JOHNSON'S WORKS.
THE RAMBLER.
VOL. II.
THE
WORKS
OF
SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D,
IN NINE VOLUMES.
VOLUME THE THIRD.
[Illustration]
MDCCCXXV.
CONTENTS
OF
THE SECOND VOLUME.
NUMB.
106. The vanity of an author's expectations.--Reasons why good authors
are sometimes neglected
107. Properantia's hopes of a year of confusion. The misery of
prostitutes
108. Life sufficient to all purposes if well employed
109. The education of a fop
110. Repentance stated and explained. Retirement and abstinence useful
to repentance
111. Youth made unfortunate by its haste and eagerness
112. Too much nicety not to be indulged. The character of Eriphile
113. The history of Hymenæus's courtship
114. The necessity of proportioning punishments to crimes
115. The sequel of Hymenæus's courtship
116. The young trader's attempt at politeness
117. The advantages of living in a garret
118. The narrowness of fame
119. Tranquilla's account of her lovers, opposed to Hymenæus
120. The history of Almamoulin the son of Nouradin
121. The dangers of imitation. The impropriety of imitating Spenser
122. A criticism on the English historians
123. The young trader turned gentleman
124. The lady's misery in a summer retirement
125. The difficulty of defining comedy. Tragick and comick sentiments
confounded
126. The universality of cowardice. The impropriety of extorting praise.
The impertinence of an astronomer
127. Diligence too soon relaxed. Necessity of perseverance
128. Anxiety universal. The unhappiness of a wit and a fine lady
129. The folly of cowardice and inactivity
130. The history of a beauty
131. Desire of gain the general passion
132. The difficulty of educating a young nobleman
133. The miseries of a beauty defaced
134. Idleness an anxious and miserable state
135. The folly of annual retreats into the country
136. The meanness and mischief of indiscriminate dedication
137. The necessity of literary courage
138. Original characters to be found in the country. The character of
Mrs. Busy
139. A critical examination of Samson Agonistes
140. The criticism continued
141. The danger of attempting wit in conversation. The character of
Papilius
142. An account of squire Bluster
143. The criterions of plagiarism
144. The difficulty of raising reputation. The various species of
detractors
145. Petty writers not to be despised
146. An account of an author travelling in quest of his own character.
The uncertainty of fame
147. The courtier's esteem of assurance
148. The cruelty of parental tyranny
149. Benefits not always entitled to gratitude
150. Adversity useful to the acquisition of knowledge
151. The climactericks of the mind
152. Criticism on epistolary writings
153. The treatment incurred by loss of fortune
154. The inefficacy of genius without learning
155. The usefulness of advice. The danger of habits. The necessity of
reviewing life
156. The laws of writing not always indisputable. Reflections on
tragi-comedy
157. The scholar's complaint of his own bashfulness
158. Rules of writing drawn from examples. Those examples often mistaken
159. The nature and remedies of bashfulness
160. Rules for the choice of associates
161. The revolutions of a garret
162. Old men in danger of falling into pupilage. The conduct of
Thrasybulus
163. The mischiefs of following a patron
164. Praise universally desired. The failings of eminent men often
imitated
165. The impotence of wealth. The visit of Scrotinus to the place of his
nativity
166. Favour not easily gained by the poor
167. The marriage of Hymenæus and Tranquilla
168. Poetry debased by mean expressions. An example from Shakespeare
169. Labour necessary to excellence
170. The history of Misella debauched by her relation
171. Misella's description of the life of a prostitute
172. The effect of sudden riches upon the manners
173. Unreasonable fears of pedantry
174. The mischiefs of unbounded raillery. History of Dicaculus
175. The majority are wicked
176. Directions to authors attacked by criticks. The various degrees of
critical perspicacity
177. An account of a club of antiquaries
178. Many advantages not to be enjoyed together
179. The awkward merriment of a student
180. The study of life not to be neglected for the sake of books
181. The history of an adventurer in lotteries
182. The history of Leviculus, the fortune-hunter
183. The influence of envy and interest compared
184. The subject of essays often suggested by chance. Chance equally
prevalent in other affairs
185. The prohibition of revenge justifiable by reason. The meanness of
regulating our conduct by the opinions of men
186. Anningait and Ajut; a Greenland history
187. The history of Anningait and Ajut concluded
188. Favour often gained with little assistance from understanding
189. The mischiefs of falsehood. The character of Turpicula
190. The history of Abouzaid, the son of Morad
191. The busy life of a young lady
192. Love unsuccessful without riches
193. The author's art of praising himself
194. A young nobleman's progress in politeness
195. A young nobleman's introduction to the knowledge of the town
196. Human opinions mutable. The hopes of youth fallacious
197. The history of a legacy-hunter
198. The legacy-hunter's history concluded
199. The virtues of Rabbi Abraham's magnet
200. Asper's complaint of the insolence of Prospero. Unpoliteness not
always the effect of pride
201. The importance of punctuality
202. The different acceptations of poverty. Cynicks and Monks not
poor
203. The pleasures of life to be sought in prospects of futurity. Future
fame uncertain
204. The history of ten days of Seged, emperour of Ethiopia
205. The history of Seged concluded
206. The art of living at the cost of others
207. The folly of continuing too long upon the stage
208. The Rambler's reception. His design
THE
RAMBLER.
