necessary likewise for other purposes. The injury that grand imagery
suffers from unsuitable language, personal merit may fear from rudeness
and indelicacy. When the success of Æneas depended on the favour of the
queen upon whose coasts he was driven, his celestial protectress thought
him not sufficiently secured against rejection by his piety or bravery,
but decorated him for the interview with preternatural beauty. Whoever
desires, for his writings or himself, what none can reasonably contemn,
the favour of mankind, must add grace to strength, and make his thoughts
agreeable as well as useful. Many complain of neglect who never tried to
attract regard. It cannot be expected that the patrons of science or
virtue should be solicitous to discover excellencies, which they who
possess them shade and disguise. Few have abilities so much needed by
the rest of the world as to be caressed on their own terms; and he that
will not condescend to recommend himself by external embellishments,
must submit to the fate of just sentiment meanly expressed, and be
ridiculed and forgotten before he is understood.
No. 169. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 29, 1751.
_Nec pluteum cædit, nec demorsos sapit ungues_. PER. Sat. i. 106.
No blood from bitten nails those poems drew;
But churn'd, like spittle, from the lips they flew. DRYDEN.
Natural historians assert, that whatever is formed for long duration
arrives slowly to its maturity. Thus the firmest timber is of tardy
growth, and animals generally exceed each other in longevity, in
proportion to the time between their conception and their birth.
The same observation may be extended to the offspring of the mind. Hasty
compositions, however they please at first by flowery luxuriance, and
spread in the sunshine of temporary favour, can seldom endure the change
of seasons, but perish at the first blast of criticism, or frost of
neglect. When Apelles was reproached with the paucity of his
productions, and the incessant attention with which he retouched his
pieces, he condescended to make no other answer than that _he painted
for perpetuity_.
No vanity can more justly incur contempt and indignation than that which
boasts of negligence and hurry. For who can bear with patience the
writer who claims such superiority to the rest of his species, as to
imagine mankind are at leisure for attention to his extemporary sallies,
and that posterity will reposite his casual effusions among the
treasures of ancient wisdom?
Men have sometimes appeared of such transcendent abilities, that their
slightest and most cursory performances excel all that labour and study
can enable meaner intellects to compose; as there are regions of which
the spontaneous products cannot be equalled in other soils by care and
culture. But it is no less dangerous for any man to place himself in
this rank of understanding, and fancy that he is born to be illustrious
without labour, than to omit the cares of husbandry, and expect from his
ground the blossoms of Arabia.
The greatest part of those who congratulate themselves upon their
intellectual dignity, and usurp the privileges of genius, are men whom
only themselves would ever have marked out as enriched by uncommon
liberalities of nature, or entitled to veneration and immortality on
easy terms. This ardour of confidence is usually found among those who,
having not enlarged their notions by books or conversation, are
persuaded, by the partiality which we all feel in our own favour, that
they have reached the summit of excellence, because they discover none
higher than themselves; and who acquiesce in the first thoughts that
occur, because their scantiness of knowledge allows them little choice;
and the narrowness of their views affords them no glimpse of perfection,
of that sublime idea which human industry has from the first ages been
vainly toiling to approach. They see a little, and believe that there is
nothing beyond their sphere of vision, as the Patuecos of Spain, who
inhabited a small valley, conceived the surrounding mountains to be the
boundaries of the world. In proportion as perfection is more distinctly
conceived, the pleasure of contemplating our own performances will be
lessened; it may therefore be observed, that they who most deserve
praise are often afraid to decide in favour of their own performances;
they know how much is still wanting to their completion, and wait with
anxiety and terrour the determination of the publick. _I please every
one else_, says Tully, _but never satisfy myself_.
It has often been inquired, why, notwithstanding the advances of later
ages in science, and the assistance which the infusion of so many new
ideas has given us, we fall below the ancients in the art of
composition. Some part of their superiority may be justly ascribed to
the graces of their language, from which the most polished of the
present European tongues are nothing more than barbarous degenerations.
