He was soon awaked from his rapture, by conviction that

his pleasure was but the pleasure of a day. Zephyretta had in four and

twenty hours spent her stock of repartee, gone round the circle of her

airs, and had nothing remaining for him but childish insipidity, or for

herself, but the practice of the same artifices upon new men.

Melissus was a man of parts, capable of enjoying and of improving life.

He had passed through the various scenes of gaiety with that indifference

and possession of himself, natural to men who have something higher

and nobler in their prospect. Retiring to spend the summer in a village

little frequented, he happened to lodge in the same house with Ianthe, and

was unavoidably drawn to some acquaintance, which her wit and politeness

soon invited him to improve. Having no opportunity of any other company,

they were always together; and as they owed their pleasures to each

other, they began to forget that any pleasure was enjoyed before their

meeting. Melissus, from being delighted with her company, quickly began to

be uneasy in her absence, and being sufficiently convinced of the force

of her understanding, and finding, as he imagined, such a conformity of

temper as declared them formed for each other, addressed her as a lover,

after no very long courtship obtained her for his wife, and brought her

next winter to town in triumph.

Now began their infelicity. Melissus had only seen her in one scene,

where there was no variety of objects, to produce the proper excitements

to contrary desires. They had both loved solitude and reflection, where

there was nothing but solitude and reflection to be loved; but when

they came into publick life, Ianthe discovered those passions which

accident rather than hypocrisy had hitherto concealed. She was, indeed,

not without the power of thinking, but was wholly without the exertion

of that power when either gaiety or splendour played on her imagination.

She was expensive in her diversions, vehement in her passions, insatiate

of pleasure, however dangerous to her reputation, and eager of applause,

by whomsoever it might be given. This was the wife which Melissus the

philosopher found in his retirement, and from whom he expected an

associate in his studies, and an assistant to his virtues.

Prosapius, upon the death of his younger brother, that the family

might not be extinct, married his housekeeper, and has ever since been

complaining to his friends that mean notions are instilled into his

children, that he is ashamed to sit at his own table, and that his house

is uneasy to him for want of suitable companions.

Avaro, master of a very large estate, took a woman of bad reputation,

recommended to him by a rich uncle, who made that marriage the condition

on which he should be his heir. Avaro now wonders to perceive his own

fortune, his wife's and his uncle's, insufficient to give him that

happiness which is to be found only with a woman of virtue.

I intend to treat in more papers on this important article of life,

and shall, therefore, make no reflection upon these histories, except

that all whom I have mentioned failed to obtain happiness, for want of

considering that marriage is the strictest tie of perpetual friendship;

that there can be no friendship without confidence, and no confidence

without integrity; and that he must expect to be wretched, who pays to

beauty, riches, or politeness, that regard which only virtue and piety

can claim.

No. 19. TUESDAY, MAY 22, 1750.

_Dum modo causidicum, dum te modo rhetora fingis,_

_Et non decernis, Taure, quid esse velis,_

_Peleos et Priami transit, vel Nestoris, ætas;_

_Et fuerat serum jam tibi desinere.----_

_Eia age, rumpe moras: quo te sperabimus usque?_

_Dum, quid sis, dubitas, jam potes esse nihil._

MART. lib. ii. Ep. 64.

To rhetorick now, and now to law inclin'd,

Uncertain where to fix thy changing mind;

Old Priam's age or Nestor's may be out,

And thou, O Taures! still go on in doubt.

Come then, how long such wavering shall we see?

Thou may'st doubt on: thou now canst nothing be.

F. LEWIS.

It is never without very melancholy reflections, that we can observe

the misconduct, or miscarriage, of those men, who seem, by the force of

understanding, or extent of knowledge, exempted from the general frailties

of human nature, and privileged from the common infelicities of life.

Though the world is crowded with scenes of calamity, we look upon the

general mass of wretchedness with very little regard, and fix our eyes

upon the state of particular persons, whom the eminence of their qualities

marks out from the multitude; as in reading an account of a battle, we

seldom reflect on the vulgar heaps of slaughter, but follow the hero

with our whole attention, through all the varieties of his fortune,

without a thought of the thousands that are falling round him.

With the same kind of anxious veneration I have for many years been making

observations on the life of Polyphilus, a man whom all his acquaintances

have, from his first appearance in the world, feared for the quickness

of his discernment, and admired for the multiplicity of his attainments,

but whose progress in life, and usefulness to mankind, has been hindered

by the superfluity of his knowledge, and the celerity of his mind.

Polyphilus was remarkable, at the school, for surpassing all his

companions, without any visible application, and at the university was

distinguished equally for his successful progress as well through the

thorny mazes of science, as the flowery path of politer literature,

without any strict confinement to hours of study, or remarkable

forbearance of the common amusements of young men.

When Polyphilus was at the age in which men usually choose their

profession, and prepare to enter into a publick character, every

academical eye was fixed upon him; all were curious to inquire what

this universal genius would fix upon for the employment of his life;

and no doubt was made but that he would leave all his contemporaries

behind him, and mount to the highest honours of that class in which

he should inlist himself, without those delays and pauses which must be

endured by meaner abilities.

Polyphilus, though by no means insolent or assuming, had been sufficiently

encouraged, by uninterrupted success, to place great confidence in his own

parts; and was not below his companions in the indulgence of his hopes,

and expectations of the astonishment with which the world would be struck,

when first his lustre should break out upon it; nor could he forbear

(for whom does not constant flattery intoxicate?) to join sometimes in

the mirth of his friends, at the sudden disappearance of those, who,

having shone a while, and drawn the eyes of the publick upon their

feeble radiance, were now doomed to fade away before him.

It is natural for a man to catch advantageous notions of the condition

which those with whom he converses are striving to attain. Polyphilus,

in a ramble to London, fell accidentally among the physicians, and

was so much pleased with the prospect of turning philosophy to profit,

and so highly delighted with a new theory of fevers which darted into

his imagination, and which, after having considered it a few hours,

he found himself able to maintain against all the advocates for the

ancient system, that he resolved to apply himself to anatomy, botany,

and chemistry, and to leave no part unconquered, either of the animal,

mineral, or vegetable kingdoms.

He therefore read authors, constructed systems, and tried experiments;

but, unhappily, as he was going to see a new plant in flower at Chelsea,

he met, in crossing Westminster to take water, the chancellor's coach;

he had the curiosity to follow him into the hall, where a remarkable

cause happened to be tried, and found himself able to produce so many

arguments, which the lawyers had omitted on both sides, that he determined

to quit physic for a profession in which he found it would be so easy to

excel, and which promised higher honours, and larger profits, without

melancholy attendance upon misery, mean submission to peevishness,

and continual interruption of rest and pleasure.

