[Footnote 42: This paper was written by Miss Catherine Talbot. See the
Preface.]
No. 31. TUESDAY, JULY 3, 1750.
_Non ego mendosos ausim defendere mores;_
_Falsaque pro vitiis arma movere meis._
OVID, Am. ii, iv. 1.
Corrupted manners I shall ne'er defend;
Nor, falsely witty, for my faults contend.
ELPHINSTON.
Though the fallibility of man's reason, and the narrowness of his
knowledge, are very liberally confessed, yet the conduct of those who
so willingly admit the weakness of human nature, seems to discover that
this acknowledgment is not altogether sincere; at least, that most make
it with a tacit reserve in favour of themselves, and that with whatever
ease they give up the claim of their neighbours, they are desirous of
being thought exempt from faults in their own conduct, and from errour
in their opinions.
The certain and obstinate opposition, which we may observe made to
confutation however clear, and to reproof however tender, is an undoubted
argument, that some dormant privilege is thought to be attacked; for
as no man can lose what he neither possesses, nor imagines himself
to possess, or be defrauded of that to which he has no right, it is
reasonable to suppose that those who break out into fury at the softest
contradiction, or the slightest censure, since they apparently conclude
themselves injured, must fancy some ancient immunity violated, or some
natural prerogative invaded. To be mistake, if they thought themselves
liable to mistake, could not be considered either as shameful, or
wonderful, and they would not receive with so much emotion intelligence
which only informed them of what they knew before, nor struggle with such
earnestness against an attack that deprived them of nothing to which they
held themselves entitled.
It is related of one of the philosophers, that when an account was
brought him of his son's death, he received it only with this reflection,
_I knew that my son was mortal_. He that is convinced of an errour, if he
had the same knowledge of his own weakness, would, instead of straining
for artifices, and brooding malignity, only regard such oversights as the
appendages of humanity, and pacify himself with considering that he had
always known man to be a fallible being.
If it be true that most of our passions are excited by the novelty of
objects, there is little reason for doubting, that to be considered as
subject to fallacies of ratiocination, or imperfection of knowledge, is
to a great part of mankind entirely new; for it is impossible to fall
into any company where there is not some regular and established
subordination, without finding rage and vehemence produced only by
difference of sentiments about things in which neither of the disputants
have any other interest, than what proceeds from their mutual
unwillingness to give way to any opinion that may bring upon them the
disgrace of being wrong.
I have heard of one that, having advanced some erroneous doctrines in
philosophy, refused to see the experiments by which they were confuted:
and the observation of every day will give new proofs with how much
industry subterfuges and evations are sought to decline the pressure of
resistless arguments, how often the state of the question is altered,
how often the antagonist is wilfully misrepresented, and in how much
perplexity the clearest positions are involved by those whom they happen
to oppose.
Of all mortals none seem to have been more infected with this species
of vanity, than the race of writers, whose reputation arising solely
from their understanding, gives them a very delicate sensibility of any
violence attempted on their literary honour. It is not unpleasing to
remark with what solicitude men of acknowledged abilities will endeavour
to palliate absurdities and reconcile contradictions, only to obviate
criticisms to which all human performances must ever be exposed, and from
which they can never suffer, but when they teach the world, by a vain and
ridiculous impatience, to think them of importance.
Dryden, whose warmth of fancy, and haste of composition, very frequently
hurried him into inaccuracies, heard himself sometimes exposed to
ridicule for having said in one of his tragedies,
"I follow Fate, which does too fast pursue."
That no man could at once follow and be followed was, it may be thought,
too plain to be long disputed; and the truth is, that Dryden was
apparently betrayed into the blunder by the double meaning of the word
Fate, to which in the former part of the verse he had annexed the idea
of Fortune, and in the latter that of Death; so that the sense only was,
_though pursued by_ Death, _I will not resign myself to despair, but will
follow_ Fortune, _and do and suffer what is appointed_. This, however,
was not completely expressed, and Dryden being determined not to give
way to his criticks, never confessed that he had been surprised by an
ambiguity; but finding luckily in Virgil an account of a man moving in
a circle, with this expression, _Et se sequiturque fugitque_, "Here,"
says he, "is the passage in imitation of which I wrote the line that my
criticks were pleased to condemn as nonsense; not but I may sometimes
write nonsense, though they have not the fortune to find it."
