criticism and philosophy. The wit and the scholar excited curiosity, and
my acquaintance was solicited by innumerable invitations. To please will
always be the wish of benevolence, to be admired must be the constant
aim of ambition; and I therefore considered myself as about to receive
the reward of my honest labours, and to find the efficacy of learning
and of virtue.
The third day after my arrival I dined at the house of a gentleman who
had summoned a multitude of his friends to the annual celebration of his
wedding-day. I set forward with great exultation, and thought myself
happy that I had an opportunity of displaying my knowledge to so
numerous an assembly. I felt no sense of my own insufficiency, till,
going up stairs to the dining-room, I heard the mingled roar of
obstreperous merriment. I was, however, disgusted rather than terrified,
and went forward without dejection. The whole company rose at my
entrance; but when I saw so many eyes fixed at once upon me, I was
blasted with a sudden imbecility, I was quelled by some nameless power
which I found impossible to be resisted. My sight was dazzled, my cheeks
glowed, my perceptions were confounded; I was harassed by the multitude
of eager salutations, and returned the common civilities with hesitation
and impropriety; the sense of my own blunders increased my confusion,
and, before the exchange of ceremonies allowed me to sit down, I was
ready to sink under the oppression of surprise; my voice grew weak, and
my knees trembled.
The assembly then resumed their places, and I sat with my eyes fixed
upon the ground. To the questions of curiosity, or the appeals of
complaisance, I could seldom answer but with negative monosyllables, or
professions of ignorance; for the subjects on which they conversed, were
such as are seldom discussed in books, and were therefore out of my
range of knowledge. At length an old clergyman, who rightly conjectured
the reason of my conciseness, relieved me by some questions about the
present state of natural knowledge, and engaged me, by an appearance of
doubt and opposition, in the explication and defence of the Newtonian
philosophy.
The consciousness of my own abilities roused me from depression, and
long familiarity with my subject enabled me to discourse with ease and
volubility; but, however I might please myself, I found very little
added by my demonstrations to the satisfaction of the company; and my
antagonist, who knew the laws of conversation too well to detain their
attention long upon an unpleasing topick, after he had commended my
acuteness and comprehension, dismissed the controversy, and resigned me
to my former insignificance and perplexity.
After dinner, I received from the ladies, who had heard that I was a
wit, an invitation to the tea-table. I congratulated myself upon an
opportunity to escape from the company, whose gaiety began to be
tumultuous, and among whom several hints had been dropped of the
uselessness of universities, the folly of book-learning, and the
awkwardness of scholars. To the ladies, therefore, I flew, as to a
refuge from clamour, insult, and rusticity; but found my heart sink as I
approached their apartment, and was again disconcerted by the ceremonies
of entrance, and confounded by the necessity of encountering so many
eyes at once.
When I sat down I considered that, something pretty was always said to
ladies, and resolved to recover my credit by some elegant observation or
graceful compliment. I applied myself to the recollection of all that I
had read or heard in praise of beauty, and endeavoured to accommodate
some classical compliment to the present occasion. I sunk into profound
meditation, revolved the characters of the heroines of old, considered
whatever the poets have sung in their praise, and, after having borrowed
and invented, chosen and rejected a thousand sentiments, which, if I had
uttered them, would not have been understood, I was awakened from my
dream of learned gallantry, by the servant who distributed the tea.
There are not many situations more incessantly uneasy than that in which
the man is placed who is watching an opportunity to speak, without
courage to take it when it is offered, and who, though he resolves to
give a specimen of his abilities, always finds some reason or other for
delaying it to the next minute. I was ashamed of silence, yet could find
nothing to say of elegance or importance equal to my wishes. The ladies,
afraid of my learning, thought themselves not qualified to propose any
subject of prattle to a man so famous for dispute, and there was nothing
on either side but impatience and vexation.