He immediately took chambers in the Temple, bought a common-place book,

and confined himself for some months to the perusal of the statutes,

year-books, pleadings, and reports; he was a constant hearer of the

courts, and began to put cases with reasonable accuracy. But he soon

discovered, by considering the fortune of lawyers, that preferment was

not to be got by acuteness, learning, and eloquence. He was perplexed by

the absurdities of attorneys, and misrepresentations made by his clients

of their own causes, by the useless anxiety of one, and the incessant

importunity of another; he began to repent of having devoted himself to a

study, which was so narrow in its comprehension that it could never carry

his name to any other country, and thought it unworthy of a man of parts

to sell his life only for money. The barrenness of his fellow-students

forced him generally into other company at his hours of entertainment,

and among the varieties of conversation through which his curiosity was

daily wandering, he, by chance, mingled at a tavern with some intelligent

officers of the army. A man of letters was easily dazzled with the

gaiety of their appearance, and softened into kindness by the politeness

of their address; he, therefore, cultivated this new acquaintance, and

when he saw how readily they found in every place admission and regard,

and how familiarly they mingled with every rank and order of men, he

began to feel his heart beat for military honours, and wondered how the

prejudices of the university should make him so long insensible of that

ambition, which has fired so many hearts in every age, and negligent

of that calling, which is, above all others, universally and invariably

illustrious, and which gives, even to the exterior appearance of its

professors, a dignity and freedom unknown to the rest of mankind.

These favourable impressions were made still deeper by his conversation

with ladies, whose regard for soldiers he could not observe, without

wishing himself one of that happy fraternity, to which the female

world seem to have devoted their charms and their kindness. The love of

knowledge, which was still his predominant inclination, was gratified

by the recital of adventures, and accounts of foreign countries; and

therefore he concluded that there was no way of life in which all his

views could so completely concentre as in that of a soldier. In the art of

war he thought it not difficult to excel, having observed his new friends

not very much versed in the principles of tacticks or fortification;

he therefore studied all the military writers both ancient and modern,

and, in a short time, could tell how to have gained every remarkable

battle that has been lost from the beginning of the world. He often

shewed at table how Alexander should have been checked in his conquests,

what was the fatal errour at Pharsalia, how Charles of Sweden might

have escaped his ruin at Pultowa, and Marlborough might have been made

to repent his temerity at Blenheim. He entrenched armies upon paper so

that no superiority of numbers could force them, and modelled in clay

many impregnable fortresses, on which all the present arts of attack

would be exhausted without effect.

Polyphilus, in a short time, obtained a commission; but before he could

rub off the solemnity of a scholar, and gain the true air of military

vivacity, a war was declared, and forces sent to the continent. Here

Polyphilus unhappily found that study alone would not make a soldier; for

being much accustomed to think, he let the sense of danger sink into

his mind, and felt at the approach of any action, that terrour which

a sentence of death would have brought upon him. He saw that, instead

of conquering their fears, the endeavour of his gay friends was only

to escape them; but his philosophy chained his mind to its object,

and rather loaded him with shackles than furnished him with arms. He,

however, suppressed his misery in silence, and passed through the campaign

with honour, but found himself utterly unable to support another.

He then had recourse again to his books, and continued to range from one

study to another. As I usually visit him once a month, and am admitted

to him without previous notice, I have found him within this last half

year, decyphering the Chinese language, making a farce, collecting a

vocabulary of the obsolete terms of the English law, writing an inquiry

concerning the ancient Corinthian brass, and forming a new scheme of

the variations of the needle.

Thus is this powerful genius, which might have extended the sphere of

any science, or benefited the world in any profession, dissipated in a

boundless variety, without profit to others or himself! He makes sudden

irruptions into the regions of knowledge, and sees all obstacles give

way before him; but he never stays long enough to complete his conquest,

to establish laws, or bring away the spoils.

Such is often the folly of men, whom nature has enabled to obtain skill

and knowledge, on terms so easy, that they have no sense of the value

of the acquisition; they are qualified to make such speedy progress in

learning, that they think themselves at liberty to loiter in the way,

and by turning aside after every new object, lose the race, like Atalanta,

to slower competitors, who press diligently forward, and whose force is

directed to a single point.

I have often thought those happy that have been fixed, from the first

dawn of thought, in a determination to some state of life, by the choice

of one whose authority may caprice, and whose influence may prejudice them

in favour of his opinion. The general precept of consulting the genius

is of little use, unless we are told how the genius can be known. If

it is to be discovered only by experiment, life will be lost before the

resolution can be fixed; if any other indications are to be found, they

may, perhaps, be very early discerned. At least, if to miscarry in an

attempt be a proof of having mistaken the direction of the genius, men

appear not less frequently deceived with regard to themselves than to

others; and therefore no one has much reason to complain that his life

was planned out by his friends, or to be confident that he should have

had either more honour or happiness, by being abandoned to the chance

of his own fancy.

It was said of the learned bishop Sanderson, that when he was preparing

his lectures, he hesitated so much, and rejected so often, that, at the

time of reading, he was often forced to produce, not what was best, but

what happened to be at hand. This will be the state of every man, who,

in the choice of his employment, balances all the arguments on every side;

the complication is so intricate, the motives and objections so numerous,

there is so much play for the imagination, and so much remains in the

power of others, that reason is forced at last to rest in neutrality,

the decision devolves into the hands of chance, and after a great part

of life spent in inquiries which can never be resolved, the rest must

often pass in repenting the unnecessary delay, and can be useful to few

other purposes than to warn others against the same folly, and to shew,

that of two states of life equally consistent with religion and virtue,

he who chooses earliest chooses best.

No. 20. SATURDAY, MAY 26, 1750.

_Ad populum phaleras. Ego te intus, et in cute novi._

PERSIUS, Sat. iii. 30.

Such pageantry be to the people shown;

There boast thy horse's trappings and thy own;

I know thee to thy bottom, from within

Thy shallow centre, to thy utmost skin.

DRYDEN.

Among the numerous stratagems, by which pride endeavours to recommend

folly to regard, there is scarcely one that meets with less success

than affectation, or a perpetual disguise of the real character, by

fictitious appearances; whether it be, that every man hates falsehood,

from the natural congruity of truth to his faculties of reason, or that

every man is jealous of the honour of his understanding, and thinks

his discernment consequently called in question, whenever any thing is

exhibited under a borrowed form.

This aversion from all kinds of disguise, whatever be its cause, is

universally diffused, and incessantly in action; nor is it necessary,

that to exasperate detestation, or excite contempt, any interest should

be invaded, or any competition attempted; it is sufficient, that there

is an intention to deceive, an intention which every heart swells to

oppose, and every tongue is busy to detect.

This reflection was awakened in my mind by a very common practice among

my correspondents, of writing under characters which they cannot support,

which are of no use to the explanation or enforcement of that which they

describe or recommend; and which, therefore, since they assume them only

for the sake of displaying their abilities, I will advise them for the

future to forbear, as laborious without advantage.

It is almost a general ambition of those who favour me with their advice

for the regulation of my conduct, or their contribution for the assistance

of my understanding, to affect the style and the names of ladies. And

I cannot always withhold some expression of anger, like Sir Hugh in

the comedy, when I happen to find that a woman has a beard. I must

therefore warn the gentle Phyllis, that she send me no more letters

from the Horse Guards; and require of Belinda, that she be content to

resign her pretentions to female elegance, till she has lived three weeks

without hearing the politicks of Batson's coffee-house. I must indulge

myself in the liberty of observation, that there were some allusions in

Chloris's production, sufficient to shew that Bracton and Plowden are

her favourite authors; and that Euphelia has not been long enough at

home, to wear out all the traces of phraseology, which she learned in

the expedition to Carthagena.