Every one sees the folly of such mean doublings to escape the pursuit of
criticism; nor is there a single reader of this poet, who would not have
paid him greater veneration, had he shown consciousness enough of his own
superiority to set such cavils at defiance, and owned that he sometimes
slipped into errours by the tumult of his imagination, and the multitude
of his ideas.
It is happy when this temper discovers itself only in little things,
which may be right or wrong without any influence on the virtue or
happiness of mankind. We may, with very little inquietude, see a man
persist in a project which he has found to be impracticable, live in an
inconvenient house because it was contrived by himself, or wear a coat
of a particular cut, in hopes by perseverance to bring it into fashion.
These are indeed follies, but they are only follies, and, however wild
or ridiculous, can very little affect others.
But such pride, once indulged, too frequently operates upon more
important objects, and inclines men not only to vindicate their errours,
but their vices; to persist in practices which their own hearts condemn,
only lest they should seem to feel reproaches, or be made wiser by the
advice of others; or to search for sophisms tending to the confusion of
all principles, and the evacuation of all duties, that they may not appear
to act what they are not able to defend.
Let every man, who finds vanity so far predominant, as to betray him to
the danger of this last degree of corruption, pause a moment to consider
what will be the consequences of the plea which he is about to offer
for a practice to which he knows himself not led at first by reason,
but impelled by the violence of desire, surprised by the suddenness
of passion, or seduced by the soft approaches of temptation, and by
imperceptible gradations of guilt. Let him consider what he is going to
commit, by forcing his understanding to patronise those appetites, which
it is its chief business to hinder and reform.
The cause of virtue requires so little art to defend it, and good and
evil, when they have been once shewn, are so easily distinguished, that
such apologists seldom gain proselytes to their party, nor have their
fallacies power to deceive any but those whose desires have clouded their
discernment. All that the best faculties thus employed can perform is,
to persuade the hearers that the man is hopeless whom they only thought
vicious, that corruption has passed from his manners to his principles,
that all endeavours for his recovery are without prospect of success, and
that nothing remains but to avoid him as infectious, or hunt him down as
destructive.
But if it be supposed that he may impose on his audience by partial
representations of consequences, intricate deductions of remote causes,
or perplexed combinations of ideas, which having various relations appear
different as viewed on different sides; that he may sometimes puzzle the
weak and well-meaning, and now and then seduce, by the admiration of
his abilities, a young mind still fluctuating in unsettled notions, and
neither fortified by instruction nor enlightened by experience; yet what
must be the event of such a triumph! A man cannot spend all this life in
frolick: age, or disease, or solitude, will bring some hours of serious
consideration, and it will then afford no comfort to think, that he has
extended the dominion of vice, that he has loaded himself with the crimes
of others, and can never know the extent of his own wickedness, or make
reparation for the mischief that he has caused. There is not, perhaps,
in all the stores of ideal anguish, a thought more painful, than the
consciousness of having propagated corruption by vitiating principles, of
having not only drawn others from the paths of virtue, but blocked up the
way by which they should return, of having blinded them to every beauty
but the paint of pleasure, and deafened them to every call but the
alluring voice of the syrens of destruction.
There is yet another danger in this practice: men who cannot deceive
others, are very often successful in deceiving themselves; they weave
their sophistry till their own reason is entangled, and repeat their
positions till they are credited by themselves; by often contending,
they grow sincere in the cause; and by long wishing for demonstrative
arguments, they at last bring themselves to fancy that they have found
them. They are then at the uttermost verge of wickedness, and may die
without having that light rekindled in their minds, which their own pride
and contumacy have extinguished.
The men who can be charged with fewest failings, either with respect to
abilities or virtue, are generally most ready to allow them; for, not
to dwell on things of solemn and awful consideration, the humility of
confessors, the tears of saints, and the dying terrours of persons
eminent for piety and innocence, it is well known that Cæsar wrote an
account of the errours committed by him in his wars of Gaul, and that
Hippocrates, whose name is perhaps in rational estimation greater than
Cæsar's, warned posterity against a mistake into which he had fallen.
_So much_, says Celsus, _does the open and artless confession of an errour
become a man conscious that he has enough remaining to support his
character_.
