inclination to retire from a life of so much pleasure, and therefore
very seriously considered how he might continue it. Great qualities, or
uncommon accomplishments, he did not find necessary; for he had already
seen that merit rather enforces respect than attracts fondness; and as
he thought no folly greater than that of losing a dinner for any other
gratification, he often congratulated himself, that he had none of that
disgusting excellence which impresses awe upon greatness, and condemns
its possessors to the society of those who are wise or brave, and
indigent as themselves.
Gulosulus, having never allotted much of his time to books or
meditation, had no opinion in philosophy or politicks, and was not in
danger of injuring his interest by dogmatical positions or violent
contradiction. If a dispute arose, he took care to listen with earnest
attention; and, when either speaker grew vehement and loud, turned
towards him with eager quickness, and uttered a short phrase of
admiration, as if surprised by such cogency of argument as he had never
known before. By this silent concession, he generally preserved in
either controvertist such a conviction of his own superiority, as
inclined him rather to pity than irritate his adversary, and prevented
those outrages which are sometimes produced by the rage of defeat, or
petulance of triumph.
Gulosulus was never embarrassed but when he was required to declare his
sentiments before he had been able to discover to which side the master
of the house inclined, for it was his invariable rule to adopt the
notions of those that invited him.
It will sometimes happen that the insolence of wealth breaks into
contemptuousness, or the turbulence of wine requires a vent; and
Gulosulus seldom fails of being singled out on such emergencies, as one
on whom any experiment of ribaldry may be safely tried. Sometimes his
lordship finds himself inclined to exhibit a specimen of raillery for
the diversion of his guests, and Gulosulus always supplies him with a
subject of merriment. But he has learned to consider rudeness and
indignities as familiarities that entitle him to greater freedom: he
comforts himself, that those who treat and insult him pay for their
laughter, and that he keeps his money while they enjoy their jest.
His chief policy consists in selecting some dish from every course, and
recommending it to the company, with an air so decisive, that no one
ventures to contradict him. By this practice he acquires at a feast a
kind of dictatorial authority; his taste becomes the standard of pickles
and seasoning, and he is venerated by the professors of epicurism, as
the only man who understands the niceties of cookery.
Whenever a new sauce is imported, or any innovation made in the culinary
system, he procures the earliest intelligence, and the most authentick
receipt; and, by communicating his knowledge under proper injunctions of
secrecy, gains a right of tasting his own dish whenever it is prepared,
that he may tell whether his directions have been fully understood.
By this method of life Gulosulus has so impressed on his imagination the
dignity of feasting, that he has no other topick of talk, or subject of
meditation. His calendar is a bill of fare; he measures the year by
successive dainties. The only common-places of his memory are his meals;
and if you ask him at what time an event happened, he considers whether
he heard it after a dinner of turbot or venison. He knows, indeed, that
those who value themselves upon sense, learning, or piety, speak of him
with contempt; but he considers them as wretches, envious or ignorant,
who do not know his happiness, or wish to supplant him; and declares to
his friends, that he is fully satisfied with his own conduct, since he
has fed every day on twenty dishes, and yet doubled his estate.
No. 207. TUESDAY, MARCH 10, 1752.
_Solve senescentem mature sanus equum, ne
Peccet ad extremum ridendus.--_ HOR. Lib. i. Ep. i. 8.
The voice of reason cries with winning force,
Loose from the rapid car your aged horse,
Lest, in the race derided, left behind,
He drag his jaded limbs, and burst his wind. FRANCIS.
Such is the emptiness of human enjoyment, that we are always impatient
of the present. Attainment is followed by neglect, and possession by
disgust; and the malicious remark of the Greek epigrammatist on marriage
may be applied to every other course of life, that its two days of
happiness are the first and the last.
Few moments are more pleasing than those in which the mind is concerting
measures for a new undertaking. From the first hint that wakens the
fancy, till the hour of actual execution, all is improvement and
progress, triumph and felicity. Every hour brings additions to the
original scheme, suggests some new expedient to secure success, or
discovers consequential advantages not hitherto foreseen. While
preparations are made, and materials accumulated, day glides after day
through elysian prospects, and the heart dances to the song of hope.
Such is the pleasure of projecting, that many content themselves with a
succession of visionary schemes, and wear out their allotted time in the
calm amusement of contriving what they never attempt or hope to execute.