Among all my female friends, there was none who gave me more trouble to

decypher her true character, than Penthesilea, whose letter lay upon my

desk three days before I could fix upon the real writer. There was a

confusion of images, and medley of barbarity, which held me long in

suspense; till by perseverance I disentangled the perplexity, and found

that Penthesilea is the son of a wealthy stock-jobber, who spends his

morning under his father's eye in Change-Alley, dines at a tavern in

Covent-Garden, passes his evening in the play-house, and part of the

night at a gaming-table, and having learned the dialects of these

various regions, has mingled them all in a studied composition.

When Lee was once told by a critick, that it was very easy to write like

a madman, he answered, that it was difficult to write like a madman, but

easy enough to write like a fool; and I hope to be excused by my kind

contributors, if, in imitation of this great author, I presume to remind

them, that it is much easier not to write like a man, than to write like

a woman.

I have, indeed, some ingenious well-wishers, who, without departing from

their sex, have found very wonderful appellations. A very smart letter

has been sent me from a puny ensign, signed Ajax Telamonius; another, in

recommendation of a new treatise upon cards, from a gamester, who calls

himself Sesostris: and another upon the improvements of the fishery,

from Dioclesian: but as these seem only to have picked up their

appellations by chance, without endeavouring at any particular

imposture, their improprieties are rather instances of blunder than of

affectation, and are, therefore, not equally fitted to inflame the

hostile passions; for it is not folly but pride, not errour but deceit,

which the world means to persecute, when it raises the full cry of

nature to hunt down affectation.

The hatred which dissimulation always draws upon itself, is so great,

that if I did not know how much cunning differs from wisdom, I should

wonder that any men have so little knowledge of their own interest, as

to aspire to wear a mask for life; to try to impose upon the world a

character, to which they feel themselves void of any just claim; and

to hazard their quiet, their fame and even their profit, by exposing

themselves to the danger of that reproach, malevolence, and neglect,

which such a discovery as they have always to fear will certainly bring

upon them.

It might be imagined, that the pleasure of reputation should consist in

the satisfaction of having our opinion of our merit confirmed by the

suffrage of the publick; and that, to be extolled for a quality, which

a man knows himself to want, should give him no other happiness than

to be mistaken for the owner of an estate, over which he chances to

be travelling. But he who subsists upon affectation, knows nothing of

this delicacy; like a desperate adventurer in commerce, he takes up

reputation upon trust, mortgages possessions which he never had, and

enjoys, to the fatal hour of bankruptcy, though with a thousand terrours

and anxieties, the unnecessary splendour of borrowed riches.

Affectation is to be always distinguished from hypocrisy, as being the

art of counterfeiting those qualities which we might, with innocence and

safety, be known, to want. Thus the man who to carry on any fraud, or to

conceal any crime, pretends to rigours of devotion, and exactness of life,

is guilty of hypocrisy; and his guilt is greater, as the end, for which

he puts on the false appearance, is more pernicious. But he that,

with an awkward address, and unpleasing countenance, boasts of the

conquests made by him among the ladies, and counts over the thousands

which he might have possessed if he would have submitted to the yoke

of matrimony, is chargeable only with affectation. Hypocrisy is the

necessary burthen of villany, affectation part of the chosen trappings

of folly; the one completes a villain, the other only finishes a fop.

Contempt is the proper punishment of affectation, and detestation the

just consequence of hypocrisy.

With the hypocrite it is not at present my intention to expostulate,

though even he might be taught the excellency of virtue, by the necessity

of seeming to be virtuous; but the man of affectation may, perhaps,

be reclaimed, by finding how little he is likely to gain by perpetual

constraint, and incessant vigilance, and how much more securely he

might make his way to esteem, by cultivating real, than displaying

counterfeit qualities.

Every thing future is to be estimated, by a wise man, in proportion

to the probability of attaining it and its value, when attained; and

neither of these considerations will much contribute to the encouragement

of affectation. For, if the pinnacles of fame be at best slippery,

how unsteady must his footing be who stands upon pinnacles without

foundation! If praise be made by the inconstancy and maliciousness of

those who must confer it, a blessing which no man can promise himself

from the most conspicuous merit and vigorous industry, how faint must

be the hope of gaining it, when the uncertainty is multiplied by the

weakness of the pretensions! He that pursues fame with just claims,

trusts his happiness to the winds; but he that endeavours after it by

false merit, has to fear, not only the violence of the storm, but the

leaks of his vessel. Though he should happen to keep above water for a

time, by the help of a soft breeze, and a calm sea, at the first gust

he must inevitably founder, with this melancholy reflection, that, if he

would have been content with his natural station, he might have escaped

his calamity. Affectation may possibly succeed for a time, and a man may,

by great attention, persuade others, that he really has the qualities

which he presumes to boast; but the hour will come when he should exert

them, and then whatever he enjoyed in praise, he must suffer in reproach.

Applause and admiration are by no means to be counted among the

necessaries of life, and therefore any indirect arts to obtain them

have very little claim to pardon or compassion. There is scarcely any

man without some valuable or improveable qualities, by which he might

always secure himself from contempt. And perhaps exemption from ignominy

is the most eligible reputation, as freedom from pain is, among some

philosophers, the definition of happiness.

If we therefore compare the value of the praise obtained by fictitious

excellence, even while the cheat is yet undiscovered, with that kindness

which every man may suit by his virtue, and that esteem to which most

men may rise by common understanding steadily and honestly applied, we

shall find that when from the adscititious happiness all the deductions

are made by fear and casualty, there will remain nothing equiponderant to

the security of truth. The state of the possessor of humble virtues, to

the affecter of great excellencies, is that of a small cottage of stone,

to the palace raised with ice by the empress of Russia; it was for a

time splendid and luminous, but the first sunshine melted it to nothing.

No. 21. TUESDAY, MAY 29, 1750.

_Terra salutares herbas, eademque nocentes,_

_Nutrit; et urticæ proxima sæpe rosa est._

OVID, Rem. Amor. 45.

Our bane and physick the same earth bestows,

And near the noisome nettle blooms the rose.

Every man is prompted by the love of himself to imagine, that he

possesses some qualities, superior, either in kind or in degree, to

those which he sees allotted to the rest of the world; and, whatever

apparent disadvantages he may suffer in the comparison with others,

he has some invisible distinctions, some latent reserve of excellence,

which he throws into the balance, and by which he generally fancies

that it is turned in his favour.

The studious and speculative part of mankind always seem to consider

their fraternity as placed in a state of opposition to those who are

engaged in the tumult of publick business; and have pleased themselves,

from age to age, with celebrating the felicity of their own condition,

and with recounting the perplexity of politicks, the dangers of greatness,

the anxieties of ambition, and the miseries of riches.

