of pretended friendship; of artifices by which followers are attracted
only to decorate the retinue of pomp, and swell the shout of popularity,
and to be dismissed with contempt and ignominy, when their leader has
succeeded or miscarried, when he is sick of show, and weary of noise.
While a man infatuated with the promises of greatness, wastes his hours
and days in attendance and solicitation, the honest opportunities of
improving his condition pass by without his notice; he neglects to
cultivate his own barren soil, because he expects every moment to be
placed in regions of spontaneous fertility, and is seldom roused from
his delusion, but by the gripe of distress which he cannot resist, and
the sense of evils which cannot be remedied.
The punishment of Tantalus in the infernal regions affords a just image
of hungry servility, flattered with the approach of advantage, doomed to
lose it before it comes into his reach, always within a few days of
felicity, and always sinking back to his former wants:
[Greek:
Kai maen Tantalon eiseidon, chalep alge echonta,
Estaot en limnae hae de proseplaze geneio.
Steuto de dipsaon, pieein d ouk eichen elesthai.
Ossaki gar kupsei ho geron pieein meneainon,
Tossach hudor apolesket anabrochen. amphi de possi
Gaia melaina phaneske katazaenaske de daimon,
Dendrea d hupsipeteala katakoeathen chee kaopon
Onchnai, kai roiai, kai maeleai aglaokarpoi,
Sukai te glukeoai, kai elaiai taelethoosai.
Ton opot ithusei o geoon epi cheosi masasthai,
Tasd anemos riptaske poti nephea skioenta.]
HOM. Od. [Greek: A'.] 581.
"I saw," says Homer's Ulysses, "the severe punishment of Tantalus. In a
lake, whose waters approached to his lips, he stood burning with thirst,
without the power to drink. Whenever he inclined his head to the stream,
some deity commanded it to be dry, and the dark earth appeared at his
feet. Around him lofty trees spread their fruits to view; the pear, the
pomegranate and the apple, the green olive and the luscious fig quivered
before him, which, whenever he extended his hand to seize them, were
snatched by the winds into clouds and obscurity."
This image of misery was perhaps originally suggested to some poet by
the conduct of his patron, by the daily contemplation of splendour which
he never must partake, by fruitless attempts to catch at interdicted
happiness, and by the sudden evanescence of his reward, when he thought
his labours almost at an end. To groan with poverty, when all about him
was opulence, riot, and superfluity, and to find the favours which he
had long been encouraged to hope, and had long endeavoured to deserve,
squandered at last on nameless ignorance, was to thirst with water
flowing before him, and to see the fruits, to which his hunger was
hastening, scattered by the wind. Nor can my correspondent, whatever he
may have suffered, express with more justness or force the vexations of
dependance.
TO THE RAMBLER.
SIR,
I am one of those mortals who have been courted and envied as the
favourites of the great. Having often gained the prize of composition at
the university, I began to hope that I should obtain the same
distinction in every other place, and determined to forsake the
profession to which I was destined by my parents, and in which the
interest of my family would have procured me a very advantageous
settlement. The pride of wit fluttered in my heart, and when I prepared
to leave the college, nothing entered my imagination but honours,
caresses, and rewards, riches without labour, and luxury without
expense.
I however delayed my departure for a time, to finish the performance by
which I was to draw the first notice of mankind upon me. When it was
completed I hurried to London, and considered every moment that passed
before its publication, as lost in a kind of neutral existence, and cut
off from the golden hours of happiness and fame. The piece was at last
printed and disseminated by a rapid sale; I wandered from one place of
concourse to another, feasted from morning to night on the repetition of
my own praises, and enjoyed the various conjectures of criticks, the
mistaken candour of my friends, and the impotent malice of my enemies.
Some had read the manuscript, and rectified its inaccuracies; others had
seen it in a state so imperfect, that they could not forbear to wonder
at its present excellence; some had conversed with the author at the
coffeehouse; and others gave hints that they had lent him money.