No. 106. SATURDAY, MARCH 23, 1751.
_Opinionum commenta delet dies, naturæ judicia Confirmat_.
CICERO, vi. Att. 1.
Time obliterates the fictions of opinion, and confirms the decisions
of nature.
It is necessary to the success of flattery, that it be accommodated to
particular circumstances or characters, and enter the heart on that side
where the passions stand ready to receive it. A lady seldom listens with
attention to any praise but that of her beauty; a merchant always
expects to hear of his influence at the bank, his importance on the
exchange, the height of his credit, and the extent of his traffick: and
the author will scarcely be pleased without lamentations of the neglect
of learning, the conspiracies against genius, and the slow progress of
merit, or some praises of the magnanimity of those who encounter poverty
and contempt in the cause of knowledge, and trust for the reward of
their labours to the judgment and gratitude of posterity.
An assurance of unfading laurels, and immortal reputation, is the
settled reciprocation of civility between amicable writers. To raise
_monuments more durable than brass, and more conspicuous than
pyramids_, has been long the common boast of literature; but, among
the innumerable architects that erect columns to themselves, far the
greater part, either for want of durable materials, or of art to dispose
them, see their edifices perish as they are towering to completion, and
those few that for a while attract the eye of mankind, are generally
weak in the foundation, and soon sink by the saps of time.
No place affords a more striking conviction of the vanity of human
hopes, than a publick library; for who can see the wall crowded on every
side by mighty volumes, the works of laborious meditation, and accurate
inquiry, now scarcely known but by the catalogue, and preserved only to
increase the pomp of learning, without considering how many hours have
been wasted in vain endeavours, how often imagination has anticipated
the praises of futurity, how many statues have risen to the eye of
vanity, how many ideal converts have elevated zeal, how often wit has
exulted in the eternal infamy of his antagonists, and dogmatism has
delighted in the gradual advances of his authority, the immutability of
his decrees, and the perpetuity of his power?
_--Non unquam dedit
Documenta fors majora, quam frugili loco
Starent superbi_.
Insulting chance ne'er call'd with louder voice,
On swelling mortals to be proud no more.
Of the innumerable authors whose performances are thus treasured up in
magnificent obscurity, most are forgotten, because they never deserved
to be remembered, and owed the honours which they once obtained, not to
judgment or to genius, to labour or to art, but to the prejudice of
faction, the stratagem of intrigue, or the servility of adulation.
Nothing is more common than to find men whose works are now totally
neglected, mentioned with praises by their contemporaries, as the
oracles of their age, and the legislators of science. Curiosity is
naturally excited, their volumes after long inquiry are found, but
seldom reward the labour of the search. Every period of time has
produced these bubbles of artificial fame, which are kept up a while by
the breath of fashion, and then break at once, and are annihilated. The
learned often bewail the loss of ancient writers whose characters have
survived their works; but, perhaps, if we could now retrieve them, we
should find them only the Granvilles, Montagues, Stepneys, and
Sheffields of their time, and wonder by what infatuation or caprice they
could be raised to notice.
It cannot, however, be denied, that many have sunk into oblivion, whom
it were unjust to number with this despicable class. Various kinds of
literary fame seem destined to various measures of duration. Some spread
into exuberance with a very speedy growth, but soon wither and decay;
some rise more slowly, but last long. Parnassus has its flowers of
transient fragrance, as well as its oaks of towering height, and its
laurels of eternal verdure.
Among those whose reputation is exhausted in a short time by its own
luxuriance, are the writers who take advantage of present incidents or
characters which strongly interest the passions, and engage universal
attention. It is not difficult to obtain readers, when we discuss a
question which every one is desirous to understand, which is debated in
every assembly, and has divided the nation into parties; or when we
display the faults or virtues of him whose publick conduct has made
almost every man his enemy or his friend. To the quick circulation of
such productions all the motives of interest and vanity concur; the
disputant enlarges his knowledge, the zealot animates his passion, and
every man is desirous to inform himself concerning affairs so vehemently
agitated and variously represented.
It is scarcely to be imagined, through how many subordinations of
interest the ardour of party is diffused; and what multitudes fancy
themselves affected by every satire or panegyrick on a man of eminence.