Some advantage they might gain merely by priority, which put them in
possession of the most natural sentiments, and left us nothing but
servile repetition or forced conceits. But the greater part of their
praise seems to have been the just reward of modesty and labour. Their
sense of human weakness confined them commonly to one study, which their
knowledge of the extent of every science engaged them to prosecute with
indefatigable diligence.
Among the writers of antiquity I remember none except Statius who
ventures to mention the speedy production of his writings, either as an
extenuation of his faults, or a proof of his facility. Nor did Statius,
when he considered himself as a candidate for lasting reputation, think
a closer attention unnecessary, but amidst all his pride and indigence,
the two great hasteners of modern poems, employed twelve years upon the
Thebaid, and thinks his claim to renown proportionate to his labour.
_Thebais, multa cruciata lima,
Tentat, audaci fide, Mantuanæ
Gaudia famæ_.
Polish'd with endless toil, my lays
At length aspire to Mantuan praise.
Ovid indeed apologizes in his banishment for the imperfection of his
letters, but mentions his want of leisure to polish them as an addition
to his calamities; and was so far from imagining revisals and
corrections unnecessary, that at his departure from Rome, he threw his
Metamorphoses into the fire, lest he should be disgraced by a book which
he could not hope to finish.
It seems not often to have happened that the same writer aspired to
reputation in verse and prose; and of those few that attempted such
diversity of excellence, I know not that even one succeeded. Contrary
characters they never imagined a single mind able to support, and
therefore no man is recorded to have undertaken more than one kind of
dramatick poetry.
What they had written, they did not venture in their first fondness to
thrust into the world, but, considering the impropriety of sending forth
inconsiderately that which cannot be recalled, deferred the publication,
if not nine years, according to the direction of Horace, yet till their
fancy was cooled after the raptures of invention, and the glare of
novelty had ceased to dazzle the judgment.
There were in those days no weekly or diurnal writers; _multa dies et
multa litura_, much time, and many rasures, were considered as
indispensable requisites; and that no other method of attaining lasting
praise has been yet discovered, may be conjectured from the blotted
manuscripts of Milton now remaining, and from the tardy emission of
Pope's compositions, delayed more than once till the incidents to which
they alluded were forgotten, till his enemies were secure from his
satire, and, what to an honest mind must be more painful, his friends
were deaf to his encomiums.
To him, whose eagerness of praise hurries his productions soon into the
light, many imperfections are unavoidable, even where the mind furnishes
the materials, as well as regulates their disposition, and nothing
depends upon search or information. Delay opens new veins of thought,
the subject dismissed for a time appears with a new train of dependent
images, the accidents of reading or conversation supply new ornaments
or allusions, or mere intermission of the fatigue of thinking enables
the mind to collect new force, and make new excursions. But all those
benefits come too late for him, who, when he was weary with labour,
snatched at the recompense, and gave his work to his friends and his
enemies, as soon as impatience and pride persuaded him to conclude it.
One of the most pernicious effects of haste, is obscurity. He that teems
with a quick succession of ideas, and perceives how one sentiment
produces another, easily believes that he can clearly express what he so
strongly comprehends; he seldom suspects his thoughts of embarrassment,
while he preserves in his own memory the series of connection, or his
diction of ambiguity, while only one sense is present to his mind. Yet
if he has been employed on an abstruse, or complicated argument, he will
find, when he has awhile withdrawn his mind, and returns as a new reader
to his work, that he has only a conjectural glimpse of his own meaning,
and that to explain it to those whom he desires to instruct, he must
open his sentiments, disentangle his method, and alter his arrangement.
Authors and lovers always suffer some infatuation, from which only
absence can set them free; and every man ought to restore himself to the
full exercise of his judgment, before he does that which he cannot do
improperly, without injuring his honour and his quiet.
No. 170. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 1751.
_Confiteor; si quid prodest delicta fateri_.