Among the numerous topicks of declamation, that their industry has

discovered on this subject, there is none which they press with greater

efforts, or on which they have more copiously laid out their reason

and their imagination, than the instability of high stations, and the

uncertainty with which the profits and honours are possessed, that must

be acquired with so much hazard, vigilance, and labour.

This they appear to consider as an irrefragable argument against the

choice of the statesman and the warriour; and swell with confidence of

victory, thus furnished by the muses with the arms which never can be

blunted, and which no art or strength of their adversaries can elude

or resist.

It was well known by experience to the nations which employed elephants

in war, that though by the terrour of their bulk, and the violence of

their impression, they often threw the enemy into disorder, yet there was

always danger in the use of them, very nearly equivalent to the advantage;

for if their first charge could be supported, they were easily driven

back upon their confederates; they then broke through the troops behind

them, and made no less havock in the precipitation of their retreat,

than in the fury of their onset.

I know not whether those who have so vehemently urged the inconveniencies

and danger of an active life, have not made use of arguments that may

be retorted with equal force upon themselves; and whether the happiness

of a candidate for literary fame be not subject to the same uncertainty

with that of him who governs provinces, commands armies, presides in

the senate, or dictates in the cabinet.

That eminence of learning is not to be gained without labour, at least

equal to that which any other kind of greatness can require, will

be allowed by those who wish to elevate the character of a scholar;

since they cannot but know, that every human acquisition is valuable in

proportion to the difficulty employed in its attainment. And that those

who have gained the esteem and veneration of the world, by their knowledge

or their genius, are by no means exempt from the solicitude which any

other kind of dignity produces, may be conjectured from the innumerable

artifices which they make use of to degrade a superior, to repress a

rival, or obstruct a follower; artifices so gross and mean, as to prove

evidently how much a man may excel in learning, without being either more

wise or more virtuous than those whose ignorance he pities or despises.

Nothing therefore remains, by which the student can gratify his desire

of appearing to have built his happiness on a more firm basis than his

antagonist, except the certainty with which his honours are enjoyed.

The garlands gained by the heroes of literature must be gathered from

summits equally difficult to climb with those that bear the civick or

triumphal wreaths, they must be worn with equal envy, and guarded with

equal care from those hands that are always employed in efforts to tear

them away; the only remaining hope is, that their verdure is more lasting,

and that they are less likely to fade by time, or less obnoxious to the

blasts of accident.

Even this hope will receive very little encouragement from the examination

of the history of learning, or observation of the fate of scholars in

the present age. If we look back into past times, we find innumerable

names of authors once in high reputation, read perhaps by the beautiful,

quoted by the witty, and commented on by the grave; but of whom we now

know only that they once existed. If we consider the distribution of

literary fame in our own time, we shall find it a possession of very

uncertain tenure; sometimes bestowed by a sudden caprice of the publick,

and again transferred to a new favourite, for no other reason than that

he is new; sometimes refused to long labour and eminent desert, and

sometimes granted to very slight pretensions; lost sometimes by security

and negligence, and sometimes by too diligent endeavours to retain it.

A successful author is equally in danger of the diminution of his fame,

whether he continues or ceases to write. The regard of the publick

is not to be kept but by tribute, and the remembrance of past service

will quickly languish, unless successive performances frequently revive

it. Yet in every new attempt there is new hazard, and there are few who

do not at some unlucky time, injure their own characters by attempting

to enlarge them.

There are many possible causes of that inequality which we may so

frequently observe in the performances of the same man, from the influence

of which no ability or industry is sufficiently secured, and which have

so often sullied the splendour of genius, that the wit, as well as the

conqueror, may be properly cautioned not to indulge his pride with too

early triumphs, but to defer to the end of life his estimate of happiness.

_------Ultima semper_

_Expectanda dies homini, dicique beatus_

_Ante obitum nemo supremaque funera debet._

OVID, Met. iii. 135.

But no frail man, however great or high,

Can be concluded blest before he die.

ADDISON.

Among the motives that urge an author to undertakings by which his

reputation is impaired, one of the most frequent must be mentioned

with tenderness, because it is not to be counted among his follies,

but his miseries. It very often happens that the works of learning

or of wit are performed at the direction of those by whom they are

to be rewarded; the writer has not always the choice of his subject,

but is compelled to accept any task which is thrown before him without

much consideration of his own convenience, and without time to prepare

himself by previous studies.

Miscarriages of this kind are likewise frequently the consequence of

that acquaintance with the great, which is generally considered as

one of the chief privileges of literature and genius. A man who has

once learned to think himself exalted by familiarity with those whom

nothing but their birth, or their fortunes, or such stations as are

seldom gained by moral excellence, set above him, will not be long

without submitting his understanding to their conduct; he will suffer

them to prescribe the course of his studies, and employ him for their

own purposes either of diversion or interest, His desire of pleasing

those whose favour he has weakly made necessary to himself, will not

suffer him always to consider how little he is qualified for the work

imposed. Either his vanity will tempt him to conceal his deficiencies,

or that cowardice, which always encroaches fast upon such as spend their

lives in the company of persons higher than themselves, will not leave

him resolution to assert the liberty of choice.

But, though we suppose that a man by his fortune can avoid the necessity

of dependance, and by his spirit can repel the usurpations of patronage,

yet he may easily, by writing long, happen to write ill. There is

a general succession of events in which contraries are produced by

periodical vicissitudes; labour and care are rewarded with success,

success produces confidence, confidence relaxes industry, and negligence

ruins that reputation which accuracy had raised.

He that happens not to be lulled by praise into supineness, may be

animated by it to undertakings above his strength, or incited to fancy

himself alike qualified for every kind of composition, and able to

comply with the publick taste through all its variations. By some

opinion like this, many men have been engaged, at an advanced age, in

attempts which they had not time to complete, and after a few weak

efforts, sunk into the grave with vexation to see the rising generation

gain ground upon them. From these failures the highest genius is not

exempt; that judgment which appears so penetrating, when it is employed

upon the works of others, very often fails where interest or passion can

exert their power. We are blinded in examining our own labours by

innumerable prejudices. Our juvenile compositions please us, because

they bring to our minds the remembrance of youth; our later performances

we are ready to esteem, because we are unwilling to think that we have

made no improvement; what flows easily from the pen charms us, because

we read with pleasure that which flatters our opinion of our own powers;

what was composed with great struggles of the mind we do not easily

reject, because we cannot bear that so much labour should be fruitless.

But the reader has none of these prepossessions, and wonders that the

author is so unlike himself, without considering that the same soil

will, with different culture, afford different products.

No. 22. SATURDAY, JUNE 2, 1750.

_----Ego nec studium sine divite venû,_

_Nec rude quid prosit video ingenium; alterius sic_

_Altera poscit opem res, et conjurat amice._

HOR. Ars. Poet. 409.

Without a genius learning soars in vain;

And without learning genius sinks again;

Their force united crowns the sprightly reign.

ELPHINSTON.