Whoever has, at any time, taken occasion to mention him with praise or
blame, whoever happens to love or hate any of his adherents, as he
wishes to confirm his opinion, and to strengthen his party, will
diligently peruse every paper from which he can hope for sentiments like
his own. An object, however small in itself, if placed near to the eye,
will engross all the rays of light; and a transaction, however trivial,
swells into importance when it presses immediately on our attention. He
that shall peruse the political pamphlets of any past reign, will wonder
why they were so eagerly read, or so loudly praised. Many of the
performances which had power to inflame factions, and fill a kingdom
with confusion, have now very little effect upon a frigid critick; and
the time is coming, when the compositions of later hirelings shall lie
equally despised. In proportion as those who write on temporary
subjects, are exalted above their merit at first, they are afterwards
depressed below it; nor can the brightest elegance of diction, or most
artful subtilty of reasoning, hope for so much esteem from those whose
regard is no longer quickened by curiosity or pride.
It is, indeed, the fate of controvertists, even when they contend for
philosophical or theological truth, to be soon laid aside and slighted.
Either the question is decided, and there is no more place for doubt and
opposition; or mankind despair of understanding it, and grow weary of
disturbance, content themselves with quiet ignorance, and refuse to be
harassed with labours which they have no hopes of recompensing with
knowledge.
The authors of new discoveries may surely expect to be reckoned among
those whose writings are secure of veneration: yet it often happens that
the general reception of a doctrine obscures the books in which it was
delivered. When any tenet is generally received and adopted as an
incontrovertible principle, we seldom look back to the arguments upon
which it was first established, or can bear that tediousness of
deduction, and multiplicity of evidence, by which its author was forced
to reconcile it to prejudice, and fortify it in the weakness of novelty
against obstinacy and envy.
It is well known how much of our philosophy is derived from Boyle's
discovery of the qualities of the air; yet of those who now adopt or
enlarge his theory, very few have read the detail of his experiments.
His name is, indeed, reverenced; but his works are neglected; we are
contented to know, that he conquered his opponents, without inquiring
what cavils were produced against him, or by what proofs they were
confuted.
Some writers apply themselves to studies boundless and inexhaustible, as
experiments in natural philosophy. These are always lost in successive
compilations, as new advances are made, and former observations become
more familiar. Others spend their lives in remarks on language, or
explanations of antiquities, and only afford materials for
lexicographers and commentators, who are themselves overwhelmed by
subsequent collectors, that equally destroy the memory of their
predecessors by amplification, transposition, or contraction. Every new
system of nature gives birth to a swarm of expositors, whose business is
to explain and illustrate it, and who can hope to exist no longer than
the founder of their sect preserves his reputation.
There are, indeed, few kinds of composition from which an author,
however learned or ingenious, can hope a long continuance of fame. He
who has carefully studied human nature, and can well describe it, may
with most reason flatter his ambition. Bacon, among all his pretensions
to the regard of posterity, seems to have pleased himself chiefly with
his Essays, _which come home to men's business and bosoms_, and of
which, therefore, he declares his expectation, that they _will live as
long as books last_. It may, however, satisfy an honest and benevolent
mind to have been useful, though less conspicuous; nor will he that
extends his hope to higher rewards, be so much anxious to obtain praise,
as to discharge the duty which Providence assigns him.
No. 107. TUESDAY, MARCH 26, 1751.
_Alternis igitur contendere versibns ambo
Coepere: alternos Musoe meminisse volebant_. VIRG. Ec. vii. 18
On themes alternate now the swains recite;
The muses in alternate themes delight. ELPHINSTON.
Among the various censures, which the unavoidable comparison of my
performances with those of my predecessors has produced, there is none
more general than that of uniformity. Many of my readers remark the want
of those changes of colours, which formerly fed the attention with
unexhausted novelty, and of that intermixture of subjects, or
alternation of manner, by which other writers relieved weariness, and
awakened expectation.
I have, indeed, hitherto avoided the practice of uniting gay and solemn
subjects in the same paper, because it seems absurd for an author to
counteract himself, to press at once with equal force upon both parts of
the intellectual balance, or give medicines, which, like the double
poison of Dryden, destroy the force of one another. I have endeavoured
sometimes to divert, and sometimes to elevate; but have imagined it an
useless attempt to disturb merriment by solemnity, or interrupt
seriousness by drollery. Yet I shall this day publish two letters of
very different tendency, which I hope, like tragi-comedy, may chance to
please even when they are not critically approved.
TO THE RAMBLER.
DEAR SIR,
Though, as my mamma tells me, I am too young to talk at the table, I
have great pleasure in listening to the conversation of learned men,
especially when they discourse of things which I do not understand; and
have, therefore, been of late particularly delighted with many disputes
about the _alteration of the stile_, which, they say, is to be made by
act of parliament.
One day when my mamma was gone out of the room, I asked a very great
scholar what the style was. He told me he was afraid I should hardly
understand him when he informed me, that it was the stated and
established method of computing time. It was not, indeed, likely that I
should understand him; for I never yet knew time computed in my life,
nor can imagine why we should be at so much trouble to count what we
cannot keep. He did not tell me whether we are to count the time past,
or the time to come; but I have considered them both by myself, and
think it as foolish to count time that is gone, as money that is spent;
and as for the time which is to come, it only seems further off by
counting; and therefore, when any pleasure is promised me, I always
think of the time as little as I can.