I knew that no performance is so favourably read as that of a writer who
suppresses his name, and therefore resolved to remain concealed, till
those by whom literary reputation is established had given their
suffrages too publickly to retract them. At length my bookseller
informed me that Aurantius, the standing patron of merit, had sent
inquiries after me, and invited me to his acquaintance.
The time which I had long expected was now arrived. I went to Aurantius
with a beating heart, for I looked upon our interview as the critical
moment of my destiny. I was received with civilities which my academick
rudeness made me unable to repay; but when I had recovered from my
confusion, I prosecuted the conversation with such liveliness and
propriety, that I confirmed my new friend in his esteem of my abilities,
and was dismissed with the utmost ardour of profession, and raptures of
fondness.
I was soon summoned to dine with Aurantius, who had assembled the most
judicious of his friends to partake of the entertainment. Again I
exerted my powers of sentiment and expression, and again found every eye
sparkling with delight, and every tongue silent with attention. I now
became familiar at the table of Aurantius, but could never, in his most
private or jocund hours, obtain more from him than general declarations
of esteem, or endearments of tenderness, which included no particular
promise, and therefore conferred no claim. This frigid reserve somewhat
disgusted me, and when he complained of three days absence, I took care
to inform him with how much importunity of kindness I had been detained
by his rival Pollio.
Aurantius now considered his honour as endangered by the desertion of a
wit, and, lest I should have an inclination to wander, told me that I
could never find a friend more constant and zealous than himself; that
indeed he had made no promises, because he hoped to surprise me with
advancement, but had been silently promoting my interest, and should
continue his good offices, unless he found the kindness of others more
desired.
If you, Mr. Rambler, have ever ventured your philosophy within the
attraction of greatness, you know the force of such language introduced
with a smile of gracious tenderness, and impressed at the conclusion
with an air of solemn sincerity. From that instant I gave myself up
wholly to Aurantius, and, as he immediately resumed his former gaiety,
expected every morning a summons to some employment of dignity and
profit. One month succeeded another, and, in defiance of appearances, I
still fancied myself nearer to my wishes, and continued to dream of
success, and wake to disappointment. At last the failure of my little
fortune compelled me to abate the finery which I hitherto thought
necessary to the company with whom I associated, and the rank to which I
should be raised. Aurantius, from the moment in which he discovered my
poverty, considered me as fully in his power, and afterwards rather
permitted my attendance than invited it; thought himself at liberty to
refuse my visits, whenever he had other amusements within reach, and
often suffered me to wait, without pretending any necessary business.
When I was admitted to his table, if any man of rank equal to his own
was present, he took occasion to mention my writings, and commend my
ingenuity, by which he intended to apologize for the confusion of
distinctions, and the improper assortment of his company; and often
called upon me to entertain his friends with my productions, as a
sportsman delights the squires of his neighbourhood with the curvets of
his horse, or the obedience of his spaniels.
To complete my mortification, it was his practice to impose tasks upon
me, by requiring me to write upon such subjects as he thought
susceptible of ornament and illustration. With these extorted
performances he was little satisfied, because he rarely found in them
the ideas which his own imagination had suggested, and which he
therefore thought more natural than mine.
When the pale of ceremony is broken, rudeness and insult soon enter the
breach. He now found that he might safely harass me with vexation, that
he had fixed the shackles of patronage upon me, and that I could neither
resist him nor escape. At last, in the eighth year of my servitude, when
the clamour of creditors was vehement, and my necessity known to be
extreme, he offered me a small office, but hinted his expectation, that
I should marry a young woman with whom he had been acquainted.
I was not so far depressed by my calamities as to comply with this
proposal; but, knowing that complaints and expostulations would but
gratify his insolence, I turned away with that contempt with which I
shall never want spirit to treat the wretch who can outgo the guilt of a
robber without the temptation of his profit, and who lures the credulous
and thoughtless to maintain the show of his levee, and the mirth of his
table, at the expense of honour, happiness, and life.
I am, Sir, &c.
LIBERALIS.
No. 164. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 12, 1751.
_--Vitium, Gaure, Catonis habes_. MART. Lib. ii. Ep. lxxxix. 2.