Wit and Learning were the children of Apollo, by different mothers; Wit

was the offspring of Euphrosyne, and resembled her in cheerfulness and

vivacity; Learning was born of Sophia, and retained her seriousness and

caution. As their mothers were rivals, they were bred up by them from

their birth in habitual opposition, and all means were so incessantly

employed to impress upon them a hatred and contempt of each other, that

though Apollo, who foresaw the ill effects of their discord, endeavoured

to soften them, by dividing his regard equally between them, yet his

impartiality and kindness were without effect; the maternal animosity

was deeply rooted, having been intermingled with their first ideas, and

was confirmed every hour, as fresh opportunities occurred of exerting

it. No sooner were they of age to be received into the apartments of

the other celestials, than Wit began to entertain Venus at her toilet,

by aping the solemnity of Learning, and Learning to divert Minerva at

her loom, by exposing the blunders and ignorance of Wit.

Thus they grew up, with malice perpetually increasing, by the

encouragement which each received from those whom their mothers had

persuaded to patronize and support them; and longed to be admitted to

the table of Jupiter, not so much for the hope of gaining honour, as of

excluding a rival from all pretensions to regard, and of putting an

everlasting stop to the progress of that influence which either believed

the other to have obtained by mean arts and false appearances.

At last the day came, when they were both, with the usual solemnities,

received into the class of superior deities, and allowed to take nectar

from the hand of Hebe. But from that hour Concord lost her authority at

the table of Jupiter. The rivals, animated by their new dignity, and

incited by the alternate applauses of the associate powers, harassed

each other by incessant contests, with such a regular vicissitude of

victory, that neither was depressed.

It was observable, that, at the beginning of every debate, the

advantage was on the side of Wit; and that, at the first sallies,

the whole assembly sparkled, according to Homer's expression, with

unextinguishable merriment. But Learning would reserve her strength till

the burst of applause was over, and the languor with which the violence

of joy is always succeeded, began to promise more calm and patient

attention. She then attempted her defence, and, by comparing one part

of her antagonist's objections with another, commonly made him confute

himself; or, by shewing how small a part of the question he had taken

into his view, proved that his opinion could have no weight. The audience

began gradually to lay aside their prepossessions, and rose, at last,

with great veneration for Learning, but with greater kindness for Wit.

Their conduct was, whenever they desired to recommend themselves to

distinction, entirely opposite. Wit was daring and adventurous; Learning

cautious and deliberate. Wit thought nothing reproachful but dulness;

Learning was afraid of no imputation but that of errour. Wit answered

before he understood, lest his quickness of apprehension should be

questioned; Learning paused, where there was no difficulty, lest any

insidious sophism should lie undiscovered. Wit perplexed every debate

by rapidity and confusion; Learning tired the hearers with endless

distinctions, and prolonged the dispute without advantage, by proving

that which never was denied. Wit, in hopes of shining, would venture

to produce what he had not considered, and often succeeded beyond his

own expectation, by following the train of a lucky thought; learning would

reject every new notion, for fear of being entangled in consequences

which she could not foresee, and was often hindered, by her caution,

from pressing her advantages, and subduing her opponent.

Both had prejudices, which, in some degree, hindered their progress

towards perfection, and left them open to attacks. Novelty was the

darling of wit, and antiquity of learning. To wit, all that was new was

specious; to learning, whatever was ancient was venerable. Wit, however,

seldom failed to divert those whom he could not convince, and to

convince was not often his ambition; learning always supported her

opinion with so many collateral truths, that, when the cause was decided

against her, her arguments were remembered with admiration.

Nothing was more common, on either side, than to quit their proper

characters, and to hope for a complete conquest by the use of the

weapons which had been employed against them. Wit would sometimes

labour a syllogism, and learning distort her features with a jest; but

they always suffered by the experiment, and betrayed themselves to

confutation or contempt. The seriousness of wit was without dignity,

and the merriment of learning without vivacity.

Their contests, by long continuance, grew at last important, and the

divinities broke into parties. Wit was taken into protection of the

laughter-loving Venus, had a retinue allowed him of smiles and jests, and

was often permitted to dance among the graces. Learning still continued

the favourite of Minerva, and seldom went out of her palace without

a train of the severer virtues, chastity, temperance, fortitude, and

labour. Wit, cohabiting with malice, had a son named satire, who followed

him, carrying a quiver filled with poisoned arrows, which, where they

once drew blood, could by no skill ever be extracted. These arrows he

frequently shot at learning, when she was most earnestly or usefully

employed, engaged in abstruse inquiries, or giving instructions to her

followers. Minerva, therefore, deputed criticism to her aid, who generally

broke the point of satire's arrows, turned them aside, or retorted them

on himself.

Jupiter was at last angry that the peace of the heavenly regions should

be in perpetual danger of violation, and resolved to dismiss these

troublesome antagonists to the lower world. Hither, therefore, they came,

and carried on their ancient quarrel among mortals, nor was either long

without zealous votaries. Wit, by his gaiety, captivated the young;

and learning, by her authority, influenced the old. Their power quickly

appeared by very eminent effects; theatres were built for the reception

of wit, and colleges endowed for the residence of learning. Each party

endeavoured to outvie the other in cost and magnificence, and to propagate

an opinion, that it was necessary, from the first entrance into life,

to enlist in one of the factions; and that none could hope for the regard

of either divinity, who had once entered the temple of the rival power.

There were, indeed, a class of mortals, by whom wit and learning

were equally disregarded: these were the devotees of Plutus, the god

of riches; among these it seldom happened that the gaiety of wit could

raise a smile, or the eloquence of learning procure attention. In revenge

of this contempt they agreed to incite their followers against them;

but the forces that were sent on those expeditions frequently betrayed

their trust; and, in contempt of the orders which they had received,

flattered the rich in publick, while they scorned them in their hearts;

and when, by this treachery, they had obtained the favour of Plutus,

affected to look with an air of superiority on those who still remained

in the service of wit and learning.

Disgusted with these desertions, the two rivals, at the same time,

petitioned Jupiter for readmission to their native habitations. Jupiter

thundered on the right hand, and they prepared to obey the happy

summons. Wit readily spread his wings and soared aloft, but not being

able to see far, was bewildered in the pathless immensity of the ethereal

spaces. Learning, who knew the way, shook her pinions; but for want of

natural vigour could only take short flights: so, after many efforts,

they both sunk again to the ground, and learned, from their mutual

distress, the necessity of union. They therefore joined their hands,

and renewed their flight: Learning was borne up by the vigour of Wit,

and Wit guided by the perspicacity of Learning. They soon reached the

dwellings of Jupiter, and were so endeared to each other, that they lived

afterwards in perpetual concord. Wit persuaded Learning to converse with

the Graces, and Learning engaged Wit in the service of the Virtues. They

were now the favourites of all the powers of heaven, and gladdened every

banquet by their presence. They soon after married, at the command of

Jupiter, and had a numerous progeny of Arts and Sciences.

No. 23. TUESDAY, JUNE 5, 1750.

_Tres mihi convivæ prope dissentire videntur;_

_Poscentur vario multum diversa palato._

HOR. lib. ii. Ep. ii. 61.

Three guests I have, dissenting at my feast,

Requiring each to gratify his taste

With different food.

FRANCIS.