I have since listened very attentively to every one that talked upon
this subject, of whom the greater part seem not to understand it better
than myself; for though they often hint how much the nation has been
mistaken, and rejoice that we are at last growing wiser than our
ancestors, I have never been able to discover from them, that any body
has died sooner, or been married later, for counting time wrong; and,
therefore, I began to fancy that there was a great bustle with little
consequence.
At last, two friends of my papa, Mr. Cycle, and Mr. Starlight, being, it
seems, both of high learning, and able to make an almanack, began to
talk about the new style. Sweet Mr. Starlight--I am sure I shall love
his name as long as I live; for he told Cycle roundly, with a fierce
look, that we should never be right without a _year of confusion_. Dear
Mr. Rambler, did you ever hear any thing so charming? a whole year of
confusion! When there has been a rout at mamma's, I have thought one
night of confusion worth a thousand nights of rest; and if I can but see
a year of confusion, a whole year, of cards in one room, and dancings in
another, here a feast, and there a masquerade, and plays, and coaches,
and hurries, and messages, and milliners, and raps at the door, and
visits, and frolicks, and new fashions, I shall not care what they do
with the rest of the time, nor whether they count it by the old style or
the new; for I am resolved to break loose from the nursery in the
tumult, and play my part among the rest; and it will be strange if I
cannot get a husband and a chariot in the year of confusion.
Cycle, who is neither so young nor so handsome as Starlight, very
gravely maintained, that all the perplexity may he avoided by leaping
over eleven days in the reckoning; and, indeed, if it should come only
to this, I think the new style is a delightful thing; for my mamma says
I shall go to court when I am sixteen, and if they can but contrive
often to leap over eleven days together, the months of restraint will
soon be at an end. It is strange, that with all the plots that have been
laid against time, they could never kill it by act of parliament before.
Dear sir, if you have any vote or interest, get them but for once to
destroy eleven months, and then I shall be as old as some married
ladies. But this is desired only if you think they will not comply with
Mr. Starlight's scheme; for nothing surely could please me like a year
of confusion, when I shall no longer be fixed this hour to my pen, and
the next to my needle, or wait at home for the dancing-master one day,
and the next for the musick-master; but run from ball to ball, and from
drum to drum; and spend all my time without tasks, and without account,
and go out without telling whither, and come home without regard to
prescribed hours, or family rules.
I am, sir,
Your humble servant,
PROPERANTIA.
MR. RAMBLER,
I was seized this morning with an unusual pensiveness, and, finding that
books only served to heighten it, took a ramble into the fields, in
hopes of relief and invigoration from the keenness of the air and
brightness of the sun.
As I wandered wrapped up in thought, my eyes were struck with the
hospital for the reception of deserted infants, which I surveyed with
pleasure, till, by a natural train of sentiment, I began to reflect on
the fate of the mothers. For to what shelter can they fly? Only to the
arms of their betrayer, which, perhaps, are now no longer open to
receive them; and then how quick must be the transition from deluded
virtue to shameless guilt, and from shameless guilt to hopeless
wretchedness?
The anguish that I felt, left me no rest till I had, by your means,
addressed myself to the publick on behalf of those forlorn creatures,
the women of the town; whose misery here might satisfy the most rigorous
censor, and whose participation of our common nature might surely induce
us to endeavour, at least, their preservation from eternal punishment.
These were all once, if not virtuous, at least innocent; and might still
have continued blameless and easy, but for the arts and insinuations of
those whose rank, fortune, or education, furnished them with means to
corrupt or to delude them. Let the libertine reflect a moment on the
situation of that woman, who, being forsaken by her betrayer, is reduced
to the necessity of turning prostitute for bread, and judge of the
enormity of his guilt by the evils which it produces.
It cannot be doubted but that numbers follow this dreadful course of
life, with shame, horrour, and regret; but where can they hope for
refuge: "_The world is not their friend, nor the world's law_." Their
sighs, and tears, and groans, are criminal in the eye of their tyrants,
the bully and the bawd, who fatten on their misery, and threaten them
with want or a gaol, if they show the least design of escaping from
their bondage.
"To wipe all tears from off all faces," is a task too hard for mortals;
but to alleviate misfortunes is often within the most limited power: yet
the opportunities which every day affords of relieving the most wretched
of human beings are overlooked and neglected, with equal disregard of
policy and goodness.
There are places, indeed, set apart, to which these unhappy creatures
may resort, when the diseases of incontinence seize upon them; but if
they obtain a cure, to what are they reduced? Either to return with the
small remains of beauty to their former guilt, or perish in the streets
with nakedness and hunger.
How frequently have the gay and thoughtless, in their evening frolicks,
seen a band of those miserable females, covered with rags, shivering
with cold, and pining with hunger; and, without either pitying their
calamities, or reflecting upon the cruelty of those who, perhaps, first
seduced them by caresses of fondness, or magnificence of promises, go on
to reduce others to the same wretchedness by the same means!