As all errour is meanness, it is incumbent on every man who consults his
own dignity, to retract it as soon as he discovers it, without fearing
any censure so much as that of his own mind. As justice requires that all
injuries should be repaired, it is the duty of him who has seduced others
by bad practices or false notions, to endeavour that such as have adopted
his errours should know his retraction, and that those who have learned
vice by his example, should by his example be taught amendment.
No. 32. SATURDAY, JULY 7, 1750.
Ὁσσα τε δαιμονιησι τυχαις βροτοι αλγε' εχουσιν,
Ὁν αν μοιραν εχης, πραως φερε, μηδ' αγανακτει·
Ιασθαι δε πρεπει, καθοσον δυνη.
PYTH. Aur. Carm.
Of all the woes that load the mortal state,
Whate'er thy portion, mildly meet thy fate;
But ease it as thou canst.----
ELPHINSTON.
So large a part of human life passes in a state contrary to our natural
desires, that one of the principal topicks of moral instruction is the
art of bearing calamities. And such is the certainty of evil, that it
is the duty of every man to furnish his mind with those principles that
may enable him to act under it with decency and propriety.
The sect of ancient philosophers, that boasted to have carried this
necessary science to the highest perfection, were the stoicks, or
scholars of Zeno, whose wild enthusiastick virtue pretended to an
exemption from the sensibilities of unenlightened mortals, and who
proclaimed themselves exalted, by the doctrines of their sect, above
the reach of those miseries which embitter life to the rest of the
world. They therefore removed pain, poverty, loss of friends, exile,
and violent death, from the catalogue of evils; and passed, in their
haughty style, a kind of irreversible decree, by which they forbad them
to be counted any longer among the objects of terrour or anxiety, or to
give any disturbance to the tranquillity of a wise man.
This edict was, I think, not universally observed; for though one of the
more resolute, when he was tortured by a violent disease, cried out,
that let pain harass him to its utmost power, it should never force him
to consider it as other than indifferent and neutral; yet all had not
stubbornness to hold out against their senses: for a weaker pupil of Zeno
is recorded to have confessed in the anguish of the gout, that _he now
found pain to be an evil_.
It may however be questioned, whether these philosophers can be very
properly numbered among the teachers of patience; for if pain be not
an evil, there seems no instruction requisite how it may be borne;
and therefore, when they endeavour to arm their followers with
arguments against it, they may be thought to have given up their first
position. But such inconsistencies are to be expected from the greatest
understandings, when they endeavour to grow eminent by singularity, and
employ their strength in establishing opinions opposite to nature.
The controversy about the reality of external evils is now at an end.
That life has many miseries, and that those miseries are, sometimes
at least, equal to all the powers of fortitude, is now universally
confessed; and therefore it is useful to consider not only how we
may escape them, but by what means those which either the accidents
of affairs, or the infirmities of nature, must bring upon us, may be
mitigated and lightened, and how we may make those hours less wretched,
which the condition of our present existence will not allow to be very
happy.
The cure for the greatest part of human miseries is not radical, but
palliative. Infelicity is involved in corporeal nature, and interwoven
with our being; all attempts therefore to decline it wholly are useless
and vain: the armies of pain send their arrows against us on every
side, the choice is only between those which are more or less sharp,
or tinged with poison of greater or less malignity; and the strongest
armour which reason can supply, will only blunt their points, but
cannot repel them.
The great remedy which heaven has put in our hands is patience, by which,
though we cannot lessen the torments of the body, we can in a great
measure preserve the peace of the mind, and shall suffer only the
natural and genuine force of an evil, without heightening its acrimony,
or prolonging its effects.
There is indeed nothing more unsuitable to the nature of man in any
calamity than rage and turbulence, which, without examining whether they
are not sometimes impious, are at least always offensive, and incline
others rather to hate and despise than to pity and assist us. If what
we suffer has been brought upon us by ourselves, it is observed by an
ancient poet, that patience is eminently our duty, since no one should
be angry at feeling that which he has deserved.
_Leniter ex merito quicquid patiare ferendum est._
Let pain deserv'd without complaint be borne.
And surely, if we are conscious that we have not contributed to our
own sufferings, if punishment falls upon innocence, or disappointment
happens to industry and prudence, patience, whether more necessary or
not, is much easier, since our pain is then without aggravation, and we
have not the bitterness of remorse to add to the asperity of misfortune.