That every man should regulate his actions by his own conscience, without

any regard to the opinions of the rest of the world, is one of the first

precepts of moral prudence; justified not only by the suffrage of reason,

which declares that none of the gifts of heaven are to lie useless, but

by the voice likewise of experience, which will soon inform us that,

if we make the praise or blame of others the rule of our conduct, we

shall be distracted by a boundless variety of irreconcileable judgments,

be held in perpetual suspense between contrary impulses, and consult

for ever without determination.

I know not whether, for the same reason, it is not necessary for an

author to place some confidence in his own skill, and to satisfy himself

in the knowledge that he has not deviated from the established laws of

composition, without submitting his works to frequent examinations

before he gives them to the publick, or endeavouring to secure success

by a solicitous conformity to advice and criticism.

It is, indeed, quickly discoverable, that consultation and compliance

can conduce little to the perfection of any literary performance;

for whoever is so doubtful of his own abilities as to encourage the

remarks of others, will find himself every day embarrassed with new

difficulties, and will harass his mind, in vain, with the hopeless

labour of uniting heterogeneous ideas, digesting independent hints, and

collecting into one point the several rays of borrowed light, emitted

often with contrary directions.

Of all authors, those who retail their labours in periodical sheets

would be most unhappy, if they were much to regard the censures or the

admonitions of their readers; for, as their works are not sent into the

world at once, but by small parts in gradual succession, it is always

imagined, by those who think themselves qualified to give instructions,

that they may yet redeem their former failings by hearkening to better

judges, and supply the deficiencies of their plan, by the help of the

criticisms which are so liberally afforded.

I have had occasion to observe, sometimes with vexation, and sometimes

with merriment, the different temper with which the same man reads a

printed and manuscript performance. When a book is once in the hands

of the publick, it is considered as permanent and unalterable; and the

reader, if he be free from personal prejudices, takes it up with no

other intention than of pleasing or instructing himself: he accommodates

his mind to the author's design; and, having no interest in refusing the

amusement that is offered him, never interrupts his own tranquillity by

studied cavils, or destroys his satisfaction in that which is already

well, by an anxious inquiry how it might be better; but is often

contented without pleasure, and pleased without perfection.

But if the same man be called to consider the merit of a production yet

unpublished, he brings an imagination heated with objections to passages

which he has yet never heard; he invokes all the powers of criticism,

and stores his memory with Taste and Grace, Purity and Delicacy, Manners

and Unities, sounds which, having been once uttered by those that

understood them, have been since reechoed without meaning, and kept up

to the disturbance of the world, by a constant repercussion from one

coxcomb to another. He considers himself as obliged to shew, by some

proof of his abilities, that he is not consulted to no purpose, and

therefore watches every opening for objection, and looks round for every

opportunity to propose some specious alteration. Such opportunities a

very small degree of sagacity will enable him to find; for, in every

work of imagination, the disposition of parts, the insertion of

incidents, and use of decorations, may be varied a thousand ways with

equal propríety; and as in things nearly equal, that will always seem

best to every man which he himself produces; the critick, whose business

is only to propose, without the care of execution, can never want

the satisfaction of believing that he has suggested very important

improvements, nor the power of enforcing his advice by arguments, which,

as they appear convincing to himself, either his kindness or his vanity

will press obstinately and importunately, without suspicion that he may

possibly judge too hastily in favour of his own advice, or inquiry

whether the advantage of the new scheme be proportionate to the labour.

It is observed by the younger Pliny, that an orator ought not so much to

select the strongest arguments which his cause admits, as to employ all

which his imagination can afford: for, in pleading, those reasons are of

most value, which will most affect the judges; and the judges, says he,

will be always most touched with that which they had before conceived.

Every man who is called to give his opinion of a performance, decides

upon the same principle; he first suffers himself to form expectations,

and then is angry at his disappointment. He lets his imagination rove at

large, and wonders that another, equally unconfined in the boundless

ocean of possibility, takes a different course.

But, though the rule of Pliny be judiciously laid down, it is not

applicable to the writer's cause, because there always lies an appeal

from domestick criticism to a higher judicature, and the publick, which

is never corrupted, nor often deceived, is to pass the last sentence

upon literary claims.

Of the great force of preconceived opinions I had many proofs, when

I first entered upon this weekly labour. My readers having, from the

performances of my predecessors, established an idea of unconnected

essays, to which they believed all future authors under a necessity of

conforming, were impatient of the least deviation from their system, and

numerous remonstrances were accordingly made by each, as he found his

favourite subject omitted or delayed. Some were angry that the Rambler

did not, like the Spectator, introduce himself to the acquaintance of

the publick, by an account of his own birth and studies, an enumeration

of his adventures, and a description of his physiognomy. Others soon

began to remark that he was a solemn, serious, dictatorial writer,

without sprightliness or gaiety, and called out with vehemence for mirth

and humour. Another admonished him to have a special eye upon the

various clubs of this great city, and informed him that much of the

Spectator's vivacity was laid out upon such assemblies. He has been

censured for not imitating the politeness of his predecessors, having

hitherto neglected to take the ladies under his protection, and give

them rules for the just opposition of colours, and the proper dimensions

of ruffles and pinners. He has been required by one to fix a particular

censure upon those matrons who play at cards with spectacles: and

another is very much offended whenever he meets with a speculation in

which naked precepts are comprised without the illustration of examples

and characters.

I make not the least question that all these monitors intend the

promotion of my design, and the instruction of my readers; but they

do not know, or do not reflect, that an author has a rule of choice

peculiar to himself; and selects those subjects which he is best

qualified to treat, by the course of his studies, or the accidents of

his life; that some topicks of amusement have been already treated with

too much success to invite a competition; and that he who endeavours

to gain many readers must try various arts of invitation, essay every

avenue of pleasure, and make frequent changes in his methods of

approach.

I cannot but consider myself, amidst this tumult of criticism, as a

ship in a poetical tempest, impelled at the same time by opposite

winds, and dashed by the waves from every quarter, but held upright

by the contrariety of the assailants, and secured in some measure

by multiplicity of distress. Had the opinion of my censurers been

unanimous, it might perhaps have overset my resolution; but since I find

them at variance with each other, I can, without scruple, neglect them,

and endeavour to gain the favour of the publick by following the

direction of my own reason, and indulging the sallies of my own

imagination.

No. 24. SATURDAY, JUNE 9, 1750.

_Nemo in sese tentat descendere._

PERSIUS, Sat. iv. 23.

None, none descends into himself.

DRYDEN.

Among the precepts, or aphorisms, admitted by general consent, and

inculcated by frequent repetition, there is none more famous among the

masters of ancient wisdom, than that compendious lesson, Γνωθι σεαυτον,

_Be acquainted with thyself_; ascribed by some to an oracle, and by

others to Chilo of Lacedæmon.

This is, indeed, a dictate, which, in the whole extent of its meaning,

may be said to comprise all the speculation requisite to a moral agent.

For what more can be necessary to the regulation of life, than the

knowledge of our original, our end, our duties, and our relation to

other beings?