To stop the increase of this deplorable multitude, is undoubtedly the
first and most pressing consideration. To prevent evil is the great end
of government, the end for which vigilance and severity are properly
employed. But surely those whom passion or interest has already
depraved, have some claim to compassion, from beings equally frail and
fallible with themselves. Nor will they long groan in their present
afflictions, if none were to refuse them relief, but those that owe
their exemption from the same distress only to their wisdom and their
virtue.
I am, &c.
AMICUS[a].
[Footnote a: The letter from Amicus was from an unknown correspondent.
It breathes a tenderness of spirit worthy of Johnson himself. But he
practised the lesson which it inculcates;--a harder task! Sterne could
_write_ sentiment.]
No. 108. SATURDAY, MARCH 30, 1751.
_--Sapere aude:
Incipe. Vivendi recte qui prorogat horam,
Rusticus expectat dum defluat amnis; at ille
Labitur et labetur in omne volubilis aevum_. HOR. Lib. i. Ep. ii. 39.
Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise;
He who defers this work from day to day,
Does on a river's bank expecting stay,
Till the whole stream, which stopp'd him, should be gone,
That runs, and as it runs, for ever will run on. COWLEY.
An ancient poet, unreasonably discontented at the present state of
things, which his system of opinions obliged him to represent in its
worst form, has observed of the earth, "that its greater part is covered
by the uninhabitable ocean; that of the rest some is encumbered with
naked mountains, and some lost under barren sands; some scorched with
unintermitted heat, and some petrified with perpetual frost; so that
only a few regions remain for the production of fruits, the pasture of
cattle, and the accommodation of man."
The same observation may be transferred to the time allotted us in our
present state. When we have deducted all that is absorbed in sleep, all
that is inevitably appropriated to the demands of nature, or
irresistibly engrossed by the tyranny of custom; all that passes in
regulating the superficial decorations of life, or is given up in the
reciprocations of civility to the disposal of others; all that is torn
from us by the violence of disease, or stolen imperceptibly away by
lassitude and languor; we shall find that part of our duration very
small of which we can truly call ourselves masters, or which we can
spend wholly at our own choice. Many of our hours are lost in a rotation
of petty cares, in a constant recurrence of the same employments; many
of our provisions for ease or happiness are always exhausted by the
present day; and a great part of our existence serves no other purpose,
than that of enabling us to enjoy the rest.
Of the few moments which are left in our disposal, it may reasonably be
expected, that we should be so frugal, as to let none of them slip from
us without some equivalent; and perhaps it might be found, that as the
earth, however straitened by rocks and waters, is capable of producing
more than all its inhabitants are able to consume, our lives, though
much contracted by incidental distraction, would yet afford us a large
space vacant to the exercise of reason and virtue; that we want not
time, but diligence, for great performances; and that we squander much
of our allowance, even while we think it sparing and insufficient.
This natural and necessary comminution of our lives, perhaps, often
makes us insensible of the negligence with which we suffer them to slide
away. We never consider ourselves as possessed at once of time
sufficient for any great design, and therefore indulge ourselves, in
fortuitous amusements. We think it unnecessary to take an account of a
few supernumerary moments, which, however employed, could have produced
little advantage, and which were exposed to a thousand chances of
disturbance and interruption.
It is observable, that, either by nature or by habit, our faculties are
fitted to images of a certain extent, to which we adjust great things by
division, and little things by accumulation. Of extensive surfaces we
can only take a survey, as the parts succeed one another; and atoms we
cannot perceive till they are united into masses. Thus we break the vast
periods of time into centuries and years; and thus, if we would know the
amount of moments, we must agglomerate them into days and weeks.
The proverbial oracles of our parsimonious ancestors have informed us,
that the fatal waste of fortune is by small expenses, by the profusion
of sums too little singly to alarm our caution, and which we never
suffer ourselves to consider together. Of the same kind is the
prodigality of life; he that hopes to look back hereafter with
satisfaction upon past years, must learn to know the present value of
single minutes, and endeavour to let no particle of time fall useless to
the ground.
It is usual for those who are advised to the attainment of any new
qualification, to look upon themselves as required to change the general
course of their conduct, to dismiss business, and exclude pleasure, and
to devote their days and nights to a particular attention. But all
common degrees of excellence are attainable at a lower price; he that
should steadily and resolutely assign to any science or language those
interstitial vacancies which intervene in the most crowded variety of
diversion or employment, would find every day new irradiations of
knowledge, and discover how much more is to be hoped from frequency and
perseverance, than from violent efforts and sudden desires; efforts
which are soon remitted when they encounter difficulty, and desires,
which, if they are indulged too often, will shake off the authority of
reason, and range capriciously from one object to another.