OVID. Am. Lib. i. El. iv. 3.
I grant the charge; forgive the fault confess'd.
TO THE RAMBLER.
SIR,
I am one of those beings from whom many, that melt at the sight of all
other misery, think it meritorious to withhold relief; one whom the
rigour of virtuous indignation dooms to suffer without complaint, and
perish without regard; and whom I myself have formerly insulted in the
pride of reputation and security of innocence.
I am of a good family, but my father was burthened with more children
than he could decently support. A wealthy relation, as he travelled from
London to his country-seat, condescending to make him a visit, was
touched with compassion of his narrow fortune, and resolved to ease him
of part of his charge, by taking the care of a child upon himself.
Distress on one side, and ambition on the other, were too powerful for
parental fondness, and the little family passed in review before him,
that he might, make his choice. I was then ten years old, and, without
knowing for what purpose, I was called to my great cousin, endeavoured
to recommend myself by my best courtesy, sung him my prettiest song,
told the last story that I had read, and so much endeared myself by my
innocence, that he declared his resolution to adopt me, and to educate
me with his own daughters.
My parents felt the common struggles at the thought of parting, and
_some natural tears they dropp'd, but wip'd them soon_. They considered,
not without that false estimation of the value of wealth, which poverty
long continued always produces, that I was raised to higher rank than
they could give me, and to hopes of more ample fortune than they could
bequeath. My mother sold some of her ornaments to dress me in such a
manner as might secure me from contempt at my first arrival; and when
she dismissed me, pressed me to her bosom with an embrace that I still
feel, gave me some precepts of piety, which, however neglected, I have
not forgotten, and uttered prayers for my final happiness, of which I
have not yet ceased to hope that they will at last be granted.
My sisters envied my new finery, and seemed not much to regret our
separation; my father conducted me to the stage-coach with a kind of
cheerful tenderness; and in a very short time I was transported to
splendid apartments, and a luxurious table, and grew familiar to shew,
noise, and gaiety.
In three years my mother died, having implored a blessing on her family
with her last breath. I had little opportunity to indulge a sorrow which
there was none to partake with me, and therefore soon ceased to reflect
much upon my loss. My father turned all his care upon his other
children, whom some fortunate adventures and unexpected legacies enabled
him, when he died, four years after my mother, to leave in a condition
above their expectations.
I should have shared the increase of his fortune, and had once a portion
assigned me in his will; but my cousin assuring him that all care for me
was needless, since he had resolved to place me happily in the world,
directed him to divide my part amongst my sisters.
Thus I was thrown upon dependance without resource. Being now at an age
in which young women are initiated into company, I was no longer to be
supported in my former character, but at a considerable expense; so that
partly lest I should waste money, and partly lest my appearance might
draw too many compliments and assiduities, I was insensibly degraded
from my equality, and enjoyed few privileges above the head servant, but
that of receiving no wages.
I felt every indignity, but knew that resentment would precipitate my
fall. I therefore endeavoured to continue my importance by little
services and active officiousness, and, for a time, preserved myself
from neglect, by withdrawing all pretences to competition, and studying
to please rather than to shine. But my interest, notwithstanding this
expedient, hourly declined, and my cousin's favourite maid began to
exchange repartees with me, and consult me about the alterations of a
cast gown.
I was now completely depressed; and, though I had seen mankind enough to
know the necessity of outward cheerfulness, I often withdrew to my
chamber to vent my grief, or turn my condition in my mind, and examine
by what means I might escape from perpetual mortification. At last my
schemes and sorrows were interrupted by a sudden change of my relation's
behaviour, who one day took an occasion when we were left together in a
room, to bid me suffer myself no longer to be insulted, but assume the
place which he always intended me to hold in the family. He assured me
that his wife's preference of her own daughters should never hurt me;
and, accompanying his professions with a purse of gold, ordered me to
bespeak a rich suit at the mercer's, and to apply privately to him for
money when I wanted it, and insinuate that my other friends supplied me,
which he would take care to confirm.