In this conflict of shame, as I was re-assembling my scattered
sentiments, and, resolving to force my imagination to some sprightly
sally, had just found a very happy compliment, by too much attention to
my own meditations, I suffered the saucer to drop from my hand. The cup
was broken, the lap-dog was scalded, a brocaded petticoat was stained,
and the whole assembly was thrown into disorder. I now considered all
hopes of reputation at an end, and while they were consoling and
assisting one another, stole away in silence.
The misadventures of this unhappy day are not yet at an end; I am afraid
of meeting the meanest of them that triumphed over me in this state of
stupidity and contempt, and feel the same terrours encroaching upon my
heart at the sight of those who have once impressed them. Shame, above
any other passion, propagates itself. Before those who have seen me
confused, I can never appear without new confusion, and the remembrance
of the weakness which I formerly discovered, hinders me from acting or
speaking with my natural force.
But is this misery, Mr. Rambler, never to cease; have I spent my life in
study only to become the sport of the ignorant, and debarred myself from
all the common enjoyments of youth to collect ideas which must sleep in
silence, and form opinions which I must not divulge? Inform me, dear
Sir, by what means I may rescue my faculties from these shackles of
cowardice, how I may rise to a level with my fellow-beings, recall
myself from this langour of involuntary subjection to the free exertion
of my intellects, and add to the power of reasoning the liberty of
speech.
I am, Sir, &c.
VERECUNDULUS.
No. 158. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1751.
Grammatici certunt, et adhuc sub judice lis est. HOR. Ar. Poet. 78.
--Criticks yet contend,
And of their vain disputings find no end. FRANCIS.
Criticism, though dignified from the earliest ages by the labours of men
eminent for knowledge and sagacity, and, since the revival of polite
literature, the favourite study of European scholars, has not yet
attained the certainty and stability of science. The rules hitherto
received are seldom drawn from any settled principle or self-evident
postulate, or adapted to the natural and invariable constitution of
things; but will be found, upon examination, the arbitrary edicts of
legislators, authorised only by themselves, who, out of various means by
which the same end may be attained, selected such as happened to occur
to their own reflection, and then, by a law which idleness and timidity
were too willing to obey, prohibited new experiments of wit, restrained
fancy from the indulgence of her innate inclination to hazard and
adventure, and condemned all future flights of genius to pursue the path
of the Meonian eagle.
This authority may be more justly opposed, as it is apparently derived
from them whom they endeavour to control; for we owe few of the rules of
writing to the acuteness of criticks, who have generally no other merit
than that, having read the works of great authors with attention, they
have observed the arrangement of their matter, or the graces of their
expression, and then expected honour and reverence for precepts which
they never could have invented; so that practice has introduced rules,
rather than rules have directed practice.
For this reason the laws of every species of writing have been settled
by the ideas of him who first raised it to reputation, without inquiry
whether his performances were not yet susceptible of improvement. The
excellencies and faults of celebrated writers have been equally
recommended to posterity; and, so far has blind reverence prevailed,
that even the number of their books has been thought worthy of
imitation.
The imagination of the first authors of lyrick poetry was vehement and
rapid, and their knowledge various and extensive. Living in an age when
science had been little cultivated, and when the minds of their
auditors, not being accustomed to accurate inspection, were easily
dazzled by glaring ideas, they applied themselves to instruct, rather by
short sentences and striking thoughts, than by regular argumentation;
and, finding attention more successfully excited by sudden sallies and
unexpected exclamations, than by the more artful and placid beauties of
methodical deduction, they loosed their genius to its own course, passed
from one sentiment to another without expressing the intermediate ideas,
and roved at large over the ideal world with such lightness and agility,
that their footsteps are scarcely to be traced.
From this accidental peculiarity of the ancient writers the criticks
deduce the rules of lyrick poetry, which they have set free from all the
laws by which other compositions are confined, and allow to neglect the
niceties of transition, to start into remote digressions, and to wander
without restraint from one scene of imagery to another.
A writer of later times has, by the vivacity of his essays, reconciled
mankind to the same licentiousness in short dissertations; and he
therefore who wants skill to form a plan, or diligence to pursue it,
needs only entitle his performance an essay, to acquire the right of
heaping together the collections of half his life without order,
coherence, or propriety.