In those evils which are allotted to us by Providence, such as deformity,
privation of any of the senses, or old age, it is always to be
remembered, that impatience can have no present effect, but to deprive
us of the consolations which our condition admits, by driving away from
us those by whose conversation or advice we might be amused or helped;
and that with regard to futurity it is yet less to be justified, since,
without lessening the pain, it cuts off the hope of that reward which
he, by whom it is inflicted, will confer upon them that bear it well.
In all evils which admit a remedy, impatience is to be avoided, because
it wastes that time and attention in complaints, that, if properly
applied, might remove the cause. Turenne, among the acknowledgments which
he used to pay in conversation to the memory of those by whom he had been
instructed in the art of war, mentioned one with honour, who taught him
not to spend his time in regretting any mistake which he had made, but to
set himself immediately and vigorously to repair it.
Patience and submission are very carefully to be distinguished from
cowardice and indolence. We are not to repine, but we may lawfully
struggle; for the calamities of life, like the necessities of nature,
are calls to labour and exercises of diligence. When we feel any
pressure of distress, we are not to conclude that we can only obey the
will of heaven by languishing under it, any more than when we perceive
the pain of thirst, we are to imagine that water is prohibited. Of
misfortune it never can be certainly known whether, as proceeding from
the hand of God, it is an act of favour or of punishment: but since
all the ordinary dispensations of Providence are to be interpreted
according to the general analogy of things, we may conclude that we
have a right to remove one inconvenience as well as another; that we
are only to take care lest we purchase ease with guilt; and that our
Maker's purpose, whether of reward or severity, will be answered by the
labours which he lays us under the necessity of performing.
This duty is not more difficult in any state than in diseases intensely
painful, which may indeed suffer such exacerbations as seem to strain
the powers of life to their utmost stretch, and leave very little of
the attention vacant to precept or reproof. In this state the nature
of man requires some indulgence, and every extravagance but impiety
may be easily forgiven him. Yet, lest we should think ourselves too
soon entitled to the mournful privileges of irresistible misery, it
is proper to reflect, that the utmost anguish which human wit can
contrive, or human malice can inflict, has been borne with constancy;
and that if the pains of disease be, as I believe they are, sometimes
greater than those of artificial torture, they are therefore in their
own nature shorter: the vital frame is quickly broken, the union
between soul and body is for a time suspended by insensibility, and we
soon cease to feel our maladies when they once become too violent to be
borne. I think there is some reason for questioning whether the body
and mind are not so proportioned, that the one can bear all that can
be inflicted on the other, whether virtue cannot stand its ground as
long as life, and whether a soul well principled will not be separated
sooner than subdued.
In calamities which operate chiefly on our passions, such as diminution
of fortune, loss of friends, or declension of character, the chief
danger of impatience is upon the first attack, and many expedients
have been contrived, by which the blow may be broken. Of these the
most general precept is, not to take pleasure in any thing, of which
it is not in our power to secure the possession to ourselves. This
counsel, when we consider the enjoyment of any terrestrial advantage
as opposite to a constant and habitual solicitude for future felicity,
is undoubtedly just, and delivered by that authority which cannot be
disputed, but in any other sense, is it not like advice, not to walk
lest we should stumble, or not to see least our eyes should light
upon deformity? It seems to me reasonable to enjoy blessings with
confidence, as well as to resign them with submission, and to hope
for the continuance of good which we possess without insolence or
voluptuousness, as for the restitution of that which we lose without
despondency or murmurs.
The chief security against the fruitless anguish of impatience, must
arise from frequent reflection on the wisdom and goodness of the God
of nature, in whose hands are riches and poverty, honour and disgrace,
pleasure and pain, and life and death. A settled conviction of the
tendency of every thing to our good, and of the possibility of turning
miseries into happiness, by receiving them rightly, will incline us to
_bless the name of the_ LORD, _whether he gives or takes away_.
No. 33. TUESDAY, JULY 10, 1750.
_Quod caret alterna requie, durabile non est._
OVID, Epist. iv. 89.
Alternate rest and labour long endure.
