understanding, have surely no claim to the honour of serious
confutation. The inhabitants of the same country have opposite
characters in different ages; the prevalence or neglect of any
particular study can proceed only from the accidental influence of some
temporary cause; and if we have failed in history, we can have failed
only because history has not hitherto been diligently cultivated.
But how is it evident, that we have not historians among us, whom we may
venture to place in comparison with any that the neighbouring nations
can produce? The attempt of Raleigh is deservedly celebrated for the
labour of his researches, and the elegance of his style; but he has
endeavoured to exert his judgment more than his genius, to select facts,
rather than adorn them; and has produced an historical dissertation, but
seldom risen to the majesty of history.
The works of Clarendon deserve more regard. His diction is indeed
neither exact in itself, nor suited to the purpose of history. It is the
effusion of a mind crowded with ideas, and desirous of imparting them;
and therefore always accumulating words, and involving one clause and
sentence in another. But there is in his negligence a rude inartificial
majesty, which, without the nicety of laboured elegance, swells the mind
by its plenitude and diffusion. His narration is not perhaps
sufficiently rapid, being stopped too frequently by particularities,
which, though they might strike the author who was present at the
transactions, will not equally detain the attention of posterity. But
his ignorance or carelessness of the art of writing is amply compensated
by his knowledge of nature and of policy; the wisdom of his maxims, the
justness of his reasonings, and the variety, distinctness, and strength
of his characters.
But none of our writers can, in my opinion, justly contest the
superiority of Knolles, who, in his history of the Turks, has displayed
all the excellencies that narration can admit. His style, though
somewhat obscured by time, and sometimes vitiated by false wit, is pure,
nervous, elevated, and clear. A wonderful multiplicity of events is so
artfully arranged, and so distinctly explained, that each facilitates
the knowledge of the next. Whenever a new personage is introduced, the
reader is prepared by his character for his actions; when a nation is
first attacked, or city besieged, he is made acquainted with its
history, or situation; so that a great part of the world is brought into
view. The descriptions of this author are without minuteness, and the
digressions without ostentation. Collateral events are so artfully woven
into the contexture of his principal story, that they cannot be
disjoined without leaving it lacerated and broken. There is nothing
turgid in his dignity, nor superfluous in his copiousness. His orations
only, which he feigns, like the ancient historians, to have been
pronounced on remarkable occasions, are tedious and languid; and since
they are merely the voluntary sports of imagination, prove how much the
most judicious and skilful may be mistaken in the estimate of their own
powers.
Nothing could have sunk this author in obscurity, but the remoteness and
barbarity of the people, whose story he relates. It seldom happens, that
all circumstances concur to happiness or fame. The nation which produced
this great historian, has the grief of seeing his genius employed upon a
foreign and uninteresting subject; and that writer who might have
secured perpetuity to his name, by a history of his own country, has
exposed himself to the danger of oblivion, by recounting enterprises and
revolutions, of which none desire to be informed.
No. 123. TUESDAY, MAY 21, 1751.
_Quo semet est imbuta recens, servabit odorem
Testa din_.--HOR. Lib. i. Ep. ii. 69.
What season'd first the vessel, keeps the taste. CREECH.
TO THE RAMBLER.
SIR,
Though I have so long found myself deluded by projects of honour and
distinction, that I often resolve to admit them no more into my heart;
yet how determinately soever excluded, they always recover their
dominion by force or stratagem; and whenever, after the shortest
relaxation of vigilance, reason and caution return to their charge, they
find hope again in possession, with all her train of pleasures dancing
about her.
Even while I am preparing to write a history of disappointed
expectations, I cannot forbear to flatter myself, that you and your
readers are impatient for my performance; and that the sons of learning
have laid down several of your late papers with discontent, when they
found that Misocapelus had delayed to continue his narrative.
But the desire of gratifying the expectations that I have raised, is not
the only motive of this relation, which, having once promised it, I
think myself no longer at liberty to forbear. For, however I may have
wished to clear myself from every other adhesion of trade, I hope I
shall be always wise enough to retain my punctuality, and amidst all my
new arts of politeness, continue to despise negligence, and detest
falsehood.
When the death of my brother had dismissed me from the duties of a shop,
I considered myself as restored to the rights of my birth, and entitled
to the rank and reception which my ancestors obtained. I was, however,
embarrassed with many difficulties at my first re-entrance into the
world; for my haste to be a gentleman inclined me to precipitate
measures; and every accident that forced me back towards my old station,
was considered by me as an obstruction of my happiness.