In writing, as in life, faults are endured without disgust when they are
associated with transcendent merit, and may be sometimes recommended to
weak judgments by the lustre which they obtain from their union with
excellence; but it is the business of those who presume to superintend
the taste or morals of mankind, to separate delusive combinations and
distinguish that which may be praised from that which can only be
excused. As vices never promote happiness, though, when overpowered by
more active and more numerous virtues, they cannot totally destroy it;
so confusion and irregularity produce no beauty, though they cannot
always obstruct the brightness of genius and learning. To proceed from
one truth to another, and connect distant propositions by regular
consequences, is the great prerogative of man. Independent and
unconnected sentiments flashing upon the mind in quick succession, may,
for a time, delight by their novelty, but they differ from systematical
reasoning, as single notes from harmony, as glances of lightning from
the radiance of the sun.
When rules are thus drawn, rather from precedents than reason, there is
danger not only from the faults of an author, but from the errours of
those who criticise his works; since they may often mislead their pupils
by false representations, as the Ciceronians of the sixteenth century
were betrayed into barbarisms by corrupt copies of their darling writer.
It is established at present, that the proemial lines of a poem, in
which the general subject is proposed, must be void of glitter and
embellishment. "The first lines of Paradise Lost," says Addison, "are
perhaps as plain, simple, and unadorned, as any of the whole poem, in
which particular the author has conformed himself to the example of
Homer, and the precept of Horace."
This observation seems to have been made by an implicit adoption of the
common opinion, without consideration either of the precept or example.
Had Horace been consulted, he would have been found to direct only what
should be comprised in the proposition, not how it should be expressed;
and to have commended Homer in opposition to a meaner poet, not for the
gradual elevation of his diction, but the judicious expansion of his
plan; for displaying unpromised events, not for producing unexpected
elegancies.
--Specivsa dehinc miracula prouiat;
Antiphaten, Scyllamque, et cum Cyclope Charybdim. Hon. Ar. Poet. 146.
But from a cloud of smoke he breaks to light,
And pours his specious miracles to sight;
Antiphates his hideous feast devours,
Charybdis barks, and Polyphemus roars. FRANCIS.
If the exordial verses of Homer be compared with the rest of the poem,
they will not appear remarkable for plainness or simplicity, but rather
eminently adorned and illuminated:
[Greek:
Andra moi ennepe, Mousa, polutropon, os mala polla
Plagchthae, epei Troiaes ieron ptoliethron eperse;
Pollon d anthropon iden astea, kai noon egno;
Polla d og en pontps pathen algea on kata thumon,
Arnumenos aen te psuchaen kai noston etairon;
All oud os etarous errusato, iemenos per;
Auton gar spheteraesin atasthaliaesin olonto.
Naepioi, oi kata bous uperionos Aeelioio
Aesthion; autar o toisin apheileto vostimon aemao;
Ton amothen ge, thea, thugater Dios, eipe kai eamin.]
The man, for wisdom's various arts renown'd,
Long exercised in woes, O muse! resound.
Who, when his arms had wrought the destin'd fall
Of sacred Troy, and raz'd her heav'n-built wall,
Wandering from clime to clime, observant stray'd,
The manners noted, and their states survey'd.
On stormy seas unnumber'd toils he bore,
Safe with his friends to gain his natal shore:
Vain toils! their impious folly dar'd to prey
On herds devoted to the god of day;
The god vindictive doom'd them never more
(Ah! men unbless'd) to touch that natal shore.
O snatch some portion of these acts from fate,
Celestial muse! and to our world relate. POPE.
The first verses of the Iliad are in like manner particularly splendid,
and the proposition of the Aeneid closes with dignity and magnificence
not often to be found even in the poetry of Virgil.
The intent of the introduction is to raise expectation, and suspend it;
something therefore must be discovered, and something concealed; and the
poet, while the fertility of his invention is yet unknown, may properly
recommend himself by the grace of his language.