Others, not able to feast their imagination with pure ideas, advance
somewhat nearer to the grossness of action, with great diligence collect
whatever is requisite to their design, and, after a thousand researches
and consultations, are snatched away by death, as they stand _in
procinctu_, waiting for a proper opportunity to begin.
If there were no other end of life, than to find some adequate solace
for every day, I know not whether any condition could be preferred to
that of the man who involves himself in his own thoughts, and never
suffers experience to show him the vanity of speculation; for no sooner
are notions reduced to practice, than tranquillity and confidence
forsake the breast; every day brings its task, and often without
bringing abilities to perform it: difficulties embarrass, uncertainty
perplexes, opposition retards, censure exasperates, or neglect
depresses. We proceed because we have begun; we complete our design,
that the labour already spent may not be vain; but as expectation
gradually dies away, the gay smile of alacrity disappears, we are
compelled to implore severer powers, and trust the event to patience and
constancy.
When once our labour has begun, the comfort that enables us to endure it
is the prospect of its end; for though in every long work there are some
joyous intervals of self-applause, when the attention is recreated by
unexpected facility, and the imagination soothed by incidental
excellencies; yet the toil with which performance struggles after idea,
is so irksome and disgusting, and so frequent is the necessity of
resting below that perfection which we imagined within our reach, that
seldom any man obtains more from his endeavours than a painful
conviction of his defects, and a continual resuscitation of desires
which he feels himself unable to gratify.
So certainly is weariness the concomitant of our undertakings, that
every man, in whatever he is engaged, consoles himself with the hope of
change; if he has made his way by assiduity to publick employment, he
talks among his friends of the delight of retreat; if by the necessity
of solitary application he is secluded from the world, he listens with a
beating heart to distant noises, longs to mingle with living beings, and
resolves to take hereafter his fill of diversions, or display his
abilities on the universal theatre, and enjoy the pleasure of
distinction and applause.
Every desire, however innocent, grows dangerous, as by long indulgence
it becomes ascendant in the mind. When we have been much accustomed to
consider any thing as capable of giving happiness, it is not easy to
restrain our ardour, or to forbear some precipitation in our advances,
and irregularity in our pursuits. He that has cultivated the tree,
watched the swelling bud and opening blossom, and pleased himself with
computing how much every sun and shower add to its growth, scarcely
stays till the fruit has obtained its maturity, but defeats his own
cares by eagerness to reward them. When we have diligently laboured for
any purpose, we are willing to believe that we have attained it, and,
because we have already done much, too suddenly conclude that no more is
to be done.
All attraction is increased by the approach of the attracting body. We
never find ourselves so desirous to finish as in the latter part of our
work, or so impatient of delay, as when we know that delay cannot be
long. This unseasonable importunity of discontent may be partly imputed
to languor and weariness, which must always oppress those more whose
toil has been longer continued; but the greater part usually proceeds
from frequent contemplation of that ease which is now considered as
within reach, and which, when it has once flattered our hopes, we cannot
suffer to be withheld.
In some of the noblest compositions of wit, the conclusion falls below
the vigour and spirit of the first books; and as a genius is not to be
degraded by the imputation of human failings, the cause of this
declension is commonly sought in the structure of the work, and
plausible reasons are given why, in the defective part, less ornament
was necessary, or less could be admitted. But, perhaps, the author would
have confessed, that his fancy was tired, and his perseverance broken;
that he knew his design to be unfinished, but that, when he saw the end
so near, he could no longer refuse to be at rest.
Against the instillations of this frigid opiate, the heart should be
secured by all the considerations which once concurred to kindle the
ardour of enterprise. Whatever motive first incited action, has still
greater force to stimulate perseverance; since he that might have lain
still at first in blameless obscurity, cannot afterwards desist but with
infamy and reproach. He, whom a doubtful promise of distant good could
encourage to set difficulties at defiance, ought not to remit his
vigour, when he has almost obtained his recompense. To faint or loiter,
when only the last efforts are required, is to steer the ship through
tempests, and abandon it to the winds in sight of land; it is to break
the ground and scatter the seed, and at last to neglect the harvest.