In the early ages of the world, as is well known to those who are versed
in ancient traditions, when innocence was yet untainted, and simplicity
unadulterated, mankind was happy in the enjoyment of continual pleasure,
and constant plenty, under the protection of Rest; a gentle divinity,
who required of her worshippers neither altars nor sacrifices, and whose
rites were only performed by prostrations upon turfs of flowers in shades
of jasmine and myrtle, or by dances on the banks of rivers flowing with
milk and nectar.
Under this easy government the first generations breathed the fragrance
of perpetual spring, ate the fruits, which, without culture, fell ripe
into their hands, and slept under bowers arched by nature, with the
birds singing over their heads, and the beasts sporting about them. But
by degrees they began to lose their original integrity; each, though
there was more than enough for all, was desirous of appropriating part
to himself. Then entered Violence and Fraud, and Theft and Rapine. Soon
after Pride and Envy broke into the world, and brought with them a new
standard of wealth; for men, who, till then, thought themselves rich
when they wanted nothing, now rated their demands, not by the calls of
nature, but by the plenty of others; and began to consider themselves as
poor, when they beheld their own possessions exceeded by those of their
neighbours. Now only one could be happy, because only one could have
most, and that one was always in danger, lest the same arts by which he
had supplanted others should be practised upon himself.
Amidst the prevalence of this corruption, the state of the earth was
changed; the year was divided into seasons; part of the ground became
barren, and the rest yielded only berries, acorns, and herbs. The summer
and autumn indeed furnished a coarse and inelegant sufficiency, but
winter was without any relief: Famine, with a thousand diseases which
the inclemency of the air invited into the upper regions, made havock
among men, and there appeared to be danger lest they should be destroyed
before they were reformed.
To oppose the devastations of Famine, who scattered the ground every
where with carcases, Labour came down upon earth. Labour was the son
of Necessity, the nurseling of Hope, and the pupil of Art; he had the
strength of his mother, the spirit of his nurse, and the dexterity of
his governess. His face was wrinkled with the wind, and swarthy with the
sun; he had the implements of husbandry in one hand, with which he turned
up the earth; in the other he had the tools of architecture, and raised
walls and towers at his pleasure. He called out with a rough voice,
"Mortals! see here the power to whom you are consigned, and from whom you
are to hope for all your pleasures, and all your safety. You have long
languished under the dominion of Rest, an impotent and deceitful goddess,
who can neither protect nor relieve you, but resigns you to the first
attacks of either Famine or Disease, and suffers her shades to be invaded
by every enemy, and destroyed by every accident.
"Awake therefore to the call of Labour. I will teach you to remedy the
sterility of the earth, and the severity of the sky; I will compel summer
to find provisions for the winter; I will force the waters to give you
their fish, the air its fowls, and the forest its beasts; I will teach
you to pierce the bowels of the earth, and bring out from the caverns
of the mountains metals which shall give strength to your hands, and
security to your bodies, by which you may be covered from the assaults
of the fiercest beast, and with which you shall fell the oak, and divide
rocks, and subject all nature to your use and pleasure."
Encouraged by this magnificent invitation, the inhabitants of the globe
considered Labour as their only friend, and hasted to his command. He led
them out to the fields and mountains, and shewed them how to open mines,
to level hills, to drain marshes, and change the course of rivers. The
face of things was immediately transformed; the land was covered with
towns and villages, encompassed with fields of corn, and plantations of
fruit-trees; and nothing was seen but heaps of grain, and baskets of
fruit, full tables, and crowded store-houses.
Thus Labour and his followers added every hour new acquisitions to their
conquests, and saw Famine gradually dispossessed of his dominions; till
at last, amidst their jollity and triumphs, they were depressed and
amazed by the approach of Lassitude, who was known by her sunk eyes and
dejected countenance. She came forward trembling and groaning: at every
groan the hearts of all those that beheld her lost their courage, their
nerves slackened, their hands shook, and the instruments of labour fell
from their grasp.
Shocked with this horrid phantom, they reflected with regret on their easy
compliance with the solicitations of Labour, and began to wish again for
the golden hours which they remembered to have passed under the reign
of Rest, whom they resolved again to visit, and to whom they intended to
dedicate the remaining part of their lives. Rest had not left the world;
they quickly found her, and to atone for their former desertion, invited
her to the enjoyment of those acquisitions which Labour had procured them.