By this stratagem, which I did not then understand, he filled me with
tenderness and gratitude, compelled me to repose on him as my only
support, and produced a necessity of private conversation. He often
appointed interviews at the house of an acquaintance, and sometimes
called on me with a coach, and carried me abroad. My sense of his
favour, and the desire of retaining it, disposed me to unlimited
complaisance, and, though I saw his kindness grow every day more fond, I
did not suffer any suspicion to enter my thoughts. At last the wretch
took advantage of the familiarity which he enjoyed as my relation, and
the submission which he exacted as my benefactor, to complete the ruin
of an orphan, whom his own promises had made indigent, whom his
indulgence had melted, and his authority subdued.
I know not why it should afford subject of exultation to overpower on
any terms the resolution, or surprise the caution of a girl; but of all
the boasters that deck themselves in the spoils of innocence and beauty,
they surely have the least pretensions to triumph, who submit to owe
their success to some casual influence. They neither employ the graces
of fancy, nor the force of understanding, in their attempts; they cannot
please their vanity with the art of their approaches, the delicacy of
their adulations, the elegance of their address, or the efficacy of
their eloquence; nor applaud themselves as possessed of any qualities,
by which affection is attracted. They surmount no obstacles, they defeat
no rivals, but attack only those who cannot resist, and are often
content to possess the body, without any solicitude to gain the heart.
Many of those despicable wretches does my present acquaintance with
infamy and wickedness enable me to number among the heroes of
debauchery. Reptiles whom their own servants would have despised, had
they not been their servants, and with whom beggary would have disdained
intercourse, had she not been allured by hopes of relief. Many of the
beings which are now rioting in taverns, or shivering in the streets,
have been corrupted, not by arts of gallantry which stole gradually upon
the affections and laid prudence asleep, but by the fear of losing
benefits which were never intended, or of incurring resentment which
they could not escape; some have been frighted by masters, and some awed
by guardians into ruin.
Our crime had its usual consequence, and he soon perceived that I could
not long continue in his family. I was distracted at the thought of the
reproach which I now believed inevitable. He comforted me with hopes of
eluding all discovery, and often upbraided me with the anxiety, which
perhaps none but himself saw in my countenance; but at last mingled his
assurances of protection and maintenance with menaces of total
desertion, if, in the moments of perturbation I should suffer his secret
to escape, or endeavour to throw on him any part of my infamy.
Thus passed the dismal hours, till my retreat could no longer be
delayed. It was pretended that my relations had sent for me to a distant
county, and I entered upon a state which shall be described in my next
letter.
I am, &c.
MISELLA.
No. 171. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1751.
_Tædet coeli convexa tueri_. VIRG. Æn. iv. 451.
Dark is the sun, and loathsome is the day.
TO THE RAMBLER.
SIR,
Misella now sits down to continue her narrative. I am convinced that
nothing would more powerfully preserve youth from irregularity, or guard
inexperience from seduction, than a just description of the condition
into which the wanton plunges herself; and therefore hope that my letter
may be a sufficient antidote to my example.
After the distraction, hesitation, and delays which the timidity of
guilt naturally produces, I was removed to lodgings in a distant part of
the town, under one of the characters commonly assumed upon such
occasions. Here being by my circumstances condemned to solitude, I
passed most of my hours in bitterness and anguish. The conversation of
the people with whom I was placed was not at all capable of engaging my
attention, or dispossessing the reigning ideas. The books which I
carried to my retreat were such as heightened my abhorrence of myself;
for I was not so far abandoned as to sink voluntarily into corruption,
or endeavour to conceal from my own mind the enormity of my crime.