The masters of rhetorick direct, that the most forcible arguments be
produced in the latter part of an oration, lest they should be effaced
or perplexed by supervenient images. This precept may be justly extended
to the series of life: nothing is ended with honour, which does not
conclude better than it began. It is not sufficient to maintain the
first vigour; for excellence loses its effect upon the mind by custom,
as light after a time ceases to dazzle. Admiration must be continued by
that novelty which first produced it, and how much soever is given,
there must always be reason to imagine that more remains.
We not only are most sensible of the last impressions, but such is the
unwillingness of mankind to admit transcendant merit, that, though it be
difficult to obliterate the reproach of miscarriages by any subsequent
achievement, however illustrious, yet the reputation raised by a long
train of success may be finally ruined by a single failure; for weakness
or errour will be always remembered by that malice and envy which it
gratifies.
For the prevention of that disgrace, which lassitude and negligence may
bring at last upon the greatest performances, it is necessary to
proportion carefully our labour to our strength. If the design comprises
many parts, equally essential, and, therefore, not to be separated, the
only time for caution is before we engage; the powers of the mind must
be then impartially estimated, and it must be remembered that, not to
complete the plan, is not to have begun it; and that nothing is done
while any thing is omitted.
But, if the task consists in the repetition of single acts, no one of
which derives its efficacy from the rest, it may be attempted with less
scruple, because there is always opportunity to retreat with honour. The
danger is only, lest we expect from the world the indulgence with which
most are disposed to treat themselves; and in the hour of listlessness
imagine, that the diligence of one day will atone for the idleness of
another, and that applause begun by approbation will be continued by
habit.
He that is himself weary will soon weary the publick. Let him therefore
lay down his employment, whatever it be, who can no longer exert his
former activity or attention; let him not endeavour to struggle with
censure, or obstinately infest the stage till a general hiss commands
him to depart.
No. 208. SATURDAY, MARCH 14, 1752.
[Greek: Aerakleitos ego ti me o kato helket amousoi,
Ouch hymin eponoun, tois de m' episgamenoi;
Eis emoi anthropos trismurioi; oi d' anarithmoi
Oudeis; taut audo kai para Persephonae] DIOG. LAERT.
Begone, ye blockheads, Heraclitus cries,
And leave my labours to the learn'd and wise;
By wit, by knowledge, studious to be read,
I scorn the multitude, alive and dead.
Time, which puts an end to all human pleasures and sorrows, has
likewise concluded the labours of the Rambler. Having supported, for two
years, the anxious employment of a periodical writer, and multiplied my
essays to upwards of two hundred, I have now determined to desist.
The reasons of this resolution it is of little importance to declare,
since justification is unnecessary when no objection is made. I am far
from supposing, that the cessation of my performances will raise any
inquiry, for I have never been much a favourite of the publick, nor can
boast that, in the progress of my undertaking, I have been animated by
the rewards of the liberal, the caresses of the great, or the praises of
the eminent.
But I have no design to gratify pride by submission, or malice by
lamentation; nor think it reasonable to complain of neglect from those
whose regard I never solicited. If I have not been distinguished by the
distributors of literary honours, I have seldom descended to the arts by
which favour is obtained. I have seen the meteors of fashions rise and
fall, without any attempt to add a moment to their duration. I have
never complied with temporary curiosity, nor enabled my readers to
discuss the topick of the day; I have rarely exemplified my assertions
by living characters; in my papers, no man could look for censures of
his enemies, or praises of himself; and they only were expected to
peruse them, whose passions left them leisure for abstracted truth, and
whom virtue could please by its naked dignity.
To some, however, I am indebted for encouragement, and to others for
assistance. The number of my friends was never great, but they have been
such as would not suffer me to think that I was writing in vain, and I
did not feel much dejection from the want of popularity.
My obligations having not been frequent, my acknowledgments may be soon
despatched. I can restore to all my correspondents their productions,
with little diminution of the bulk of my volumes, though not without the
loss of some pieces to which particular honours have been paid.
The parts from which I claim no other praise than that of having given
them an opportunity of appearing, are the four billets in the tenth
paper, the second letter in the fifteenth, the thirtieth, the
forty-fourth, the ninety-seventh, and the hundredth papers, and the
second letter in the hundred and seventh.
