admitted in the world. Mankind are kept perpetually busy by their fears
or desires, and have not more leisure from their own affairs, than to
acquaint themselves with the accidents of the current day. Engaged in
contriving some refuge from calamity, or in shortening the way to some
new possession, they seldom suffer their thoughts to wander to the past
or future; none but a few solitary students have leisure to inquire into
the claims of ancient heroes or sages; and names which hoped to range
over kingdoms and continents, shrink at last into cloisters or colleges.
Nor is it certain, that even of these dark and narrow habitations, these
last retreats of fame, the possession will be long kept. Of men devoted
to literature, very few extend their views beyond some particular
science, and the greater part seldom inquire, even in their own
profession, for any authors but those whom the present mode of study
happens to force upon their notice; they desire not to fill their minds
with unfashionable knowledge, but contentedly resign to oblivion those
books which they now find censured or neglected.
The hope of fame is necessarily connected with such considerations as
must abate the ardour of confidence, and repress the vigour of pursuit.
Whoever claims renown from any kind of excellence, expects to fill the
place which is now possessed by another; for there are already names of
every class sufficient to employ all that will desire to remember them;
and surely he that is pushing his predecessors into the gulph of
obscurity, cannot but sometimes suspect, that he must himself sink in
like manner, and, as he stands upon the same precipice, be swept away
with the same violence.
It sometimes happens, that fame begins when life is at an end; but far
the greater number of candidates for applause have owed their reception
in the world to some favourable casualties, and have therefore
immediately sunk into neglect, when death stripped them of their casual
influence, and neither fortune nor patronage operated in their favour.
Among those who have better claims to regard, the honour paid to their
memory is commonly proportionate to the reputation which they enjoyed in
their lives, though still growing fainter, as it is at a greater
distance from the first emission; and since it is so difficult to obtain
the notice of contemporaries, how little is to be hoped from future
times? What can merit effect by its own force, when the help of art or
friendship can scarcely support it?
No. 147. TUESDAY, AUGUST 13, 1751.
Tu nihil invitâ dices faciesve Minervâ. Hon. Ar. Poet. 385.
--You are of too quick a sight,
Not to discern which way your talent lies. ROSCOMMON.
TO THE RAMBLER.
SIR,
As little things grow great by continual accumulation, I hope you will
not think the dignity of your character impaired by an account of a
ludicrous persecution, which, though it produced no scenes of horrour or
of ruin, yet, by incessant importunity of vexation, wears away my
happiness, and consumes those years which nature seems particularly to
have assigned to cheerfulness, in silent anxiety and helpless
resentment.
I am the eldest son of a gentleman, who having inherited a large estate
from his ancestors, and feeling no desire either to increase or lessen
it, has from the time of his marriage generally resided at his own seat;
where, by dividing his time among the duties of a father, a master, and
a magistrate, the study of literature, and the offices of civility, he
finds means to rid himself of the day, without any of those amusements,
which all those with whom my residence in this place has made me
acquainted, think necessary to lighten the burthen of existence.
When my age made me capable of instruction, my father prevailed upon a
gentleman, long known at Oxford for the extent of his learning and the
purity of his manners, to undertake my education. The regard with which
I saw him treated, disposed me to consider his instructions as
important, and I therefore soon formed a habit of attention, by which I
made very quick advances in different kinds of learning, and heard,
perhaps too often, very flattering comparisons of my own proficiency
with that of others, either less docile by nature, or less happily
forwarded by instruction. I was caressed by all that exchanged visits
with my father; and as young men are with little difficulty taught to
judge favourably of themselves, began to think that close application
was no longer necessary, and that the time was now come when I was at
liberty to read only for amusement, and was to receive the reward of my
fatigues in praise and admiration.
While I was thus banqueting upon my own perfections, and longing in
secret to escape from tutorage, my father's brother came from London to
pass a summer at his native place. A lucrative employment which he
possessed, and a fondness for the conversation and diversions of the gay
part of mankind, had so long kept him from rural excursions, that I had
never seen him since my infancy. My curiosity was therefore strongly
excited by the hope of observing a character more nearly, which I had
hitherto reverenced only at a distance.