The disposition to defer every important design to a time of leisure,
and a state of settled uniformity, proceeds generally from a false
estimate of the human powers. If we except those gigantic and stupendous
intelligences who are said to grasp a system by intuition, and bound
forward from one series of conclusions to another, without regular steps
through intermediate propositions, the most successful students make
their advances in knowledge by short flights, between each of which the
mind may lie at rest. For every single act of progression a short time
is sufficient; and it is only necessary, that whenever that time is
afforded, it be well employed.
Few minds will be long confined to severe and laborious meditation; and
when a successful attack on knowledge has been made, the student
recreates himself with the contemplation of his conquest, and forbears
another incursion, till the new-acquired truth has become familiar, and
his curiosity calls upon him for fresh gratifications. Whether the time
of intermission is spent in company, or in solitude, in necessary
business, or in voluntary levities, the understanding is equally
abstracted from the object of inquiry; but, perhaps, if it be detained
by occupations less pleasing, it returns again to study with greater
alacrity than when it is glutted with ideal pleasures, and surfeited
with intemperance of application. He that will not suffer himself to be
discouraged by fancied impossibilities, may sometimes find his abilities
invigorated by the necessity of exerting them in short intervals, as the
force of a current is increased by the contraction of its channel.
From some cause like this, it has probably proceeded, that, among those
who have contributed to the advancement of learning, many have risen to
eminence in opposition to all the obstacles which external circumstances
could place in their way, amidst the tumult of business, the distresses
of poverty, or the dissipations of a wandering and unsettled state. A
great part of the life of Erasmus was one continual peregrination; ill
supplied with the gifts of fortune, and led from city to city, and from
kingdom to kingdom, by the hopes of patrons and preferment, hopes which
always flattered and always deceived him; he yet found means, by
unshaken constancy, and a vigilant improvement of those hours, which, in
the midst of the most restless activity, will remain unengaged, to write
more than another in the same condition would have hoped to read.
Compelled by want to attendance and solicitation, and so much versed in
common life, that he has transmitted to us the most perfect delineation
of the manners of his age, he joined to his knowledge of the world such
application to books, that he will stand for ever in the first rank of
literary heroes. How this proficiency was obtained he sufficiently
discovers, by informing us, that the "Praise of Folly," one of his most
celebrated performances, was composed by him on the road to Italy; _ne
totum illud tempus quo equo fuit insidendum, illiteratis fabulis
terreretur_: "lest the hours which he was obliged to spend on horseback
should be tattled away without regard to literature."
An Italian philosopher expressed in his motto, that _time was his
estate_; an estate, indeed, which will produce nothing without
cultivation, but will always abundantly repay the labours of industry,
and satisfy the most extensive desires, if no part of it be suffered to
lie waste by negligence, to be over-run with noxious plants, or laid out
for shew, rather than for use.
No. 109. TUESDAY, APRIL 2, 1751.
_Gratum est, quod patriæ civem populoque dedisti,
Si facis, ut patriæ sit idoneus, utilis agris,
Utilis et bellorum et pacis rebus agendis.
Plurimum enim intererit, quibus artibus, et quibus hunc tu
Moribus instituas_ Juv. SAT, xiv. 70.
Grateful the gift! a member to the state,
If you that member useful shall create;
Train'd both to war, and, when the war shall cease,
As fond, as fit t'improve the arts of peace.
For much it boots which way you train your boy,
The hopeful object of your future joy. ELPHINSTON.
TO THE RAMBLER.
SIR,
Though you seem to have taken a view sufficiently extensive of the
miseries of life, and have employed much of your speculation on mournful
subjects, you have not yet exhausted the whole stock of human
infelicity. There is still a species of wretchedness which escapes your
observation, though it might supply you with many sage remarks, and
salutary cautions.
I cannot but imagine the start of attention awakened by this welcome
hint; and at this instant see the Rambler snuffing his candle, rubbing
his spectacles, stirring his fire, locking out interruption, and
settling himself in his easy chair, that he may enjoy a new calamity
without disturbance. For, whether it be that continued sickness or
misfortune has acquainted you only with the bitterness of being; or that
you imagine none but yourself able to discover what I suppose has been
seen and felt by all the inhabitants of the world; whether you intend
your writings as antidotal to the levity and merriment with which your
rivals endeavour to attract the favour of the publick; or fancy that you
have some particular powers of dolorous declamation, and _warble out
your groans_ with uncommon elegance or energy; it is certain, that
whatever be your subject, melancholy for the most part bursts in upon
your speculation, your gaiety is quickly overcast, and though your
readers may be flattered with hopes of pleasantry, they are seldom
dismissed but with heavy hearts.
That I may therefore gratify you with an imitation of your own syllables
of sadness, I will inform you that I was condemned by some disastrous
influence to be an only son, born to the apparent prospect of a large
fortune, and allotted to my parents at that time of life when satiety of
common diversions allows the mind to indulge parental affection with
greater intenseness. My birth was celebrated by the tenants with feasts,
and dances, and bag-pipes: congratulations were sent from every family
within ten miles round; and my parents discovered in my first cries such
tokens of future virtue and understanding, that they declared themselves
determined to devote the remaining part of life to my happiness and the
increase of their estate.