Gaurus pretends to Cato's fame;
And proves--by Cato's vice, his claim.
Distinction is so pleasing to the pride of man, that a great part of the
pain and pleasure of life arises from the gratification or
disappointment of an incessant wish for superiority, from the success or
miscarriage of secret competitions, from victories and defeats, of
which, though they appear to us of great importance, in reality none are
conscious except ourselves.
Proportionate to the prevalence of this love of praise is the variety of
means by which its attainment is attempted. Every man however hopeless
his pretensions may appear to all but himself, has some project by which
he hopes to rise to reputation; some art by which he imagines that the
notice of the world will be attracted; some quality, good or bad, which
discriminates him from the common herd of mortals, and by which others
maybe persuaded to love, or compelled to fear him. The ascents of
honour, however steep, never appear inaccessible; he that despairs to
scale the precipices by which learning and valour have conducted their
favourites, discovers some by-bath, or easier acclivity, which, though
it cannot bring him to the summit, will yet enable him to overlook those
with whom he is now contending for eminence; and we seldom require more
to the happiness of the present hour, than to surpass him that stands
next before us.
As the greater part of human kind speak and act wholly by imitation,
most of those who aspire to honour and applause propose to themselves
some example which serves as the model of their conduct, and the limit
of their hopes. Almost every man, if closely examined, will be found to
have enlisted himself under some leader whom he expects to conduct him
to renown; to have some hero or other, living or dead, in his view,
whose character he endeavours to assume, and whose performances he
labours to equal.
When the original is well chosen, and judiciously copied, the imitator
often arrives at excellence, which he could never have attained without
direction; for few are formed with abilities to discover new
possibilities of excellence, and to distinguish themselves by means
never tried before.
But folly and idleness often contrive to gratify pride at a cheaper
rate: not the qualities which are most illustrious, but those which are
of easiest attainment, are selected for imitation; and the honours and
rewards which publick gratitude has paid to the benefactors of mankind,
are expected by wretches who can only imitate them in their vices and
defects, or adopt some petty singularities of which those from whom they
are borrowed were secretly ashamed.
No man rises to such a height as to become conspicuous, but he is on one
side censured by undiscerning malice, which reproaches him for his best
actions, and slanders his apparent and incontestable excellencies; and
idolized on the other by ignorant admiration, which exalts his faults
and follies into virtues. It may be observed, that he by whose intimacy
his acquaintances imagine themselves dignified, generally diffuses among
them his mien and his habits; and indeed, without more vigilance than is
generally applied to the regulation of the minuter parts of behaviour,
it is not easy, when we converse much with one whose general character
excites our veneration, to escape all contagion of his peculiarities,
even when we do not deliberately think them worthy of our notice, and
when they would have excited laughter or disgust, had they not been
protected by their alliance to nobler qualities, and accidentally
consorted with knowledge or with virtue.
The faults of a man loved or honoured, sometimes steal secretly and
imperceptibly upon the wise and virtuous, but, by injudicious fondness
or thoughtless vanity, are adopted with design. There is scarce any
failing of mind or body, any errour of opinion, or depravity of
practice, which instead of producing shame and discontent, its natural
effects, has not at one time or other gladdened vanity with the hopes of
praise, and been displayed with ostentatious industry by those who
sought kindred minds among the wits or heroes, and could prove their
relation only by similitude of deformity.
In consequence of this perverse ambition, every habit which reason
condemns may be indulged and avowed. When a man is upbraided with his
faults, he may indeed be pardoned if he endeavours to run for shelter to
some celebrated name; but it is not to be suffered that, from the
retreats to which he fled from infamy, he should issue again with the
confidence of conquests, and call upon mankind for praise. Yet we see
men that waste their patrimony in luxury, destroy their health with
debauchery, and enervate their minds with idleness, because there have
been some whom luxury never could sink into contempt, nor idleness
hinder from the praise of genius.