From all private and intimate conversation, I was long withheld by the
perpetual confluence of visitants with whom the first news of my uncle's
arrival crowded the house; but was amply recompensed by seeing an exact
and punctilious practice of the arts of a courtier, in all the
stratagems of endearment, the gradations of respect, and variations of
courtesy. I remarked with what justice of distribution he divided his
talk to a wide circle; with what address he offered to every man an
occasion of indulging some favourite topick, or displaying some
particular attainment; the judgment with which he regulated his
inquiries after the absent; and the care with which he shewed all the
companions of his early years how strongly they were infixed in his
memory, by the mention of past incidents and the recital of puerile
kindnesses, dangers, and frolicks. I soon discovered that he possessed
some science of graciousness and attraction which books had not taught,
and of which neither I nor my father had any knowledge; that he had the
power of obliging those whom he did not benefit; that he diffused, upon
his cursory behaviour and most trifling actions, a gloss of softness and
delicacy by which every one was dazzled; and that, by some occult method
of captivation, he animated the timorous, softened the supercilious, and
opened the reserved. I could not but repine at the inelegance of my own
manners, which left me no hopes but not to offend, and at the inefficacy
of rustick benevolence, which gained no friends but by real service.
My uncle saw the veneration with which I caught every accent of his
voice, and watched every motion of his hand; and the awkward diligence
with which I endeavoured to imitate his embrace of fondness, and his bow
of respect. He was, like others, easily flattered by an imitator by whom
he could not fear ever to be rivalled, and repaid my assiduities with
compliments and professions. Our fondness was so increased by a mutual
endeavour to please each other, that when he returned to London, he
declared himself unable to leave a nephew so amiable and so accomplished
behind him; and obtained my father's permission to enjoy my company for
a few months, by a promise to initiate me in the arts of politeness, and
introduce me into publick life.
The courtier had little inclination to fatigue, and therefore, by
travelling very slowly, afforded me time for more loose and familiar
conversation; but I soon found, that by a few inquiries which he was not
well prepared to satisfy, I had made him weary of his young companion.
His element was a mixed assembly, where ceremony and healths,
compliments and common topicks, kept the tongue employed with very
little assistance from memory or reflection; but in the chariot, where
he was necessitated to support a regular tenour of conversation, without
any relief from a new comer, or any power of starting into gay
digressions, or destroying argument by a jest, he soon discovered that
poverty of ideas which had been hitherto concealed under the tinsel of
politeness. The first day he entertained me with the novelties and
wonders with which I should be astonished at my entrance into London,
and cautioned me with apparent admiration of his own wisdom against the
arts by which rusticity is frequently deluded. The same detail and the
same advice he would have repeated on the second day; but as I every
moment diverted the discourse to the history of the towns by which we
passed, or some other subject of learning or of reason, he soon lost his
vivacity, grew peevish and silent, wrapped his cloak about him, composed
himself to slumber, and reserved his gaiety for fitter auditors.
At length I entered London, and my uncle was reinstated in his
superiority. He awaked at once to loquacity as soon as our wheels
rattled on the pavement, and told me the name of every street as we
crossed it, and owner of every house as we passed by. He presented me to
my aunt, a lady of great eminence for the number of her acquaintances,
and splendour of her assemblies, and either in kindness or revenge
consulted with her, in my presence, how I might be most advantageously
dressed for my first appearance, and most expeditiously disencumbered
from my villatick bashfulness. My indignation at familiarity thus
contemptuous flushed in my face; they mistook anger for shame, and
alternately exerted their eloquence upon the benefits of publick
education, and the happiness of an assurance early acquired.
Assurance is, indeed, the only qualification to which they seem to have
annexed merit, and assurance, therefore, is perpetually recommended to
me as the supply of every defect, and the ornament of every excellence.