It was with no common grief and indignation, that I found my former
companions still daring to claim my notice, and the journeymen and
apprentices sometimes pulling me by the sleeve as I was walking in the
street, and without any terrour of my new sword, which was,
notwithstanding, of an uncommon size, inviting me to partake of a bottle
at the old house, and entertaining me with histories of the girls in the
neighbourhood. I had always, in my officinal state, been kept in awe by
lace and embroidery; and imagined that, to fright away these unwelcome
familiarities, nothing was necessary, but that I should, by splendour of
dress, proclaim my re-union with a higher rank. I, therefore, sent for
my tailor; ordered a suit with twice the usual quantity of lace; and
that I might not let my persecutors increase their confidence, by the
habit of accosting me, staid at home till it was made.
This week of confinement I passed in practising a forbidding frown, a
smile of condescension, a slight salutation, and an abrupt departure;
and in four mornings was able to turn upon my heel, with so much levity
and sprightliness, that I made no doubt of discouraging all publick
attempts upon my dignity. I therefore issued forth in my new coat, with
a resolution of dazzling intimacy to a fitter distance; and pleased
myself with the timidity and reverence, which I should impress upon all
who had hitherto presumed to harass me with their freedoms. But,
whatever was the cause, I did not find myself received with any new
degree of respect; those whom I intended to drive from me, ventured to
advance with their usual phrases of benevolence; and those whose
acquaintance I solicited, grew more supercilious and reserved. I began
soon to repent the expense, by which I had procured no advantage, and to
suspect that a shining dress, like a weighty weapon, has no force in
itself, but owes all its efficacy to him that wears it.
Many were the mortifications and calamities which I was condemned to
suffer in my initiation to politeness. I was so much tortured by the
incessant civilities of my companions, that I never passed through that
region of the city but in a chair with the curtains drawn; and at last
left my lodgings, and fixed myself in the verge of the court. Here I
endeavoured to be thought a gentleman just returned from his travels,
and was pleased to have my landlord believe that I was in some danger
from importunate creditors; but this scheme was quickly defeated by a
formal deputation sent to offer me, though I had now retired from
business, the freedom of my company.
I was now detected in trade, and therefore resolved to stay no longer. I
hired another apartment, and changed my servants. Here I lived very
happily for three months, and, with secret satisfaction, often overheard
the family celebrating the greatness and felicity of the esquire; though
the conversation seldom ended without some complaint of my covetousness,
or some remark upon my language, or my gait. I now began to venture in
the publick walks, and to know the faces of nobles and beauties; but
could not observe, without wonder, as I passed by them, how frequently
they were talking of a tailor. I longed, however, to be admitted to
conversation, and was somewhat weary of walking in crowds without a
companion, yet continued to come and go with the rest, till a lady whom
I endeavoured to protect in a crowded passage, as she was about to step
into her chariot, thanked me for my civility, and told me, that, as she
had often distinguished me for my modest and respectful behaviour,
whenever I set up for myself, I might expect to see her among my first
customers.
Here was an end of all my ambulatory projects. I indeed sometimes
entered the walks again, but was always blasted by this destructive
lady, whose mischievous generosity recommended me to her acquaintance.
Being therefore forced to practise my adscititious character upon
another stage, I betook myself to a coffee-house frequented by wits,
among whom I learned in a short time the cant of criticism, and talked
so loudly and volubly of nature, and manners, and sentiment, and
diction, and similies, and contrasts, and action, and pronunciation,
that I was often desired to lead the hiss and clap, and was feared and
hated by the players and the poets. Many a sentence have I hissed, which
I did not understand, and many a groan have I uttered, when the ladies
were weeping in the boxes. At last a malignant author, whose performance
I had persecuted through the nine nights, wrote an epigram upon Tape the
critick, which drove me from the pit for ever.
My desire to be a fine gentleman still continued: I therefore, after a
short suspense, chose a new set of friends at the gaming-table, and was
for some time pleased with the civility and openness with which I found
myself treated. I was indeed obliged to play; but being naturally
timorous and vigilant, was never surprised into large sums. What might
have been the consequence of long familiarity with these plunderers, I
had not an opportunity of knowing; for one night the constables entered
and seized us, and I was once more compelled to sink into my former
condition, by sending for my old master to attest my character.
When I was deliberating to what new qualifications I should aspire, I
was summoned into the country, by an account of my father's death. Here
I had hopes of being able to distinguish myself, and to support the
honour of my family. I therefore bought guns and horses, and, contrary
to the expectation of the tenants, increased the salary of the huntsman.
But when I entered the field, it was soon discovered, that I was not
destined to the glories of the chase. I was afraid of thorns in the
thicket, and of dirt in the marsh; I shivered on the brink of a river
while the sportsmen crossed it, and trembled at the sight of a five-bar
gate. When the sport and danger were over, I was still equally
disconcerted; for I was effeminate, though not delicate, and could only
join a feeble whispering voice in the clamours of their triumph.