He that reveals too much, or promises too little; he that never
irritates the intellectual appetite, or that immediately satiates it,
equally defeats his own purpose. It is necessary to the pleasure of the
reader, that the events should not be anticipated, and how then can his
attention be invited, but by grandeur of expression?
No. 159. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1751.
_Sunt verba et voces, quibus hunc lenire dolorem
Possis, et magnuum morbi deponere partem_. HOR. Ep. Lib. i. 34.
The power of words, and soothing sounds, appease
The raging pain, and lessen the disease. FRANCIS.
The imbecility with which Verecundulus complains that the presence of a
numerous assembly freezes his faculties, is particularly incident to the
studious part of mankind, whose education necessarily secludes them in
their earlier years from mingled converse, till, at their dismission
from schools and academies, they plunge at once into the tumult of the
world, and, coming forth from the gloom of solitude, are overpowered by
the blaze of publick life.
It is, perhaps, kindly provided by nature, that as the feathers and
strength of a bird grow together, and her wings are not completed till
she is able to fly, so some proportion should be preserved in the human
kind between judgment and courage; the precipitation of inexperience is
therefore restrained by shame, and we remain shackled by timidity, till
we have learned to speak and act with propriety. I believe few can
review the days of their youth without recollecting temptations, which
shame, rather than virtue, enabled them to resist; and opinions which,
however erroneous in their principles, and dangerous in their
consequences, they have panted to advance at the hazard of contempt and
hatred, when they found themselves irresistibly depressed by a languid
anxiety, which seized them at the moment of utterance, and still
gathered strength from their endeavours to resist it.
It generally happens that assurance keeps an even pace with ability, and
the fear of miscarriage, which hinders Our first attempts, is gradually
dissipated as our skill advances towards certainty of success. That
bashfulness, therefore, which prevents disgrace, that short and
temporary shame which secures us from the danger of lasting reproach,
cannot be properly counted among our misfortunes.
Bashfulness, however it may incommode for a moment, scarcely ever
produces evils of long continuance; it may flush the cheek, flutter in
the heart, deject the eyes, and enchain the tongue, but its mischiefs
soon pass off without remembrance. It may sometimes exclude pleasure,
but seldom opens any avenue to sorrow or remorse. It is observed
somewhere that _few have repented of having forborne to speak_.
To excite opposition, and inflame malevolence, is the unhappy privilege
of courage made arrogant by consciousness of strength. No man finds in
himself any inclination to attack or oppose him who confesses his
superiority by blushing in his presence. Qualities exerted with apparent
fearfulness, receive applause from every voice, and support from every
hand. Diffidence may check resolution and obstruct performance, but
compensates its embarrassments by more important advantages; it
conciliates the proud, and softens the severe, averts envy from
excellence, and censure from miscarriage.
It may indeed happen that knowledge and virtue remain too long congealed
by this frigorifick power, as the principles of vegetation are sometimes
obstructed by lingering frosts. He that enters late into a public
station, though with all the abilities requisite to the discharge of his
duty, will find his powers at first impeded by a timidity which he
himself knows to be vicious, and must struggle long against dejection
and reluctance, before he obtains the full command of his own attention,
and adds the gracefulness of ease to the dignity of merit.
For this disease of the mind I know not whether any remedies of much
efficacy can be found. To advise a man unaccustomed to the eyes of
multitudes to mount a tribunal without perturbation, to tell him whose
life was passed in the shades of contemplation, that he must not be
disconcerted or perplexed in receiving and returning the compliments of
a splendid assembly, is to advise an inhabitant of Brasil or Sumatra not
to shiver at an English winter, or him who has always lived upon a plain
to look from a precipice without emotion. It is to suppose custom
instantaneously controllable by reason, and to endeavour to communicate,
by precept, that which only time and habit can bestow.