The abilities of my father and mother were not perceptibly unequal, and
education had given neither much advantage over the other. They had both
kept good company, rattled in chariots, glittered in playhouses, and
danced at court, and were both expert in the games that were in their
time called in as auxiliaries against the intrusion of thought.
When there is such a parity between two persons associated for life, the
dejection which the husband, if he be not completely stupid, must always
suffer for want of superiority, sinks him to submissiveness. My mamma
therefore governed the family without controul; and except that my
father still retained some authority in the stables, and, now and then,
after a supernumerary bottle, broke a looking-glass or china dish to
prove his sovereignty, the whole course of the year was regulated by her
direction, the servants received from her all their orders, and the
tenants were continued or dismissed at her discretion.
She, therefore, thought herself entitled to the superintendence of her
son's education; and when my father, at the instigation of the parson,
faintly proposed that I should be sent to school, very positively told
him, that she should not suffer so fine a child to be ruined; that she
never knew any boys at a grammar-school that could come into a room
without blushing, or sit at table without some awkward uneasiness; that
they were always putting themselves into danger by boisterous plays, or
vitiating their behaviour with mean company, and that, for her part, she
would rather follow me to the grave, than see me tear my clothes, and
hang down my head, and sneak about with dirty shoes, and blotted
fingers, my hair unpowdered, and my hat uncocked.
My father, who had no other end in his proposal than to appear wise and
manly, soon acquiesced, since I was not to live by my learning; for,
indeed, he had known very few students that had not some stiffness in
their manner. They, therefore, agreed, that a domestick tutor should be
procured, and hired an honest gentleman of mean conversation and narrow
sentiments, but whom, having passed the common forms of literary
education, they implicitly concluded qualified to teach all that was to
be learned from a scholar. He thought himself sufficiently exalted by
being placed at the same table with his pupil, and had no other view
than to perpetuate his felicity by the utmost flexibility of submission
to all my mother's opinions and caprices. He frequently took away my
book, lest I should mope with too much application, charged me never to
write without turning up my ruffles, and generally brushed my coat
before he dismissed me into the parlour. He had no occasion to complain
of too burdensome an employment: for my mother very judiciously
considered, that I was not likely to grow politer in his company, and
suffered me not to pass any more time in his apartment than my lesson
required. When I was summoned to my task, she enjoined me not to get any
of my tutor's ways, who was seldom mentioned before me but for practices
to be avoided. I was every moment admonished not to lean on my chair,
cross my legs, or swing my hands like my tutor; and once my mother very
seriously deliberated upon his total dismission, because I began, she
said, to learn his manner of sticking on my hat, and had his bend in my
shoulders, and his totter in my gait.
Such, however, was her care, that I escaped all these depravities; and
when I was only twelve years old, had rid myself of every appearance of
childish diffidence. I was celebrated round the country for the
petulance of my remarks, and the quickness of my replies; and many a
scholar, five years older than myself, have I dashed into confusion by
the steadiness of my countenance, silenced by my readiness of repartee,
and tortured with envy by the address with which I picked up a fan,
presented a snuff-box, or received an empty tea-cup.
At fourteen I was completely skilled in all the niceties of dress, and I
could not only enumerate all the variety of silks, and distinguish the
product of a French loom, but dart my eye through a numerous company,
and observe every deviation from the reigning mode. I was universally
skilful in all the changes of expensive finery; but as every one, they
say, has something to which he is particularly born, was eminently
knowing in Brussels' lace.
The next year saw me advanced to the trust and power of adjusting the
ceremonial of an assembly. All received their partners from my hand, and
to me every stranger applied for introduction. My heart now disdained
the instructions of a tutor, who was rewarded with a small annuity for
life, and left me qualified, in my own opinion, to govern myself.
In a short time I came to London, and as my father was well known among
the higher classes of life, soon obtained admission to the most splendid
assemblies and most crowded card-tables. Here I found myself universally
caressed and applauded; the ladies praised the fancy of my clothes, the
beauty of my form, and the softness of my voice; endeavoured in every
place to force themselves to my notice; and invited, by a thousand
oblique solicitations, my attendance to the playhouse, and my
salutations in the park. I was now happy to the utmost extent of my
conception; I passed every morning in dress, every afternoon in visits,
and every night in some select assemblies, where neither care nor
knowledge were suffered to molest us.
After a few years, however, these delights became familiar, and I had
leisure to look round me with more attention. I then found that my
flatterers had very little power to relieve the languor of satiety, or
recreate weariness, by varied amusement; and therefore endeavoured to
enlarge the sphere of my pleasures, and to try what satisfaction might
be found in the society of men. I will not deny the mortification with
which I perceived, that every man whose name I had heard mentioned with
respect, received me with a kind of tenderness, nearly bordering on
compassion; and that those whose reputation was not well established,
thought it necessary to justify their understandings, by treating me
with contempt. One of these witlings elevated his crest, by asking me in
a full coffee-house the price of patches; and another whispered that he
wondered why Miss Frisk did not keep me that afternoon to watch her
squirrel.