A fall, by which my ribs were broken, soon recalled me to domestick
pleasures, and I exerted all my art to obtain the favour of the
neighbouring ladies; but wherever I came, there was always some unlucky
conversation upon ribands, fillets, pins, or thread, which drove all my
stock of compliments out of my memory, and overwhelmed me with shame and
dejection.
Thus I passed the ten first years after the death of my brother, in
which I have learned at last to repress that ambition, which I could
never gratify; and, instead of wasting more of my life in vain
endeavours after accomplishments, which, if not early acquired, no
endeavours can obtain, I shall confine my care to those higher
excellencies which are in every man's power, and though I cannot enchant
affection by elegance and ease, hope to secure esteem by honesty and
truth.
I am, &c.
MISOCAPELUS.
No. 124. SATURDAY, MAY 25, 1751.
--Taciturn sylvas inter reptare salubres,
Curantem quicquid dignim sapiente bonoque est?
HOR. Lib. i. Ep. iv. 4.
To range in silence through each healthful wood,
And muse what's worthy of the wise and good. ELPHINSTON.
The season of the year is now come, in which the theatres are shut, and
the card-tables forsaken; the regions of luxury are for a while
unpeopled, and pleasure leads out her votaries to groves and gardens, to
still scenes and erratick gratifications. Those who have passed many
months in a continual tumult of diversion; who have never opened their
eyes in the morning, but upon some new appointment; nor slept at night
without a dream of dances, musick, and good hands, or of soft sighs and
humble supplications; must now retire to distant provinces, where the
syrens of flattery are scarcely to be heard, where beauty sparkles
without praise or envy, and wit is repeated only by the echo.
As I think it one of the most important duties of social benevolence to
give warning of the approach of calamity, when by timely prevention it
may be turned aside, or by preparatory measures be more easily endured,
I cannot feel the increasing warmth, or observe the lengthening days,
without considering the condition of my fair readers, who are now
preparing to leave all that has so long filled up their hours, all from
which they have been accustomed to hope for delight; and who, till
fashion proclaims the liberty of returning to the seats of mirth and
elegance, must endure the rugged 'squire, the sober housewife, the loud
huntsman, or the formal parson, the roar of obstreperous jollity, or the
dulness of prudential instruction; without any retreat, but to the gloom
of solitude, where they will yet find greater inconveniencies, and must
learn, however unwillingly, to endure themselves.
In winter, the life of the polite and gay may be said to roll on with a
strong and rapid current; they float along from pleasure to pleasure,
without the trouble of regulating their own motions, and pursue the
course of the stream in all the felicity of inattention; content that
they find themselves in progression, and careless whither they are
going. But the months of summer are a kind of sleeping stagnation
without wind or tide, where they are left to force themselves forward by
their own labour, and to direct their passage by their own skill; and
where, if they have not some internal principle of activity, they must
be stranded upon shallows, or lie torpid in a perpetual calm.
There are, indeed, some to whom this universal dissolution of gay
societies affords a welcome opportunity of quitting, without disgrace,
the post which they have found themselves unable to maintain; and of
seeming to retreat only at the call of nature, from assemblies where,
after a short triumph of uncontested superiority, they are overpowered
by some new intruder of softer elegance or sprightlier vivacity. By
these, hopeless of victory, and yet ashamed to confess a conquest, the
summer is regarded as a release from the fatiguing service of celebrity,
a dismission to more certain joys and a safer empire. They now solace
themselves with the influence which they shall obtain, where they have
no rival to fear; and with the lustre which they shall effuse, when
nothing can be seen of brighter splendour. They imagine, while they are
preparing for their journey, the admiration with which the rusticks will
crowd about them; plan the laws of a new assembly; or contrive to delude
provincial ignorance with a fictitious mode. A thousand pleasing
expectations swarm in the fancy; and all the approaching weeks are
filled with distinctions, honours, and authority.
But others, who have lately entered the world, or have yet had no proofs
of its inconstancy and desertion, are cut off, by this cruel
interruption, from the enjoyment of their prerogatives, and doomed to
lose four months in inactive obscurity. Many complaints do vexation and
desire extort from those exiled tyrants of the town, against the
inexorable sun, who pursues his course without any regard to love or
beauty; and visits either tropick at the stated time, whether shunned or
courted, deprecated or implored.
To them who leave the places of publick resort in the full bloom of
reputation, and withdraw from admiration, courtship, submission, and
applause, a rural triumph can give nothing equivalent. The praise of
ignorance, and the subjection of weakness, are little regarded by
beauties who have been accustomed to more important conquests, and more
valuable panegyricks. Nor indeed should the powers which have made
havock in the theatres, or borne down rivalry in courts, be degraded to
a mean attack upon the untravelled heir, or ignoble contest with the
ruddy milkmaid.