I never sit silent in company when secret history is circulating, but I
am reproached for want of assurance. If I fail to return the stated
answer to a compliment; if I am disconcerted by unexpected raillery; if
I blush when I am discovered gazing on a beauty, or hesitate when I find
myself embarrassed in an argument; if I am unwilling to talk of what I
do not understand, or timorous in undertaking offices which I cannot
gracefully perform; if I suffer a more lively tatler to recount the
casualties of a game, or a nimbler fop to pick up a fan, I am censured
between pity and contempt, as a wretch doomed to grovel in obscurity for
want of assurance.
I have found many young persons harassed in the same manner, by those to
whom age has given nothing but the assurance which they recommend; and
therefore cannot but think it useful to inform them, that cowardice and
delicacy are not to be confounded; and that he whose stupidity has armed
him against the shafts of ridicule, will always act and speak with
greater audacity, than they whose sensibility represses their ardour,
and who dare never let their confidence outgrow their abilities.
No. 148. SATURDAY, AUGUST 17, 1751.
_Me pater saevis oneret catenis,
Quod viro clemens misero peperci:
Me vel extremis Numidarum in agros
Classe releget._ HOR. Lib. iii. Od. xi. 45.
Me let my father load with chains,
Or banish to Numidia's farthest plains!
My crime, that I, a loyal wife,
In kind compassion sav'd my husband's life. FRANCIS.
Politicians remark, that no oppression is so heavy or lasting as that
which is inflicted by the perversion and exorbitance of legal authority.
The robber may be seized, and the invader repelled, whenever they are
found; they who pretend no right but that of force, may by force be
punished or suppressed. But when plunder bears the name of impost, and
murder is perpetrated by a judicial sentence, fortitude is intimidated,
and wisdom confounded: resistance shrinks from an alliance with
rebellion, and the villain remains secure in the robes of the
magistrate.
Equally dangerous and equally detestable are the cruelties often
exercised in private families, under the venerable sanction of parental
authority; the power which we are taught to honour from the first
moments of reason; which is guarded from insult and violation by all
that can impress awe upon the mind of man; and which therefore may
wanton in cruelty without control, and trample the bounds of right with
innumerable transgressions, before duty and piety will dare to seek
redress, or think themselves at liberty to recur to any other means of
deliverance than supplications by which insolence is elated, and tears
by which cruelty is gratified.
It was for a long time imagined by the Romans, that no son could be the
murderer of his father; and they had therefore no punishment
appropriated to parricide. They seem likewise to have believed with
equal confidence, that no father could be cruel to his child; and
therefore they allowed every man the supreme judicature in his own
house, and put the lives of his offspring into his hands. But experience
informed them by degrees, that they determined too hastily in favour of
human nature; they found that instinct and habit were not able to
contend with avarice or malice; that the nearest relation might be
violated; and that power, to whomsoever intrusted, might be ill
employed. They were therefore obliged to supply and to change their
institutions; to deter the parricide by a new law, and to transfer
capital punishments from the parent to the magistrate.
There are indeed many houses which it is impossible to enter familiarly,
without discovering that parents are by no means exempt from the
intoxications of dominion; and that he who is in no danger of hearing
remonstrances but from his own conscience, will seldom be long without
the art of controling his convictions, and modifying justice by his own
will.
If in any situation the heart were inaccessible to malignity, it might
be supposed to be sufficiently secured by parental relation. To have
voluntarily become to any being the occasion of its existence, produces
an obligation to make that existence happy. To see helpless infancy
stretching out her hands, and pouring out her cries in testimony of
dependence, without any powers to alarm jealousy, or any guilt to
alienate affection, must surely awaken tenderness in every human mind;
and tenderness once excited will be hourly increased by the natural
contagion of felicity, by the repercussion of communicated pleasure, by
the consciousness of the dignity of benefaction. I believe no generous
or benevolent man can see the vilest animal courting his regard, and
shrinking at his anger, playing his gambols of delight before him,
calling on him in distress, and flying to him in danger, without more
kindness than he can persuade himself to feel for the wild and unsocial
inhabitants of the air and water. We naturally endear to ourselves those
to whom we impart any kind of pleasure, because we imagine their
affection and esteem secured to us by the benefits which they receive.