Having thus deprived myself of many excuses which candour might have
admitted for the inequality of my compositions, being no longer able to
allege the necessity of gratifying correspondents, the importunity with
which publication was solicited, or obstinacy with which correction was
rejected, I must remain accountable for all my faults, and submit,
without subterfuge, to the censures of criticism, which, however, I
shall not endeavour to soften by a formal deprecation, or to overbear by
the influence of a patron. The supplications of an author never yet
reprieved him a moment from oblivion; and, though greatness has
sometimes sheltered guilt, it can afford no protection to ignorance or
dulness. Having hitherto attempted only the propagation of truth, I will
not at last violate it by the confession of terrours which I do not
feel; having laboured to maintain the dignity of virtue, I will not now
degrade it by the meanness of dedication.
The seeming vanity with which I have sometimes spoken of myself, would
perhaps require an apology, were it not extenuated by the example of
those who have published essays before me, and by the privilege which
every nameless writer has been hitherto allowed. "A mask," says
Castiglione, "confers a right of acting and speaking with less
restraint, even when the wearer happens to be known." He that is
discovered without his own consent, may claim some indulgence, and
cannot be rigorously called to justify those sallies or frolicks which
his disguise must prove him desirous to conceal.
But I have been cautious lest this offence should be frequently or
grossly committed; for, as one of the philosophers directs us to live
with a friend, as with one that is some time to become an enemy, I have
always thought it the duty of an anonymous author to write, as if he
expected to be hereafter known.
I am willing to flatter myself with hopes, that, by collecting these
papers, I am not preparing, for my future life, either shame or
repentance. That all are happily imagined, or accurately polished, that
the same sentiments have not sometimes recurred, or the same expressions
been too frequently repeated, I have not confidence in my abilities
sufficient to warrant. He that condemns himself to compose on a stated
day, will often bring to his task an attention dissipated, a memory
embarrassed, an imagination overwhelmed, a mind distracted with
anxieties, a body languishing with disease: he will labour on a barren
topick, till it is too late to change it; or, in the ardour of
invention, diffuse his thoughts into wild exuberance, which the pressing
hour of publication cannot suffer judgment to examine or reduce.
Whatever shall be the final sentence of mankind, I have at least
endeavoured to deserve their kindness. I have laboured to refine our
language to grammatical purity, and to clear it from colloquial
barbarisms, licentious idioms, and irregular combinations. Something,
perhaps, I have added to the elegance of its construction, and something
to the harmony of its cadence. When common words were less pleasing to
the ear, or less distinct in their signification, I have familiarized
the terms of philosophy, by applying them to popular ideas, but have
rarely admitted any words not authorized by former writers; for I
believe that whoever knows the English tongue in its present extent,
will be able to express his thoughts without further help from other
nations.
As it has been my principal design to inculcate wisdom or piety, I have
allotted few papers to the idle sports of imagination. Some, perhaps,
may be found, of which the highest excellence is harmless merriment; but
scarcely any man is so steadily serious as not to complain, that the
severity of dictatorial instruction has been too seldom relieved, and
that he is driven by the sternness of the Rambler's philosophy to more
cheerful and airy companions.
Next to the excursions of fancy are the disquisitions of criticism,
which, in my opinion, is only to be ranked among the subordinate and
instrumental arts. Arbitrary decision and general exclamation I have
carefully avoided, by asserting nothing without a reason, and
establishing all my principles of judgment on unalterable and evident
truth.
In the pictures of life I have never been so studious of novelty or
surprise, as to depart wholly from all resemblance; a fault which
writers deservedly celebrated frequently commit, that they may raise, as
the occasion requires, either mirth or abhorrence. Some enlargement may
be allowed to declamation, and some exaggeration to burlesque; but as
they deviate farther from reality, they become less useful, because
their lessons will fail of application. The mind of the reader is
carried away from the contemplation of his own manners; he finds in
himself no likeness to the phantom before him; and though he laughs or
rages, is not reformed.
The essays professedly serious, if I have been able to execute my own
intentions, will be found exactly conformable to the precepts of
Christianity, without any accommodation to the licentiousness and levity
of the present age. I therefore look back on this part of my work with
pleasure, which no blame or praise of man shall diminish or augment. I
shall never envy the honours which wit and learning obtain in any other
cause, if I can be numbered among the writers who have given ardour to
virtue, and confidence to truth.
[Greek: Auton ek makaron autaxios eiae amoibae.]
Celestial pow'rs! that piety regard,
From you my labours wait their last reward.
END OF VOL. III.