He that hopes by philosophy and contemplation alone to fortify himself
against that awe which all, at their first appearance on the stage of
life, must feel from the spectators, will, at the hour of need, be
mocked by his resolution; and I doubt whether the preservatives which
Plato relates Alcibiades to have received from Socrates, when he was
about to speak in publick, proved sufficient to secure him from the
powerful fascination.
Yet, as the effects of time may by art and industry be accelerated or
retarded, it cannot be improper to consider how this troublesome
instinct may be opposed when it exceeds its just proportion, and instead
of repressing petulance and temerity, silences eloquence, and
debilitates force; since, though it cannot be hoped that anxiety should
be immediately dissipated, it may be at least somewhat abated; and the
passions will operate with less violence, when reason rises against
them, than while she either slumbers in neutrality, or, mistaking her
interest, lends them her assistance.
No cause more frequently produces bashfulness than too high an opinion
of our own importance. He that imagines an assembly filled with his
merit, panting with expectation, and hushed with attention, easily
terrifies himself with the dread of disappointing them, and strains his
imagination in pursuit of something that may vindicate the veracity of
fame, and shew that his reputation was not gained by chance. He
considers that what he shall say or do will never be forgotten; that
renown or infamy is suspended upon every syllable, and that nothing
ought to fall from him which will not bear the test of time. Under such
solicitude, who can wonder that the mind is overwhelmed, and, by
struggling with attempts above her strength, quickly sinks into
languishment and despondency?
The most useful medicines are often unpleasing to the taste. Those who
are oppressed by their own reputation, will, perhaps, not be comforted
by hearing that their cares are unnecessary. But the truth is, that no
man is much regarded by the rest of the world. He that considers how
little he dwells upon the condition of others, will learn how little the
attention of others is attracted by himself. While we see multitudes
passing before us, of whom, perhaps, not one appears to deserve our
notice, or excite our sympathy, we should remember, that we likewise are
lost in the same throng; that the eye which happens to glance upon us is
turned in a moment on him that follows us, and that the utmost which we
can reasonably hope or fear is, to fill a vacant hour with prattle, and
be forgotten.
No. 160. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 1751
--Inter se convenit ursis. JUV. Sat. xv. 164.
Beasts of each kind their fellows spare;
Bear lives in amity with bear.
"The world," says Locke, "has people of all sorts." As in the general
hurry produced by the superfluities of some, and necessities of others,
no man needs to stand still for want of employment, so in the
innumerable gradations of ability, and endless varieties of study and
inclination, no employment can be vacant for want of a man qualified to
discharge it.
Such is probably the natural state of the universe; but it is so much
deformed by interest and passion, that the benefit of this adaptation of
men to things is not always perceived. The folly or indigence of those
who set their services to sale, inclines them to boast of qualifications
which they do not possess, and attempt business which they do not
understand; and they who have the power of assigning to others the task
of life, are seldom honest or seldom happy in their nomination. Patrons
are corrupted by avarice, cheated by credulity, or overpowered by
resistless solicitation. They are sometimes too strongly influenced by
honest prejudices of friendship, or the prevalence of virtuous
compassion. For, whatever cool reason may direct, it is not easy for a
man of tender and scrupulous goodness to overlook the immediate effect
of his own actions, by turning his eyes upon remoter consequences, and
to do that which must give present pain, for the sake of obviating evil
yet unfelt, or securing advantage in time to come. What is distant is in
itself obscure, and, when we have no wish to see it, easily escapes our
notice, or takes such a form as desire or imagination bestows upon it.
Every man might, for the same reason, in the multitudes that swarm about
him, find some kindred mind with which he could unite in confidence and
friendship; yet we see many straggling single about the world, unhappy
for want of an associate, and pining with the necessity of confining
their sentiments to their own bosoms.
This inconvenience arises, in like manner, from struggles of the will
against the understanding. It is not often difficult to find a suitable
companion, if every man would be content with such as he is qualified to
please. But if vanity tempts him to forsake his rank, and post himself
among those with whom no common interest or mutual pleasure can ever
unite him, he must always live in a state of unsocial separation,
without tenderness and without trust.