It is however very improbable that the first author, whoever he was,

intended to be understood in this unlimited and complicated sense; for

of the inquiries, which in so large an acceptation it would seem to

recommend, some are too extensive for the powers of man, and some

require light from above, which was not yet indulged to the heathen

world.

We might have had more satisfaction concerning the original import of

this celebrated sentence, if history had informed us, whether it was

uttered as a general instruction to mankind, or as a particular caution

to some private inquirer; whether it was applied to some single

occasion, or laid down as the universal rule of life.

There will occur, upon the slightest consideration, many possible

circumstances, in which this monition might very properly be inforced:

for every errour in human conduct must arise from ignorance in

ourselves, either perpetual or temporary; and happen either because we

do not know what is best and fittest, or because our knowledge is at the

time of action not present to the mind.

When a man employs himself upon remote and unnecessary subjects, and

wastes his life upon questions which cannot be resolved, and of which

the solution would conduce very little to the advancement of happiness;

when he lavishes his hours in calculating the weight of the terraqueous

globe, or in adjusting successive systems of worlds beyond the reach of

the telescope; he may be very properly recalled from his excursions by

this precept, and reminded, that there is a nearer being with which it

is his duty to be more acquainted; and from which his attention has

hitherto been withheld by studies to which he has no other motive than

vanity or curiosity.

The great praise of Socrates is, that he drew the wits of Greece, by his

instruction and example, from the vain pursuit of natural philosophy to

moral inquiries, and turned their thoughts from stars and tides, and

matter and motion, upon the various modes of virtue, and relations of

life. All his lectures were but commentaries upon this saying; if we

suppose the knowledge of ourselves recommended by Chilo, in opposition

to other inquiries less suitable to the state of man.

The great fault of men of learning is still, that they offend against

this rule, and appear willing to study any thing rather than themselves;

for which reason they are often despised by those with whom they imagine

themselves above comparison; despised, as useless to common purposes, as

unable to conduct the most trivial affairs, and unqualified to perform

those offices by which the concatenation of society is preserved, and

mutual tenderness excited and maintained.

Gelidus is a man of great penetration and deep researches. Having a mind

naturally formed for the abstruser sciences, he can comprehend intricate

combinations without confusion, and being of a temper naturally cool and

equal, he is seldom interrupted by his passions in the pursuit of the

longest chain of unexpected consequences. He has, therefore, a long

time indulged hopes, that the solution of some problems, by which the

professors of science have been hitherto baffled, is reserved for his

genius and industry. He spends his time in the highest room of his

house, into which none of his family are suffered to enter; and when

he comes down to his dinner or his rest, he walks about like a stranger

that is there only for a day, without any tokens of regard or tenderness.

He has totally divested himself of all human sensations; he has neither

eye for beauty, nor ear for complaint; he neither rejoices at the good

fortune of his nearest friend, nor mourns for any publick or private

calamity. Having once received a letter, and given it his servant to

read, he was informed, that it was written by his brother, who, being

shipwrecked, had swum naked to land, and was destitute of necessaries

in a foreign country. Naked and destitute! says Gelidus, reach down the

last volume of meteorological observations, extract an exact account of

the wind, and note it carefully in the diary of the weather.

The family of Gelidus once broke into his study, to shew him that a town

at a small distance was on fire; and in a few moments a servant came to

tell him, that the flame had caught so many houses on both sides, that

the inhabitants were confounded, and began to think of rather escaping

with their lives, than saving their dwellings. What you tell me, says

Gelidus, is very probable, for fire naturally acts in a circle.

Thus lives this great philosopher, insensible to every spectacle of

distress, and unmoved by the loudest call of social nature, for want of

considering that men are designed for the succour and comfort of each

other; that though there are hours which may be laudably spent upon

knowledge not immediately useful, yet the first attention is due to

practical virtue; and that he may be justly driven out from the commerce

of mankind, who has so far abstracted himself from the species, as to

partake neither of the joys nor griefs of others, but neglects the

endearments of his wife and the caresses of his children, to count the

drops of rain, note the changes of the wind, and calculate the eclipses

of the moons of Jupiter.

I shall reserve to some future paper the religious and important meaning

of this epitome of wisdom, and only remark, that it may be applied to

the gay and light, as well as to the grave and solemn parts of life;

and that not only the philosopher may forfeit his pretences to real

learning, but the wit and beauty may miscarry in their schemes, by the

want of this universal requisite, the knowledge of themselves.

It is surely for no other reason, that we see such numbers resolutely

struggling against nature, and contending for that which they never can

attain, endeavouring to unite contradictions, and determined to excel

in characters inconsistent with each other; that stock-jobbers affect

dress, gaiety, and elegance, and mathematicians labour to be wits; that

the soldier teazes his acquaintance with questions in theology, and the

academick hopes to divert the ladies by a recital of his gallantries.

That absurdity of pride could proceed only from ignorance of themselves,

by which Garth attempted criticism, and Congreve waved his title to

dramatick reputation, and desired to be considered only as a gentleman.

Euphues, with great parts, and extensive knowledge, has a clouded

aspect, and ungracious form; yet it has been his ambition, from his

first entrance into life, to distinguish himself by particularities in

his dress, to outvie beaux in embroidery, to import new trimmings, and

to be foremost in the fashion. Euphues has turned on his exterior

appearance, that attention which would always have produced esteem, had

it been fixed upon his mind; and though his virtues and abilities have

preserved him from the contempt which he has so diligently solicited, he

has, at least, raised one impediment to his reputation; since all can

judge of his dress, but few of his understanding; and many who discern

that he is a fop, are unwilling to believe that he can be wise.

There is one instance in which the ladies are particularly unwilling to

observe the rule of Chilo. They are desirous to hide from themselves

the advances of age, and endeavour too frequently to supply the

sprightliness and bloom of youth by artificial beauty and forced

vivacity. They hope to inflame the heart by glances which have lost

their fire, or melt it by languor which is no longer delicate; they play

over the airs which pleased at a time when they were expected only to

please, and forget that airs in time ought to give place to virtues.

They continue to trifle, because they could once trifle agreeably, till

those who shared their early pleasures are withdrawn to more serious

engagements; and are scarcely awakened from their dream of perpetual

youth, but by the scorn of those whom they endeavoured to rival[40].

[Footnote 40: It is said by Mrs. Piozzi, that by Gelidus, in this paper,

the author intended to represent Mr. Coulson, the gentleman under whose

care Mr. Garrick was placed when he entered at Lincoln's Inn. But the

character which Davies gives of him in his Life of Garrick, undoubtedly

inspected by Dr. Johnson, renders this conjecture improbable.]

No. 25. TUESDAY, JUNE 12, 1750.

_Possunt, quia posse videntur._

VIRGIL, Æn. v. 231.

For they can conquer who believe they can.

DRYDEN.

There are some vices and errours which, though often fatal to those in

whom they are found, have yet, by the universal consent of mankind, been

considered as intitled to some degree of respect, or have, at least,

been exempted from contemptuous infamy, and condemned by the severest

moralists with pity rather than detestation.