My relation remitted none of his fondness, but visited me so often, that
I was sometimes afraid lest his assiduity should expose him to
suspicion. Whenever he came he found me weeping, and was therefore less
delightfully entertained than he expected. After frequent expostulations
upon the unreasonableness of my sorrow, and innumerable protestations of
everlasting regard, he at last found that I was more affected with the
loss of my innocence, than the danger of my fame, and that he might not
be disturbed by my remorse, began to lull my conscience with the opiates
of irreligion. His arguments were such as my course of life has since
exposed me often to the necessity of hearing, vulgar, empty, and
fallacious; yet they at first confounded me by their novelty, filled me
with doubt and perplexity, and interrupted that peace which I began to
feel from the sincerity of my repentance, without substituting any other
support. I listened a while to his impious gabble, but its influence was
soon overpowered by natural reason and early education, and the
convictions which this new attempt gave me of his baseness completed my
abhorrence. I have heard of barbarians, who, when tempests drive ships
upon their coast, decoy them to the rocks that they may plunder their
lading, and have always thought that wretches, thus merciless in their
depredations, ought to be destroyed by a general insurrection of all
social beings; yet how light is this guilt to the crime of him, who, in
the agitations of remorse, cuts away the anchor of piety, and, when he
has drawn aside credulity from the paths of virtue, hides the light of
heaven which would direct her to return. I had hitherto considered him
as a man equally betrayed with myself by the concurrence of appetite and
opportunity; but I now saw with horrour that he was contriving to
perpetuate his gratification, and was desirous to fit me to his purpose,
by complete and radical corruption.
To escape, however, was not yet in my power. I could support the
expenses of my condition only by the continuance of his favour. He
provided all that was necessary, and in a few weeks congratulated me
upon my escape from the danger which we had both expected with so much
anxiety. I then began to remind him of his promise to restore me with my
fame uninjured to the world. He promised me in general terms, that
nothing should be wanting which his power could add to my happiness, but
forbore to release me from my confinement. I knew how much my reception
in the world depended upon my speedy return, and was therefore
outrageously impatient of his delays, which I now perceived to be only
artifices of lewdness. He told me at last, with an appearance of sorrow,
that all hopes of restoration to my former state were for ever
precluded; that chance had discovered my secret, and malice divulged it;
and that nothing now remained, but to seek a retreat more private, where
curiosity or hatred could never find us.
The rage, anguish, and resentment, which I felt at this account are not
to be expressed. I was in so much dread of reproach and infamy, which he
represented as pursuing me with full cry, that I yielded myself
implicitly to his disposal and was removed, with a thousand studied
precautions, through by-ways and dark passages to another house, where I
harassed him with perpetual solicitations for a small annuity that might
enable me to live in the country in obscurity and innocence.
This demand he at first evaded with ardent professions, but in time
appeared offended at my importunity and distrust; and having one day
endeavoured to sooth me with uncommon expressions of tenderness, when he
found my discontent immoveable, left me with some inarticulate murmurs
of anger. I was pleased that he was at last roused to sensibility, and
expecting that at his next visit he would comply with my request, lived
with great tranquillity upon the money in my hands, and was so much
pleased with this pause of persecution, that I did not reflect how much
his absence had exceeded the usual intervals, till I was alarmed with
the danger of wanting subsistence. I then suddenly contracted my
expenses, but was unwilling to supplicate for assistance. Necessity,
however, soon overcame my modesty or my pride, and I applied to him by a
letter, but had no answer. I writ in terms more pressing, but without
effect. I then sent an agent to inquire after him, who informed me, that
he had quitted his house, and was gone with his family to reside for
some time on his estate in Ireland.
However shocked at this abrupt departure, I was yet unwilling to believe
that he could wholly abandon me, and therefore, by the sale of my
clothes, I supported myself, expecting that every post would bring me
relief. Thus I passed seven months between hope and dejection, in a
gradual approach to poverty and distress, emaciated with discontent, and
bewildered with uncertainty. At last my landlady, after many hints of
the necessity of a new lover, took the opportunity of my absence to
search my boxes, and missing some of my apparel, seized the remainder
for rent, and led me to the door.