When I found myself thus hunted from all masculine conversation by those
who were themselves barely admitted, I returned to the ladies, and
resolved to dedicate my life to their service and their pleasure. But I
find that I have now lost my charms. Of those with whom I entered the
gay world, some are married, some have retired, and some have so much
changed their opinion, that they scarcely pay any regard to my
civilities, if there is any other man in the place. The new flight of
beauties to whom I have made my addresses, suffer me to pay the treat,
and then titter with boys. So that I now find myself welcome only to a
few grave ladies, who, unacquainted with all that gives either use or
dignity to life, are content to pass their hours between their bed and
their cards, without esteem from the old, or reverence from the young.
I cannot but think, Mr. Rambler, that I have reason to complain; for
surely the females ought to pay some regard to the age of him whose
youth was passed in endeavours to please them. They that encourage folly
in the boy, have no right to punish it in the man. Yet I find that,
though they lavish their first fondness upon pertness and gaiety, they
soon transfer their regard to other qualities, and ungratefully abandon
their adorers to dream out their last years in stupidity and contempt.
I am, &c.
FLORENTULUS.
No. 110. SATURDAY, APRIL 6, 1751
At nobis vitæ dominum quærentibus unum
Lux iter est, et clara dies, et gratia simplex.
Spem sequimur, gradimurque fide, fruimurque futuris,
Ad quæ non veniunt præsentis gaudia vitæ,
Nec currunt pariter capta, et capienda voluptus.
PRUDENTIUS, Cont. Sym. ii. 904.
We through this maze of life one Lord obey;
Whose light and grace unerring lead the way.
By hope and faith secure of future bliss,
Gladly the joys of present life we miss:
For baffled mortals still attempt in vain,
Present and future bliss at once to gain. F. LEWIS.
That to please the Lord and Father of the universe, is the supreme
interest of created and dependent beings, as it is easily proved, has
been universally confessed; and since all rational agents are conscious
of having neglected or violated the duties prescribed to them, the fear
of being rejected, or punished by God, has always burdened the human
mind. The expiation of crimes, and renovation of the forfeited hopes of
divine favour, therefore constitute a large part of every religion.
The various methods of propitiation and atonement which fear and folly
have dictated, or artifice and interest tolerated in the different parts
of the world, however they may sometimes reproach or degrade humanity,
at least shew the general consent of all ages and nations in their
opinion of the placability of the divine nature. That God will forgive,
may, indeed, be established as the first and fundamental truth of
religion; for, though the knowledge of his existence is the origin of
philosophy, yet, without the belief of his mercy, it would have little
influence upon our moral conduct. There could be no prospect of enjoying
the protection or regard of him, whom the least deviation from rectitude
made inexorable for ever; and every man would naturally withdraw his
thoughts from the contemplation of a Creator, whom he must consider as a
governor too pure to be pleased, and too severe to be pacified; as an
enemy infinitely wise, and infinitely powerful, whom he could neither
deceive, escape, nor resist.
Where there is no hope, there can be no endeavour. A constant and
unfailing obedience is above the reach of terrestrial diligence; and
therefore the progress of life could only have been the natural descent
of negligent despair from crime to crime, had not the universal
persuasion of forgiveness, to be obtained by proper means of
reconciliation, recalled those to the paths of virtue, whom their
passions had solicited aside; and animated to new attempts, and firmer
perseverance, those whom difficulty had discouraged, or negligence
surprised.
In times and regions so disjoined from each other, that there can
scarcely be imagined any communication of sentiments either by commerce
or tradition, has prevailed a general and uniform expectation of
propitiating God by corporal austerities, of anticipating his vengeance
by voluntary inflictions, and appeasing his justice by a speedy and
cheerful submission to a less penalty, when a greater is incurred.
Incorporated minds will always feel some inclination towards exterior
acts and ritual observances. Ideas not represented by sensible objects
are fleeting, variable, and evanescent. We are not able to judge of the
degree of conviction which operated at any particular time upon our own
thoughts, but as it is recorded by some certain and definite effect. He
that reviews his life in order to determine the probability of his
acceptance with God, if he could once establish the necessary proportion
between crimes and sufferings, might securely rest upon his performance
of the expiation; but while safety remains the reward only of mental
purity, he is always afraid lest he should decide too soon in his own
favour; lest he should not have felt the pangs of true contrition; lest
he should mistake satiety for detestation, or imagine that his passions
are subdued when they are only sleeping.
From this natural and reasonable diffidence arose, in humble and
timorous piety, a disposition to confound penance with repentance, to
repose on human determinations, and to receive from some judicial
sentence the stated and regular assignment of reconciliatory pain. We
are never willing to be without resource: we seek in the knowledge of
others a succour for our own ignorance, and are ready to trust any that
will undertake to direct us when we have no confidence in ourselves.