This general inclination of mankind to copy characters in the gross, and
the force which the recommendation of illustrious examples adds to the
allurements of vice, ought to be considered by all whose character
excludes them from the shades of secrecy, as incitements to scrupulous
caution and universal purity of manners. No man, however enslaved to his
appetites, or hurried by his passions, can, while he preserves his
intellects unimpaired, please himself with promoting the corruption of
others. He whose merit has enlarged his influence, would surely wish to
exert it for the benefit of mankind. Yet such will be the effect of his
reputation, while he suffers himself to indulge in any favourite fault,
that they who have no hope to reach his excellence will catch at his
failings, and his virtues will be cited to justify the copiers of his
vices.
It is particularly the duty of those who consign illustrious names to
posterity, to take care lest their readers be misled by ambiguous
examples. That writer may be justly condemned as an enemy to goodness,
who suffers fondness or interest to confound right with wrong, or to
shelter the faults which even the wisest and the best have committed
from that ignominy which guilt ought always to suffer, and with which it
should be more deeply stigmatized when dignified by its neighbourhood to
uncommon worth, since we shall be in danger of beholding it without
abhorrence, unless its turpitude be laid open, and the eye secured from
the deception of surrounding splendour.
No. 165. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 15, 1751.
[Greek: Aen neos, alla penaes nun gaeron, plousios eimi
O monos ek panton oiktros en amphoterois,
Os tote men chraesthai dunamaen, hopot oud' en eichon.
Nun d' opote chraesthai mae dunamai, tot echo.] ANTIPHILUS.
Young was I once and poor, now rich and old;
A harder case than mine was never told;
Blest with the power to use them--I had none;
Loaded with _riches_ now, the power is gone. F. LEWIS.
TO THE RAMBLER.
SIR,
The writers who have undertaken the unpromising task of moderating
desire, exert all the power of their eloquence, to shew that happiness
is not the lot of man, and have, by many arguments and examples, proved
the instability of every condition by which envy or ambition are
excited. They have set before our eyes all the calamities to which we
are exposed from the frailty of nature, the influence of accident, or
the stratagems of malice; they have terrified greatness with
conspiracies, and riches with anxieties, wit with criticism, and beauty
with disease.
All the force of reason, and all the charms of language, are indeed
necessary to support positions which every man hears with a wish to
confute them. Truth finds an easy entrance into the mind when she is
introduced by desire, and attended by pleasure; but when she intrudes
uncalled, and brings only fear and sorrow in her train, the passes of
the intellect are barred against her by prejudice and passion; if she
sometimes forces her way by the batteries of argument, she seldom long
keeps possession of her conquests, but is ejected by some favoured
enemy, or at best obtains only a nominal sovereignty, without influence
and without authority.
That life is short we are all convinced, and yet suffer not that
conviction to repress our projects or limit our expectations; that life
is miserable we all feel, and yet we believe that the time is near when
we shall feel it no longer. But to hope happiness and immortality is
equally vain. Our state may indeed be more or less embittered as our
duration may be more or less contracted; yet the utmost felicity which
we can ever attain will be little better than alleviation of misery, and
we shall always feel more pain from our wants than pleasure from our
enjoyments. The incident which I am going to relate will shew, that to
destroy the effect of all our success, it is not necessary that any
signal calamity should fall upon us, that we should be harassed by
implacable persecution, or excruciated by irremediable pains: the
brightest hours of prosperity have their clouds, and the stream of life,
if it is not ruffled by obstructions, will grow putrid by stagnation.
My father, resolving not to imitate the folly of his ancestors, who had
hitherto left the younger sons encumbrances on the eldest, destined me
to a lucrative profession; and I, being careful to lose no opportunity
of improvement, was, at the usual time in which young men enter the
world, well qualified for the exercise of the business which I had
chosen.
My eagerness to distinguish myself in publick, and my impatience of the
narrow scheme of life to which my indigence confined me, did not suffer
me to continue long in the town where I was born. I went away as from a
place of confinement, with a resolution to return no more, till I should
be able to dazzle with my splendour those who now looked upon me with
contempt, to reward those who had paid honours to my dawning merit, and
to shew all who had suffered me to glide by them unknown and neglected,
how much they mistook their interest in omitting to propitiate a genius
like mine.