How then must four long months be worn away? Four months, in which there
will be no routes, no shows, no ridottos; in which visits must be
regulated by the weather, and assemblies will depend upon the moon! The
Platonists imagine, that the future punishment of those who have in this
life debased their reason by subjection to their senses, and have
preferred the gross gratifications of lewdness and luxury, to the pure
and sublime felicity of virtue and contemplation, will arise from the
predominance and solicitations of the same appetites, in a state which
can furnish no means of appeasing them. I cannot but suspect that this
month, bright with sunshine, and fragrant with perfumes; this month,
which covers the meadow with verdure, and decks the gardens with all the
mixtures of colorifick radiance; this month, from which the man of fancy
expects new infusions of imagery, and the naturalist new scenes of
observation; this month will chain down multitudes to the Platonick
penance of desire without enjoyment, and hurry them from the highest
satisfactions, which they have yet learned to conceive, into a state of
hopeless wishes and pining recollection, where the eye of vanity will
look round for admiration to no purpose, and the hand of avarice shuffle
cards in a bower with ineffectual dexterity.
From the tediousness of this melancholy suspension of life, I would
willingly preserve those who are exposed to it, only by inexperience;
who want not inclination to wisdom or virtue, though they have been
dissipated by negligence, or misled by example; and who would gladly
find the way to rational happiness, though it should be necessary to
struggle with habit, and abandon fashion. To these many arts of spending
time might be recommended, which would neither sadden the present hour
with weariness, nor the future with repentance.
It would seem impossible to a solitary speculatist, that a human being
can want employment. To be born in ignorance with a capacity of
knowledge, and to be placed in the midst of a world filled with variety,
perpetually pressing upon the senses and irritating curiosity, is surely
a sufficient security against the languishment of inattention. Novelty
is indeed necessary to preserve eagerness and alacrity; but art and
nature have stores inexhaustible by human intellects; and every moment
produces something new to him, who has quickened his faculties by
diligent observation.
Some studies, for which the country and the summer afford peculiar
opportunities, I shall perhaps endeavour to recommend in a future essay;
but if there be any apprehension not apt to admit unaccustomed ideas, or
any attention so stubborn and inflexible, as not easily to comply with
new directions, even these obstructions cannot exclude the pleasure of
application; for there is a higher and nobler employment, to which all
faculties are adapted by Him who gave them. The duties of religion,
sincerely and regularly performed, will always be sufficient to exalt
the meanest, and to exercise the highest understanding. That mind will
never be vacant, which is frequently recalled by stated duties to
meditations on eternal interests; nor can any hour be long, which is
spent in obtaining some new qualification for celestial happiness.
No. 125. TUESDAY, MAY 28, 1751.
_Descriptas servare vices, operumque colores,
Cur ego, si nequeo ignoroque, poëta salutor?_ HOR. De Ar. Poet. 86.
But if, through weakness, or my want of art,
I can't to every different style impart
The proper strokes and colours it may claim,
Why am I honour'd with a poet's name? FRANCIS.
It is one of the maxims of the civil law, that _definitions are
hazardous_. Things modified by human understandings, subject to
varieties of complication, and changeable as experience advances
knowledge, or accident influences caprice, are scarcely to be included
in any standing form of expression, because they are always suffering
some alteration of their state. Definition is, indeed, not the province
of man; every thing is set above or below our faculties. The works and
operations of nature are too great in their extent, or too much diffused
in their relations, and the performances of art too inconstant and
uncertain, to be reduced to any determinate idea. It is impossible to
impress upon our minds an adequate and just representation of an object
so great that we can never take it into our view, or so mutable that it
is always changing under our eye, and has already lost its form while we
are labouring to conceive it.
Definitions have been no less difficult or uncertain in criticisms than
in law. Imagination, a licentious and vagrant faculty, unsusceptible of
limitations, and impatient of restraint, has always endeavoured to
baffle the logician, to perplex the confines of distinction, and burst
the inclosures of regularity. There is therefore scarcely any species of
writing, of which we can tell what is its essence, and what are its
constituents; every new genius produces some innovation, which, when
invented and approved, subverts the rules which the practice of
foregoing authors had established.
Comedy has been particularly unpropitious to definers; for though
perhaps they might properly have contented themselves, with declaring it
to be _such a dramatick representation of human life, as may excite
mirth_, they have embarrassed their definition with the means by which
the comick writers attain their end, without considering that the
various methods of exhilarating their audience, not being limited by
nature, cannot be comprised in precept. Thus, some make comedy a
representation of mean and others of bad men; some think that its
essence consists in the unimportance, others in the fictitiousness of
the transaction. But any man's reflections will inform him, that every
dramatick composition which raises mirth, is comick; and that, to raise
mirth, it is by no means universally necessary, that the personages
should be either mean or corrupt, nor always requisite, that the action
should be trivial, nor ever, that it should be fictitious.