A constant and invariable example of this general partiality will be

found in the different regard which has always been shewn to rashness

and cowardice, two vices, of which, though they may be conceived equally

distant from the middle point, where true fortitude is placed, and may

equally injure any publick or private interest, yet the one is never

mentioned without some kind of veneration, and the other always

considered as a topick of unlimited and licentious censure, on which all

the virulence of reproach may be lawfully exerted.

The same distinction is made, by the common suffrage, between profusion

and avarice, and, perhaps, between many other opposite vices; and, as

I have found reason to pay great regard to the voice of the people, in

cases where knowledge has been forced upon them by experience, without

long deductions or deep researches, I am inclined to believe that this

distribution of respect is not without some agreement with the nature

of things; and that in the faults, which are thus invested with

extraordinary privileges, there are generally some latent principles of

merit, some possibilities of future virtue, which may, by degrees, break

from obstruction, and by time and opportunity be brought into act.

It may be laid down as an axiom, that it is more easy to take away

superfluities than to supply defects; and, therefore, he that is

culpable, because he has passed the middle point of virtue, is always

accounted a fairer object of hope, than he who fails by falling short.

The one has all that perfection requires, and more, but the excess may

be easily retrenched; the other wants the qualities requisite to

excellence, and who can tell how he shall obtain them? We are certain

that the horse may be taught to keep pace with his fellows, whose fault

is that he leaves them behind. We know that a few strokes of the axe

will lop a cedar; but what arts of cultivation can elevate a shrub?

To walk with circumspection and steadiness in the right path, at an

equal distance between the extremes of errour, ought to be the constant

endeavour of every reasonable being; nor can I think those teachers of

moral wisdom much to be honoured as benefactors to mankind, who are

always enlarging upon the difficulty of our duties, and providing rather

excuses for vice, than incentives to virtue.

But, since to most it will happen often, and to all sometimes, that

there will be a deviation towards one side or the other, we ought always

to employ our vigilance, with most attention, on that enemy from which

there is the greatest danger, and to stray, if we must stray, towards

those parts from whence we may quickly and easily return.

Among other opposite qualities of the mind, which may become dangerous,

though in different degrees, I have often had occasion to consider the

contrary effects of presumption and despondency; of heady confidence,

which promises victory without contest, and heartless pusillanimity,

which shrinks back from the thought of great undertakings, confounds

difficulty with impossibility, and considers all advancement towards any

new attainment as irreversibly prohibited.

Presumption will be easily corrected. Every experiment will teach

caution, and miscarriages will hourly show, that attempts are not always

rewarded with success. The most precipitate ardour will, in time, be

taught the necessity of methodical gradation and preparatory measures;

and the most daring confidence be convinced, that neither merit nor

abilities can command events.

It is the advantage of vehemence and activity, that they are always

hastening to their own reformation; because they incite us to try

whether our expectations are well grounded, and, therefore, detect the

deceits which they are apt to occasion. But timidity is a disease of

the mind more obstinate and fatal; for a man once persuaded that any

impediment is insuperable, has given it, with respect to himself, that

strength and weight which it had not before. He can scarcely strive with

vigour and perseverance, when he has no hope of gaining the victory; and

since he never will try his strength, can never discover the

unreasonableness of his fears.

There is often to be found in men devoted to literature a kind of

intellectual cowardice, which, whoever converses much among them, may

observe frequently to depress the alacrity of enterprise, and, by

consequence, to retard the improvement of science. They have annexed to

every species of knowledge some chimerical character of terrour and

inhibition, which they transmit, without much reflection, from one to

another; they first fright themselves, and then propagate the panick to

their scholars and acquaintance. One study is inconsistent with a lively

imagination, another with a solid judgment: one is improper in the early

parts of life, another requires so much time, that it is not to be

attempted at an advanced age; one is dry and contracts the sentiments,

another is diffuse and overburdens the memory; one is insufferable to

taste and delicacy, and another wears out life in the study of words,

and is useless to a wise man, who desires only the knowledge of things.

But of all the bugbears by which the _Infantes barbati_, boys both young

and old, have been hitherto frighted from digressing into new tracts of

learning, none has been more mischievously efficacious than an opinion

that every kind of knowledge requires a peculiar genius, or mental

constitution, framed for the reception of some ideas, and the exclusion

of others; and that to him whose genius is not adapted to the study

which he prosecutes, all labour shall be vain and fruitless, vain as an

endeavour to mingle oil and water, or, in the language of chemistry, to

amalgamate bodies of heterogeneous principles.

This opinion we may reasonably suspect to have been propagated, by

vanity, beyond the truth. It is natural for those who have raised a

reputation by any science, to exalt themselves as endowed by heaven

with peculiar powers, or marked out by an extraordinary designation

for their profession; and to fright competitors away by representing

the difficulties with which they must contend, and the necessity of

qualities which are supposed to be not generally conferred, and which

no man can know, but by experience, whether he enjoys.

To this discouragement it may be possibly answered, that since a genius,

whatever it be, is like fire in the flint, only to be produced by

collison with a proper subject, it is the business of every man to try

whether his faculties may not happily co-operate with his desires; and

since they whose proficiency he admires, knew their own force only by

the event, he needs but engage in the same undertaking with equal

spirit, and may reasonably hope for equal success.

There is another species of false intelligence, given by those who

profess to shew the way to the summit of knowledge, of equal tendency

to depress the mind with false distrust of itself, and weaken it by

needless solicitude and dejection. When a scholar whom they desire to

animate, consults them at his entrance on some new study, it is common

to make flattering representations of its pleasantness and facility.

Thus they generally attain one of two ends almost equally desirable;

they either incite his industry by elevating his hopes, or produce a

high opinion of their own abilities, since they are supposed to relate

only what they have found, and to have proceeded with no less ease than

they promise to their followers.

The student, inflamed by this encouragement, sets forward in the new

path, and proceeds a few steps with great alacrity, but he soon finds

asperities and intricacies of which he has not been forewarned, and

imagining that none ever were so entangled or fatigued before him, sinks

suddenly into despair, and desists as from an expedition in which fate

opposes him. Thus his terrours are multiplied by his hopes, and he is

defeated without resistance, because he had no expectation of an enemy.

Of these treacherous instructors, the one destroys industry, by

declaring that industry is vain, the other by representing it as

needless; the one cuts away the root of hope, the other raises it only

to be blasted: the one confines his pupil to the shore, by telling him

that his wreck is certain, the other sends him to sea, without preparing

him for tempests.

False hopes and false terrours are equally to be avoided. Every man who

proposes to grow eminent by learning, should carry in his mind, at once,

the difficulty of excellence, and the force of industry; and remember

that fame is not conferred but as the recompence of labour, and that

labour vigorously continued, has not often failed of its reward.

No. 26. SATURDAY, JUNE 14, 1750.

_Ingentes dominos, et clara nomina famæ,_

_Illustrique graves nobilitate domos_

_Derita, et longe cautus fuge; contrahe vela,_

_Et te littoribus cymba propinqua vehat._

SENECA.

Each mighty lord, big with a pompous name,

And each high house of fortune and of fame,

With caution fly; contract thy ample sails,

And near the shore improve the gentle gales.

ELPHINSTON.