There is, indeed, another method by which the pride of superiority may
be likewise gratified. He that has extinguished all the sensations of
humanity, and has no longer any satisfaction in the reflection that he
is loved as the distributor of happiness, may please himself with
exciting terrour as the inflictor of pain: he may delight his solitude
with contemplating the extent of his power and the force of his
commands; in imagining the desires that flutter on the tongue which is
forbidden to utter them, or the discontent which preys on the heart in
which fear confines it: he may amuse himself with new contrivances of
detection, multiplications of prohibition, and varieties of punishment;
and swell with exultation when he considers how little of the homage
that he receives he owes to choice.
That princes of this character have been known, the history of all
absolute kingdoms will inform us; and since, as Aristotle observes,
_[Greek: hae oikonomikae monarchia], the government of a family is
naturally monarchical_, it is, like other monarchies, too often
arbitrarily administered. The regal and parental tyrant differ only in
the extent of their dominions, and the number of their slaves. The same
passions cause the same miseries; except that seldom any prince, however
despotick, has so far shaken off all awe of the publick eye, as to
venture upon those freaks of injustice, which are sometimes indulged
under the secrecy of a private dwelling. Capricious injunctions, partial
decisions, unequal allotments, distributions of reward, not by merit,
but by fancy, and punishments, regulated not by the degree of the
offence, but by the humour of the judge, are too frequent where no power
is known but that of a father.
That he delights in the misery of others, no man will confess, and yet
what other motive can make a father cruel? The king may be instigated by
one man to the destruction of another; he may sometimes think himself
endangered by the virtues of a subject; he may dread the successful
general or the popular orator; his avarice may point out golden
confiscations; and his guilt may whisper that he can only be secure by
cutting off all power of revenge.
But what can a parent hope from the oppression of those who were born to
his protection, of those who can disturb him with no competition, who
can enrich him with no spoils? Why cowards are cruel may be easily
discovered; but for what reason, not more infamous than cowardice, can
that man delight in oppression who has nothing to fear?
The unjustifiable severity of a parent is loaded with this aggravation,
that those whom he injures are always in his sight. The injustice of a
prince is often exercised upon those of whom he never had any personal
or particular knowledge; and the sentence which he pronounces, whether
of banishment, imprisonment, or death, removes from his view the man
whom he condemns. But the domestick oppressor dooms himself to gaze upon
those faces which he clouds with terrour and with sorrow; and beholds
every moment the effects of his own barbarities. He that can bear to
give continual pain to those who surround him, and can walk with
satisfaction in the gloom of his own presence; he that can see
submissive misery without relenting, and meet without emotion the eye
that implores mercy, or demands justice, will scarcely be amended by
remonstrance or admonition; he has found means of stopping the avenues
of tenderness, and arming his heart against the force of reason.
Even though no consideration should be paid to the great law of social
beings, by which every individual is commanded to consult the happiness
of others, yet the harsh parent is less to be vindicated than any other
criminal, because he less provides for the happiness of himself. Every
man, however little he loves others, would willingly be loved; every man
hopes to live long, and therefore hopes for that time at which he shall
sink back to imbecility, and must depend for ease and cheerfulness upon
the officiousness of others. But how has he obviated the inconveniencies
of old age, who alienates from him the assistance of his children, and
whose bed must be surrounded in the last hours, in the hours of languor
and dejection, of impatience and of pain, by strangers to whom his life
is indifferent, or by enemies to whom his death is desirable?
Piety will, indeed, in good minds overcome provocation, and those who
have been harassed by brutality will forget the injuries which they have
suffered, so far as to perform the last duties with alacrity and zeal.