Rest therefore took leave of the groves and valleys, which she had
hitherto inhabited, and entered into palaces, reposed herself in
alcoves, and slumbered away the winter upon beds of down, and the summer
in artificial grottoes with cascades playing before her. There was
indeed always something wanting to complete her felicity, and she could
never lull her returning fugitives to that serenity which they knew
before their engagements with Labour: nor was her dominion entirely
without controul, for she was obliged to share it with Luxury, though
she always looked upon her as a false friend, by whom her influence was
in reality destroyed, while it seemed to be promoted.
The two soft associates, however, reigned for some time without visible
disagreement, till at last Luxury betrayed her charge, and let in Disease
to seize upon her worshippers. Rest then flew away, and left the place to
the usurpers; who employed all their arts to fortify themselves in their
possession, and to strengthen the interest of each other.
Rest had not always the same enemy: in some places she escaped the
incursions of Disease; but had her residence invaded by a more slow and
subtle intruder, for very frequently, when every thing was composed and
quiet, when there was neither pain within, nor danger without, when every
flower was in bloom, and every gale freighted with perfumes, Satiety
would enter with a languishing and repining look, and throw herself upon
the couch placed and adorned for the accommodation of Rest. No sooner was
she seated than a general gloom spread itself on every side, the groves
immediately lost their verdure, and their inhabitants desisted from
their melody, the breeze sunk in sighs, and the flowers contracted their
leaves, and shut up their odours. Nothing was seen on every side but
multitudes wandering about they knew not whether, in quest they knew not
of what; no voice was heard but of complaints that mentioned no pain, and
murmurs that could tell of no misfortune.
Rest had now lost her authority. Her followers again began to treat her
with contempt; some of them united themselves more closely to Luxury, who
promised by her arts to drive Satiety away; and others, that were more
wise, or had more fortitude, went back again to Labour, by whom they were
indeed protected from Satiety, but delivered up in time to Lassitude, and
forced by her to the bowers of Rest.
Thus Rest and Labour equally perceived their reign of short duration and
uncertain tenure, and their empire liable to inroads from those who were
alike enemies to both. They each found their subjects unfaithful, and
ready to desert them upon every opportunity. Labour saw the riches which
he had given always carried away as an offering to Rest, and Rest found
her votaries in every exigence flying from her to beg help of Labour.
They, therefore, at last determined upon an interview, in which they
agreed to divide the world between them, and govern it alternately
allotting the dominion of the day to one, and that of the night to the
other, and promised to guard the frontiers of each other, so that,
whenever hostilities were attempted, Satiety should be intercepted by
Labour, and Lassitude expelled by Rest. Thus the ancient quarrel was
appeased, and as hatred is often succeeded by its contrary, Rest
afterwards became pregnant by Labour, and was delivered of Health, a
benevolent goddess, who consolidated the union of her parents, and
contributed to the regular vicissitudes of their reign, by dispensing
her gifts to those only who shared their lives in just proportions
between Rest and Labour.
No. 34. SATURDAY, JULY 14, 1750.
_----Non sine vano_
_Aurarum et silvæ metu._
HOR. lib. i. Ode xxiii. 3.
Alarm'd with ev'ry rising gale,
In ev'ry wood, in ev'ry vale.
ELPHINSTON.
I have been censured for having hitherto dedicated so few of my
speculations to the ladies; and indeed the moralist, whose instructions
are accommodated only to one half of the human species, must be
confessed not sufficiently to have extended his views. Yet it is to
be considered, that masculine duties afford more room for counsels
and observations, as they are less uniform, and connected with things
more subject to vicissitude and accident; we therefore find that in
philosophical discourses which teach by precept, or historical narratives
that instruct by example, the peculiar virtues or faults of women
fill but a small part; perhaps generally too small, for so much of our
domestick happiness is in their hands, and their influence is so great
upon our earliest years, that the universal interest of the world
requires them to be well instructed in their province; nor can it be
thought proper that the qualities by which so much pain or pleasure
may be given, should be left to the direction of chance.
I have, therefore, willingly given a place in my paper to a letter,
which perhaps may not be wholly useless to them whose chief ambition
is to please, as it shews how certainly the end is missed by absurd and
injudicious endeavours at distinction.