Such were my intentions when I sallied forth into the unknown world, in
quest of riches and honours, which I expected to procure in a very short
time; for what could withhold them from industry and knowledge? He that
indulges hope will always be disappointed. Reputation I very soon
obtained; but as merit is much more cheaply acknowledged than rewarded,
I did not find myself yet enriched in proportion to my celebrity.
I had, however, in time, surmounted the obstacles by which envy and
competition obstruct the first attempts of a new claimant, and saw my
opponents and censurers tacitly confessing their despair of success, by
courting my friendship and yielding to my influence. They who once
pursued me, were now satisfied to escape from me; and they who had
before thought me presumptuous in hoping to overtake them, had now their
utmost wish, if they were permitted, at no great distance, quietly to
follow me.
My wants were not madly multiplied as my acquisitions increased, and the
time came, at length, when I thought myself enabled to gratify all
reasonable desires, and when, therefore, I resolved to enjoy that plenty
and serenity which I had been hitherto labouring to procure, to enjoy
them while I was yet neither crushed by age into infirmity, nor so
habituated to a particular manner of life as to be unqualified for new
studies or entertainments.
I now quitted my profession, and, to set myself at once free from all
importunities to resume it, changed my residence, and devoted the
remaining part of my time to quiet and amusement. Amidst innumerable
projects of pleasure, which restless idleness incited me to form, and of
which most, when they came to the moment of execution, were rejected for
others of no longer continuance, some accident revived in my imagination
the pleasing ideas of my native place. It was now in my power to visit
those from whom I had been so long absent, in such a manner as was
consistent with my former resolution, and I wondered how it could happen
that I had so long delayed my own happiness.
Full of the admiration which I should excite, and the homage which I
should receive, I dressed my servants in a more ostentatious livery,
purchased a magnificent chariot, and resolved to dazzle the inhabitants
of the little town with an unexpected blaze of greatness.
While the preparations that vanity required were made for my departure,
which, as workmen will not easily be hurried beyond their ordinary rate,
I thought very tedious, I solaced my impatience with imaging the various
censures that my appearance would produce; the hopes which some would
feel from my bounty; the terrour which my power would strike on others;
the awkward respect with which I should be accosted by timorous
officiousness; and the distant reverence with which others, less
familiar to splendour and dignity, would be contented to gaze upon me. I
deliberated a long time, whether I should immediately descend to a level
with my former acquaintances; or make my condescension more grateful by
a gentle transition from haughtiness and reserve. At length I determined
to forget some of my companions, till they discovered themselves by some
indubitable token, and to receive the congratulations of others upon my
good fortune with indifference, to shew that I always expected what I
had now obtained. The acclamations of the populace I purposed to reward
with six hogsheads of ale, and a roasted ox, and then recommend to them
to return to their work.
At last all the trappings of grandeur were fitted, and I began the
journey of triumph, which I could have wished to have ended in the same
moment; but my horses felt none of their master's ardour, and I was
shaken four days upon rugged roads. I then entered the town, and, having
graciously let fall the glasses, that my person might be seen, passed
slowly through the street. The noise of the wheels brought the
inhabitants to their doors, but I could not perceive that I was known by
them. At last I alighted, and my name, I suppose, was told by my
servants, for the barber stepped from the opposite house, and seized me
by the hand with honest joy in his countenance, which, according to the
rule that I had prescribed to myself, I repressed with a frigid
graciousness. The fellow, instead of sinking into dejection, turned away
with contempt, and left me to consider how the second salutation should
be received. The next fellow was better treated, for I soon found that I
must purchase by civility that regard which I had expected to enforce by
insolence.
There was yet no smoke of bonfires, no harmony of bells, no shout of
crowds, nor riot of joy; the business of the day went forward as before;
and, after having ordered a splendid supper, which no man came to
partake, and which my chagrin hindered me from tasting, I went to bed,
where the vexation of disappointment overpowered the fatigue of my
journey, and kept me from sleep.