But surely no resentment can be equally painful with kindness thus
undeserved, nor can severer punishment be imprecated upon a man not
wholly lost in meanness and stupidity, than, through the tediousness of
decrepitude, to be reproached by the kindness of his own children, to
receive not the tribute but the alms of attendance, and to owe every
relief of his miseries, not to gratitude but to mercy.
No. 149. TUESDAY, AUGUST 20, 1751.
_Quod non sit Pylades hoc tempore, non sit Orestes,
Miraris? Pylades, Marce, bibebat idem.
Nec melior panis, turdusve dabatur Oresti:
Sed par, atque eadem coena duobus erat.--
Te Cadmea Tyrus, me pinguis Gallia vestit:
Vis te purpureum, Marce, sagatus amem?
Ut praestem Pyladen, aliquis mihi praestet Orestem.
Hoc non fit verbis, Marce: ut ameris, ama_. MART. Lib. vi. Ep. xi.
You wonder now that no man sees
Such friends as those of ancient Greece.
Here lay the point--Orestes' meat
Was just the same his friend did eat;
Nor can it yet be found, his wine
Was better, Pylades, than thine.
In home-spun russet, I am drest,
Your cloth is always of the best;
But, honest Marcus, if you please
To chuse me for your Pylades,
Remember, words alone are vain;
Love--if you would be lov'd again. F. LEWIS.
TO THE RAMBLER.
SIR,
No depravity of the mind has been more frequently or justly censured
than ingratitude. There is indeed sufficient reason for looking on those
that can return evil for good, and repay kindness and assistance with
hatred or neglect, as corrupted beyond the common degrees of wickedness;
nor will he, who has once been clearly detected in acts of injury to his
benefactor, deserve to be numbered among social beings; he has
endeavoured to destroy confidence, to intercept sympathy, and to turn
every man's attention wholly on himself.
There is always danger lest the honest abhorrence of a crime should
raise the passions with too much violence against the man to whom it is
imputed. In proportion as guilt is more enormous, it ought to be
ascertained by stronger evidence. The charge against ingratitude is very
general; almost every man can tell what favours he has conferred upon
insensibility, and how much happiness he has bestowed without return;
but perhaps, if these patrons and protectors were confronted with any
whom they boast of having befriended, it would often appear that they
consulted only their pleasure or vanity, and repaid themselves their
petty donatives by gratifications of insolence and indulgence of
contempt.
It has happened that much of my time has been passed in a dependent
state, and consequently I have received many favours in the opinion of
those at whose expense I have been maintained; yet I do not feel in my
heart any burning gratitude or tumultuous affection; and, as I would not
willingly suppose myself less susceptible of virtuous passions than the
rest of mankind, I shall lay the history of my life before you, that you
may, by your judgment of my conduct, either reform, or confirm, my
present sentiments. My father was the second son of a very ancient and
wealthy family. He married a lady of equal birth, whose fortune, joined
to his own, might have supported his posterity in honour; but being gay
and ambitious, he prevailed on his friends to procure him a post, which
gave him an opportunity of displaying his elegance and politeness. My
mother was equally pleased with splendour, and equally careless of
expense; they both justified their profusion to themselves, by
endeavouring to believe it necessary to the extension of their
acquaintance, and improvement of their interest; and whenever any place
became vacant, they expected to be repaid. In the midst of these hopes
my father was snatched away by an apoplexy; and my mother, who had no
pleasure but in dress, equipage, assemblies, and compliments, finding
that she could live no longer in her accustomed rank, sunk into
dejection, and in two years wore out her life with envy and discontent.
I was sent with a sister, one year younger than myself, to the elder
brother of my father. We were not yet capable of observing how much
fortune influences affection, but flattered ourselves on the road with
the tenderness and regard with which we should be treated by our uncle.
Our reception was rather frigid than malignant; we were introduced to
our young cousins, and for the first month more frequently consoled than
upbraided; but in a short time we found our prattle repressed, our dress
neglected, our endearments unregarded, and our requests referred to the
housekeeper.